Beneath My Feet

I looked dubiously at the stone-littered trail ahead.  I was partway through a hike to the top of Mt. Hoven, a peak near Lofoten, Norway. I had planned this scenic trek for months. The cool summer breeze on that August morning beckoned me forward, but the rocky pathway sent a different message as I paused to rest.  The boulder-strewn trail had already been tough on lungs and legs, but an even more formidable ascent awaited as the trail steadily rose upwards towards a ridge and disappeared in the mist.  Rocks, countless slippery rocks.  The hike my guidebook rated as moderate was too difficult for me despite my good health and experience. I came to a sad and obvious conclusion: I was at trail’s end. Panoramic photos from atop Mt. Hoven would not be added to my travel journal. Discouraged was too mild a word to describe my state of mind, but neither did I want to regale friends with a story about broken limbs nor share photos of my exploration of the Norwegian hospital system.  It was time to listen to that small (gasping) voice of caution: Enough is enough.

I sat down- on a boulder, of course- and gave in to my disappointment. Feeling old and literally left behind, I took a long pull from my water bottle and stood up, my energy partially rekindled. From my vantage point I could discern the edge of a pristine fjord in the distance and- no kidding- a lushly green golf course, one of a handful to be found above the Arctic Circle. Time to make the best of my situation.

I glimpsed something bright red: A small clump of berries grew atop a low-growing shrub nestled at “my” boulder’s base.  These beauties had gone unnoticed while I stubbornly focused on the trail that was just beyond my reach.

I trod around the area and more tiny red gems appeared out of the quickly gathering mist as if by magic, unobtrusive adornments to the rugged landscape. Countless hikers must have passed them on their quests to take in the highly touted mountaintop view.  Small and bright, they glowed with a hue evoking the Permanent Rose or Deep Scarlet colored pencils in my ever-present bag of drawing supplies.

I glanced again at the trail ahead, my disappointment and discouragement fading.  Right where I stood was something as valuable as the summit’s offering.  Beneath my feet, tired aching feet though they were, lay a precious gift. I snapped some photos and stowed away this newfound gem (the insight, not the berries), then carefully picked my way down through the rocks and boulders to the tour bus in the parking lot below.

A few days later, I was in the coastal Norwegian city of Stavanger, strolling through the Old Town section. The uneven cobblestone streets offered a gentler pathway than Mt. Hoven’s crags, (though they were full of rocks I must note). Perhaps my gaze had widened or my senses heightened since that earlier foray, for something caught my eye and attention beneath my feet. It was a carefully crafted iron storm-drain cover depicting a scene of mother and child symbolically pumping water from an1866 water source.   A simple emblem, utilitarian and easily ignored, presented an unusual vignette from the city’s past.  It was a bit of history artistically stamped in metal, embedded in a cobblestone street, covered by decades of grime. worn down by thousands of feet– yet beautiful, still. I was easily reminded of the hikers determinedly laboring up Mt Hoven’s rocky path heedless of those small red berry-gems and wondered: How many thousands of people had walked this (also rocky) pathway, unaware of an exquisite work of art just beneath their feet?

My Norwegian journey drew to a close, with my mind (and camera) full of amazing pictures:  sheer mountain cliffs edged by incredibly blue fjords, icy glaciers, breath-taking waterfalls, and … did I mention there were rocks? Yet among these inspiring memories, it is the simpler ones that take center stage. I envision a clutch of bright mountain berries; a metal portrait embedded in a grimy cobblestone street. These images inspire my art, shape my writing and nourish my spirit. They remind me of the value of a slow, deliberate gaze as well as a fast, far-reaching one.  They beckon me:

Look carefully, exactly where I am. Pay attention to what is offered despite disappointments. Savor the appearance of the unusual in ordinary settings. I might discover what I am looking for…

Beneath my feet.

Original art copyright Beth Hatcher 2026