On Top of the World

This was the first album I recorded on my current recording setup (firepod and logic express). Following the journey of a young man up a mountain, we trace track by track the developments of his journey. At the end of the musical information is a short story written around the tracks by my ex-girlfriend and founding YYD member Carrie Muller.

It's in 8 movements:
1. Wake Up
-everything played by me except
-Trumpet by Ryan Poska

2. Driving to the Mountain
-everything played by me including the violins

3. Climbing the Mountain
-everything played by me including the bowed banjo

4. We Run Out of Water
-everything by me including the glass harmonica

5. It Rains on the Mountain
-everything by me except
-Trumpet by Ryan Poska

6. There's a Monster in the Woods
-everything by me including the autoharp and violin-uke plucking

7. Climbing the Mountain
-everything by me

8. On Top of the World
-everything by me including violin

O, sleepyhead, sleepyhead! Wake-up calls are nothing but a drag, unless a very grand adventure happens to await. So we rub the sleep dust out of our eyes, pull on some jeans and a sweater, lace up some sneakers and grab a piece of toast before heading out the door.

The chill air is still--our footsteps the only sounds as we traipse out to the car, still yawning and blinking in the light. The engine perks to life, and we are on our way! Looking out the window, it seems as if we are leaving the whole world behind, still dozing lazily in warm beds. Tree branches reach out to us through the morning mist and pink hint of dawn as the winding road stretches on round bends and past cozy houses with lace curtains and cobble-stone paths leading up to braided doormats. However, our path lies beyond these sleepy little picture-book houses. As the sun peeks out from behind the tip of the mountain, its rays glance off toward us like a beacon. The sleep has been rubbed away from our eyes and all we can do now is point out the tiny displays of beauty: dew on the intricacies of a spider’s web, a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower too quickly for our eyes to see in search of a sweet breakfast, vines reaching out from garden walls and bowing a cordial greeting to us. Soon the houses grow sparse, replaced by narrow trails and rock faces and little valleys with a small stream trickling its tangled path over stones and around fallen logs. Tiny eyes peer out at us from trees and crevices in the rock: bushy-tailed critters blinking curiously at these strange intruders. We smile at each other and gaze out the window with shining eyes full of early-morning wonder. Our excitement mounts and our pulses jump to life in anticipation. The road becomes bumpier and the trees move in closer, hugging our car as we approach the mountain, nearer and nearer. Finally--we tumble out of the car and begin climbing the mountain.

The first couple of steps are cautious; we tip-toe as if afraid to disturb the fragile silence with any shattering yells of enthusiasm or even the skittering of pebbles down the slope. Then suddenly, we emerge from the shelter of the trees into the freedom of the wide skies. Our careful steps speed up into skips, filled with exuberance and youthful zest, vigor and enthusiasm. Everything is wonderful, every little thing is new--shining with the dew drops that glitter like gems in the brightening light. We chatter as we trek up the trail, discussing -ologies and -isms and admiring everything we see; telling jokes and spinning stories about what we will discover along our journey and at the top of the mountain. The world shrinks as we ascend farther and farther away; there go the other hills, far inferior to our majestic peak of a rock. We pass through dips into misty, forested trails and leap over giggling streams; finally we find that our heads are poking out above the clouds. To look over the side of the trail is a dizzying rush, so we gaze ahead instead and march on. Whoever dared to climb this high before? Surely we are the most courageous sort of adventurers to brave such heights--a few more steps and no doubt we’ll find ourselves at heaven’s mailbox. Earthly concerns slip away, and we climb in a kind of careless giddiness--why should we care about the rest of the world down below, when we are so very high up above it?

As the sun inches its way up the canvas sky, beads of sweat crown our foreheads and our cotton t-shirts become damp. Up here, the clouds provide no refreshing shade, and the sun’s stifling heat makes each step a little more difficult. It is approaching noon, and still our goal remains out of sight. Five minutes, ten minutes more pass, up and up the steepest bit of trail yet. Just a little while more, we tell ourselves as we trudge wearily on; just around the next bend. We stop for a moment under the scant shade of a scraggly tree, wiping our brows and fanning ourselves with our hands for meager relief from the swelling heat. Then the sickening realization hits as our water bottles, so fat and plump with water in the morning, now feel ominously light. One tip of the rim confirms the horrid truth--we’ve run out of water. It can’t be too much longer, can it? We look at each other with wide eyes and set jaws, and with new determination we keep trekking toward the top. As we round a bend, the trail suddenly turns sharply and dips swiftly into a little valley. We stumble a little and end up sliding down the steep slope as if on a dusty slide, tumbling down, down until we reach the bottom, a cloud of dirt around us.

