Summit Marker

The wind howled across the highest ridge. I scaled the vertical granite wall using raw grip, driving my boots into narrow crevices until I breached the summit crest. There was no pre-made flag up here, and I do not need my face on cloth. But a marker was necessary. I found a sturdy, weathered pine branch wedged between boulders. Tying a scrap of red trail ribbon securely to its tip, I drove the branch deep into a tight fissure between two heavy stones. I pounded the base with my fist until the rock pinched it immovable. The red cloth snaps fiercely in the gale. The peak is claimed.