Another window

By Bill Pearse on February 8, 2026 • ( 2 )

I went back up Tiger Mountain but this time in the dark, walking mostly by moonlight. It takes about an hour to get to the top and it’s a well-groomed trail, though there are some big rocks to watch out for. Got up in the 3 o’clock hour to do yoga and gather my things. There’s something uniquely weird about radio music at that hour. I feel like I’m getting on an international flight. I knew it was weird to hike in the dark, but I wanted to be the first on the summit for the sunrise. No matter how weird you think you are there’s always someone weirder.

And though I’d been going most of the way with no signs of anyone I ran into three high school males not far from the top, each overdressed and carrying flashlights. They must have come up the more rugged Cable Line Trail though I doubt they intended that by the looks of them. They let me pass but got right on my heels, forcing me to quicken my pace though I was sucking air. I went faster than I felt like going to keep ahead of them because I’m too proud and competitive.

Clots of headlamps at the summit, more people with running vests doing Euro-style snot rockets, checking their telemetry, taking selfies. The sunrise was pink chalk with all the clouds painted deep red. Color sprayed out across the sky as far as you could see. All those lonesome tones. I checked the time, put my shirt back on, and headed down.

Thinking about yoga, reflecting on a younger version of myself at the Starbucks corporate office where they had a small gym and yoga classes every day. Seeing myself then and embarrassed by what I saw, looking through the window: me in a wife beater with a pair of Vietnamese fisherman pants I got from my old friend Travis. They were a thin linen with a crude waist strap, forest green, faded from excess wear. I have no idea why Vietnamese fishermen would wear such a thing. Me doing the poses so seriously then, so proud of my flexibility, so missing the point I think, but trying to be kind to my former self. And what I’ll think someday looking back on all this? Another window.

After the dance competition our daughter wanted to go to the strange Indian restaurant in the strip mall. I always get the goat curry that comes on the bone, but you have to pick the shrapnel out, the bits of bone. The gravy’s so good it’s worth it. We like the place because it’s authentic Indian and we’re often the only white people there but the service is erratic; they swarm you with different people taking orders or filling the water or delivering the dishes but when you ask for something everyone thinks someone else doing it and then it never gets done. A classic example of bureaucratic bloat, no accountability.

The Cajun friend I reconnected with after many years used to call his car Goat I think. He called me Cricket. And I called him Monkey.

The pride goads me on to push myself but the pride is what sits with you in the dark when you’re trying to be still, and won’t leave. Behind it is some actor who’s scared or insecure, young, proud of his muscle tone, preoccupied with his looks.