Our laughter is interrupted by the sudden cold shock of a large water droplet colliding with dusty skin. More and more drops follow the first, and we look up into the dark rain clouds overhead, delighted grins spreading across our cheeks. Rain!

Clasping hands, we turn our faces to the sky, letting the water run down our necks and pool in our hands. Raindrops gather on our tongues to cool our dry throats and with a feeling of reckless abandonment at allowing ourselves to get wet, we scoff at the thought of seeking cover. We laugh, we shout, we spin around with our arms spread wide, washing our faces and arms with the cool water. What is a silly little rain shower to us? Tiny droplets dot our eyelashes and catch in our hair, curling little wisps about our ears and making our cheeks rosy with mirth and the chill air. We stand very still and listen to the drips in the puddles and on the rocks and on our skin. Birds flutter suddenly from one sheltering tree branch to another, shaking a little flurry of water off the leaves as they take flight. A breeze drifts through, making the flowers and grass sway. Little pools of mud slosh under our feet and slurp our shoes under the surface; leaves fill like green bowls with water and then dip, too heavy for the branches, to deliver the water to the earth. Gazing around, everything is brilliantly green and misty. All the details come into sharp focus, as if the raindrops are hundreds of tiny microscopes; but the scene as a whole remains soft and hazy around the edges. The rain falls harder and the drops are larger, pouring in sheets and making the ground slick and muddy. The world is abandoned except for us. The clouds seem to billow nearer to the earth and darken, almost menacingly. The wind has picked up and our soaked clothes provide no warmth. As we begin to shiver and shake, chilled to our very bones, we look about helplessly for cover. Thunder shakes the ground and lightning flashes--and then, the rain has stopped.

We wring and shake out our hair, but a sound other than flying water drops can be heard from among the trees. A rustling of leaves, snap of a large stick, a low growl…. We each of us think what none of us care to say out loud: there couldn’t be some sort of a monster in the woods… could there? It’s silly, surely--it’s preposterous, our imaginations, of course--of course… but we’re not going to stay here and find out!

Back above the valley of rain storms and monsters, the air is still thick with moisture and the rich smells of rain on the grass and earth. Replenished by the cooling rain--and by adrenaline from our scare in the trees--we trek on as if we were never tired, or thirsty, as if our legs don’t ache and our feet don’t cry out from the pain of blisters. We meet a man walking down the trail--a little, white-haired man with a pack almost the size of himself perched on his frail back; he tells us that the top is just around the next bend, not too much longer and we would be at the peak: “On top of the world!” he says, with shining eyes. With this words, we hasten on, our sore limbs forgotten in the excitement of being so near. Just around the bend, we can almost see the top--!

Our last steps are as cautious and timid as our first up the trail--not because of sleepiness, but because of the great stillness on top of the mountain--on top of the world. No birds or squirrels or even the sound of our own hearts interrupt the deep silence and peace that settles around us . We approach the edge slowly and gaze out over the whole earth. We can see for miles in every direction: the patchwork-quilt fields and the towns with little streets and sidewalks like the maze of an ant farm, and the cars and people are like tiny bugs scurrying about. If only all of them could pause for a moment in their busy, hum-drum lives and close their eyes, drinking in great sips of the air as we are; however, the air is no doubt much cleaner and fresher up here than the air they breathe. The path we just struggled up seems but a short stroll from this high vantage; indeed, looking back it really doesn’t seem like such an exhausting ordeal as we made it out to be. A great peace seems to stretch over us where we stand, like the blanket of sky above. Up here, we are part of the sky: two ends of the heavens, infinite and spreading forever over everything in sight, circling back until we meet again on top of this hill. Some will ask why people climb mountains. “Well, because they’re there,” is the standard answer. The truth is, it’s because the feeling can’t be described or put into fragile, limited words when the very feeling itself is the exact opposite of limited. The feeling can only be experienced. We clasp hands very solemnly, without saying a word. How will we ever leave?

On top of the world, we can see anything.…

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