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On the third day I met Persi.  He kept a cabin in Gumption in the shadow of Devil's Peak.  I sought him out because his name came up every time I spoke of climbing the peak.  "Look up Persi Flage," they said.  "He knows them mountains."

            "So you want to climb the Peak," he said, all business, but I sensed a certain levity in his tone.  I wasn't quite sure whether to answer a question or respond to a statement..  Before I could say anything, he was out the door and onto the road.  He carried a staff, curved at the end like a crook.

            I had to move quickly to catch up with him.  "Why is it called Devil's Peak?" I asked as I fell into step with him.

            "That's what it's called," he answered.  "Though there are old maps marking it as Double Peak. Because there are two of them up there, I guess," he explained, pointing with his crook. "There are other maps mark it Dubble's Peak, after the man who first explored it, some say. Over the years the name just changed to Devil's Peak.  This last he said as he moved ahead, sure-footed, adroitly using the crook as a gentleman uses a cane.

            In the distance I saw Devil's Peak rising into the low-lying clouds.

It was an odd sight, cone shaped it seemed, well honed, I thought.  Strange description of a peak, but that's what went through my mind.  It was girdled by a well-worn road from the bottom right up into the clouds. There, also, was the second peak that Persi had mentioned.  Unlike the first, it was rugged-looking, not quite as high, the top not obscured by the clouds.  Its shape was wildly irregular compared to the cone of Devil's Peak; and was not bereft of trees but dense with growth.

            From a climber’s view, each seemed a challenge. Devil’s Peak would require good footwork. Resourcefulness, aggressiveness, and initiative would be needed to keep from slipping down the bold face of the mountain.  The other would require guts, spunk, and courage to find the top through the trees.

            “This is Persi Pass,” he hollered over his shoulder as we made our way between the two mountains. A whistling wind had come up from the left around the base of Devil’s Peak. Persi was relating the history of the Pass, named after his great great grandfather, but I didn’t quite get all that he said. “And there’s the beginning of
Gumption Gap.” His crook pointed toward a sheer crevice that now bordered the right side of the road. It was six or eight feet wide and bottomless. Instinctively, I favored the left toward Devil’s Peak.  “Look sharp!” he mocked, impatient that I should follow close behind him.

            “What’s that peak called?” I shouted to his back. Without turning, he answered, “That’s The Other Peak,” and he moved along the road to the left. I looked above me. On the left loomed the tantalizing climb to Devil’s Peak into the clouds.  On the right, across the Gap, beckoned the wooded side of  The Other Peak, rising to a sharp, unclouded crest startlingly beautiful in the sun. Without thinking, almost, I started to run. I got up enough momentum I was sure, and hurtled myself across Gumption Gap.

            Persi must have turned around and understood my chosen climb. “You’re on your own over there. I’m not responsible for you in those woods.”

            Among the trees, the wind was gone, no more hissing and whistling. And Persi, resigned that he had lost a job, perhaps, composed himself, looked to the top of The Other Peak, and started to crook his way back down the road he had come.

      Bill Reynolds