Glacier National Park – Montana, U.S.A. and Banff National Park – Alberta, Canada. I have to ask Ma if I was born in the mountains. I seem to recall this being the case, but I’m never certain if my birthplace is really an authentic mountain town, or just close enough. She says, “Yep–born in the Blue Ridge Mountains.” Perhaps, I just needed to hear it again. I suppress an unexpected shudder–of pride or vulnerability, I don’t know.
I seem to find my way to the mountains when I’m looking for something, arms outstretched to receive.
Years ago, I relocated to the western White Mountains of New Hampshire. Nearly two years in, when the novelty of small town New England had faded somewhat, I twice hiked nearby Mount Monadnock. I’d heard that, on clear days, one can see Boston from the summit and I sought a connection with city life, however fanciful.
And there was that time in Shenandoah, along Skyline Drive, when biting flies devoured N__ and me on a dazzling sunny afternoon, mocking our quest for a secluded mountain perch far above the maddening metropolis on the Potomac and Anacostia.
“You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.” J. R. R. Tolkien
We’ve outgrown our little home at sea-level. That much is obvious. We love the warm salt water, the glassy turquoise bay, the Saharan dust hanging in the late evening sky distorting the last bits of sunshine. Yet, we’re searching, looking for a new home–physical and spiritual, I suppose. I know that this is what we’re doing, but it’s also my birthday, and a trip to the mountains seems appropriate. I want to see the Rockies, as much as I can take in. I also want to see if I can stay.
“Being put in our place by something larger, older, greater than ourselves is not a humiliation; it should be accepted as relief from our insanely hopeful ambitions for our lives.” -Alain Botton
Mountains make me feel like a small, insignificant node on a never-ending timeline. I love to see the strata of sedimentary rock exposed by the carving force of glaciers. The ripples and waves of multi-colored bands, flowing with and buckling into each other. The hidden lakes fed by rivers and streams that are the source. They’re evidence of history, of events that happened long before the universe spat me out. They remind me of my place–give me purpose even as they right-size my sense of importance. Knowing this is an affirmation. In my soul, I try hard to stay.
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