I am happy when I am in the mountains, It’s really as simple as that.
If there is any one thing that can make me believe in some sort of life beyond this one – some sort of existence of the spirit, it is my experience of the mountains.
I was perhaps 12 years old when my parents took us for a road trip through New York State. We had no idea what sort of terrain we would run into – it was just going to be a week-long trip. We dawdled around through the Finger Lakes and stopped at every possible roadside attraction. And then to our great surprise, the land became hilly – and then more than hilly. Suddenly we drove smack dab into the Adirondack mountains.
I started sobbing uncontrollably. “Stop the car!” I kept saying to my father. “Please stop.” I could not bear the idea of driving through these majestic hills and leaving them behind. We had only just found them and I was irrevocably in love.
My near-hysterical outpouring finally convinced my father to stop and spend at least a day in the mountains – Lake Placid. And we returned there year after year.
It was my first taste and all I can say is, that I had found my home.
After that, I dreamed of heading west: the Rocky Mountains. And then, of course, I found the Swiss Alps and the Himalayas and at last came to rest in the mountains of Vancouver Island.
There was never any question in my mind that I belong in mountains. They call me – they sing to me – they open their arms to me and gather in my soul.
Why this is, I have no idea. And while I appreciate and love the ocean, nothing brings such peace and joy to me as the mountains.
And so, no wonder I was in heaven yesterday. And no wonder I am already contemplating hikes for next weekend. Perhaps its a kind of madness, and if it is, it’s a madness I will happily fall into with the fervent hope of never finding a cure.