Post by Rob McMurren
He walks the trails. Usually with at least one dog, most times two, but for his purpose,
bringing the older one is easier. He is searching. Searching for meaning. Searching for
bones.
The trees calm him. The oxygen is pure; it invigorates your senses. You can feel its
strength. The strength of the forest is around you, like an ancient master calling you
back. You walk these trails for hours, hoping nobody invades your sanctuary. Looking,
constantly scanning the edges of the trail, sometimes leaving the path to find the one.
They call to me. I dream they called to my ancestors back in Scotland and Ireland.
Chasing the bones of the earth, testing the bones of man against them. Testing myself.
Giving me peace. Most will never understand why. As I grow older, I know I need to. I
need to chase these stones, find them, embrace them, pick them up. In my mind, I am
the first ever to pick them up.
I envision past cultures sitting on these stones, using them as fences or tools, never
dreaming of lifting them. I dream of them. They are in my head morning and night.
Always searching for the next one. Always coming back to my favorites. Always coming
back.
"The bones of man versus the bones of the earth." Somebody more eloquent than me
coined the term, but I use it. It’s spiritual for me. A place where time does not matter. Me
and the stone. No fancy equipment, no fancy gym. Simply a rock, which has been here
for millions of years and will continue to exist here long after I am gone.
I test myself. I pick it up. I put it down, gently—a thank you for letting me be a part of its
world.
Highlander Bigboy
I found him on the edge of the trail, sunken in the mud. Large, he is. I pushed and pulled
to dislodge him from his slumber, rolling him out of his cave. My dog, Blue, sat across
the trail, just happy to be with me, having no idea why we’d stopped or why I was
wrestling an ancient giant.
I took a minute to catch my breath, then I tried to lift him. I got air underneath. He was
the heaviest rock I had ever attempted. I left him there, marked the spot, and walked
away, knowing I would return. I will lift this one. The name is fitting: Highlander, for the
mascot at the school where I coached; Bigboy, because he’s big—and because that’s
the nickname I call my dog. Everything fits. It feels right.
I returned weeks later. Bigboy was still sitting there. I knew people had passed; some
noticed he had been moved, but most did not. Most pass by the rocks, too wrapped up
in their own day to appreciate the stone. I tied Blue’s leash to a tree. He was content to
rest, sniff, and watch me wrestle giants.
I straddled the stone, set my grip offset to handle the weight differential, and lifted. It
was one fluid motion; my technique had improved. As I hit knee height, I dropped my
hips and rolled Bigboy onto my lap. He was heavy—the heaviest stone I’ve ever lapped.
346 pounds (156kg). Truly a Bigboy.
I tried to stand, but I was not strong enough. Yet.
I put him back down, gently. I was breathing heavy, but I was satisfied. I was content.
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