Little Mountain Climber

He was seven years old, and he wanted to be a mountain climber. He wanted to be the greatest of all the greats that had ever lived and died before him. He wanted to climb the highest peak that was known to man. But for now it was all shapes and sizes of tree which were his little mountains. His little adventures. For now he was a tree climber, and he was an accomplished little tree dweller. But he knew, as his father reminded him everyday “The mountains aren’t going anywhere, little monkey; they’ll be there forever and ever”.

He would make sure he was the first to wake up. It was spring now, and it was warm enough in the morning, and light enough to go climb his favourite tree which was at the bottom of his garden. It was a large tree for a seven year old, a fully grown conifer! The perfect sort of intertwining, low branch swinging tree that a seven year old could dream of.

He ran at pace towards the tree, and as he approached the first bushy part he slid underneath it, then turned his slide into a fully accomplished army roll! Springing up in to a jump, he reached out for a branch and grabbed it tightly with one hand, then immediately gripped the branch with the other and pulled himself up to began his ascent to the top.

He was full of energy this morning, he felt unstoppable; the adrenaline coursing through his little body like a rocket fuelled engine on the way to the moon.

Working out his route with ease; one leg at a time, his hand over there, his leg up there, bending, twisting, and jigsaw-puzzling as he goes. Up, up, up, through all the branches, leaves, and cobwebs. He powered on through, and he was almost at the top. His head, soon to be able to look back at his house like it’s a tiny piece of Lego.

One more branch to climb, one more jerk of the body to pull himself up! Push, push, push through the top of the tree. The roof of the cedar tree. Time to raise the flag, fist pump the air!

And he was there, he had made it in record time “I’m here, I’ve made it, I am the champ” he screamed!

But, SNAP!!! The branch beneath him had broken in an instance, BANG!! Bang! Snap! Crash! Wallop! And Thud!

All in a split second, the noise deafening, but nobody around to hear it, or see it, except the morning birds.

There was the boy, the little tree climber of seven years old. The boy who wanted to one day climb the highest peak known to man, becoming the greatest climber ever to have lived – taken, broken, beaten by a tree, his favourite tree.

Dead.