Nordic Walking

Last to the Top
We left Les Brûlis and climbed straight into the vines.
The rows ran long and clean, drawing the eye toward the horizon. The slope rose steadily, enough to bring the breath up. Dry earth underfoot, young leaves catching the light.
At the top, the land opened.
Sky wide and pale. The valley falling away beyond the trees. For a moment, everything held still.
We walked on toward Menhir des Pierres Meslières, the stones low and quiet among the ordered lines. Easy to miss if you didn’t know.
Then over the ridge and down.
The path narrowed into shade. Nettles brushed the edge, violets low in the grass. The ground turned stony, careful underfoot.
At the table we paused. Water. A few words. Then on.
I pushed the next climb out of habit. For a while, I was ahead.
In the final stretch they passed me—one by one, steady, stronger. I didn’t follow.
I walked.
As I climbed, they called back—small words, encouragement carried on the air. I raised a hand, kept my pace.
Back through the vines, the long lines unchanged. Slower now, I noticed more—the scent of mint, the hum of insects, the small life at the edge of the path.
A train crossed the distance, sudden and gone.
Over the crest, the light had softened. The valley remained.
I finished last.
I finished smiling.
A cool wind tonight.