Neo-traditional coloured forearm tattoo of a snow-capped mountain, pine trees, a lake and a pine cone inside a circular frame with antler-like branches and the numerals 5280.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Mountain lake and pine cone on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A coloured tattoo sits inside a circular frame on the forearm, showing a grey mountain peak with a cloud, a rising sun with rays, and a row of pine trees beside a blue lake. Below the scene, a large brown pine cone is flanked by green pine sprigs and curved branches, with the numerals 5280 beneath. Bold outlines, shaded greys and saturated blues, greens and browns give it a classic illustrative look.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Glenarrow believed the number on the benchmark until they had climbed to it. Five thousand two hundred and eighty feet, cut into a brass disc no bigger than a biscuit tin lid, and my grandfather swore it was a mile in feet and therefore the only honest thing on the pass. He sent me up with the theodolite in its canvas case and a cheese sandwich wrapped in the Gazette, and told me to check the disc was still level before the first snow came down the scree.

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The lake below the col was still as a dropped plate, and the cloud sat on the peak like a cap someone had forgotten to take off. I found the disc where it had always been, but a pine cone had been pressed into the turf beside it, fresh, its scales still closed. Mrs Pellow from the hut at the bend kept a jar of them on her windowsill and would never say why. I set up the instrument and took my readings, and the bubble settled true, which should have been the end of it.

Except the sights did not match the figures in my grandfather's ledger. The sun sat a fraction too far east, or the pines had grown a fraction taller in the forty years since he last came up, and the antler branches of the old larch cut the view in two. I sat on the cold stone and tried to make the numbers behave. Then I understood that the ledger had not been wrong about the mountain. It had been wrong about who was keeping the count.

I walked down to the lake with the cone in my pocket. Mrs Pellow was at the shore, rinsing a kettle, and when she saw what I held she only nodded, as if I had finally paid the toll. I left the cone where the water met the stones, and it turned slowly in the shallows, bright as a coin, until the wind pushed it under.

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