Collection by Haley Littleton
Descending the unknown summit to a break in the clouds, we breathe a sigh of relief that the battering is completed. Stretch our legs towards the edges of the tent, stripping our soaked, dust-covered socks.
Eat what is placed before you without question, celebrate the End of Ramadan with joy with the family who has chosen to bless you with hospitality without question.
Our companions hike without complaint: in tattered flip flops, with 50 pounds on their shoulders, chain-smoking their way up the mountain with ease. I am hunched over, hands connected to knees, reconnecting with my breath, to which he says, "come on, strong little girl."
Our guide turns to me and says, "this is what we call 'The Hill of Suffering'" What does it mean to suffer, endure, succeed? What is the reward for physicality? Nature gently offers.
Trust is that which propels you towards a hidden village in the shadow of volcanoes at the end of Ramadan, towards a family that accepts you as one of their own in a moment of celebration and who forces you onto the back of a motorbike to see these hidden treasures of locality.
Mountain looms in the background above clouds, daunting; it feels like a form of poetry.
Steps to the edge of the world, edge of desire, edge of that which we have always known but never taken the steps to verify.
The waves lapped the sand, lapped each other, exploded into a myriad of directions, like a field of foam that wove within itself, water shined blue like shimmering eyes from which I couldn't look away. Here I stand, grasping for the descriptors.
Because, after all, it is about trust - to spill into the white van of two young, local surfing guides to follow nondescript roads that wind through the lush, greenery, to arrive at a beach tucked away, to know that there is little safety but untapped adventure.
It is 3 a.m. and my guide, Edi, and I are huddled behind a sandstone formation as we brace ourselves against the grit, dust storms mixed into precipitation. Rinjani ridicules our attempts at summit gratification. "Where is the God?" Edi turns to ask as I shiver.
Mount Rinjani, riddled in cultural legend and seeped in mysterious folklore, rejected our laborious climb and hid herself among the mist.