Twelve

Mountain Mama

The Mountains Are Calling Me

And I must go.

--John Muir

I grew up surrounded by Virginia mountains. Rolling, rambling borders around the valley that I called home. Ever-shifting shades of color depending on the time of day or time of year. Purple at twilight, piercing, layered greens on hot summer days, black silhouettes below a blue velvet night sky. My back yard proffered an astounding view of a giant mountain that felt close enough to touch, spotted with peach orchard trees that turned cottony in the spring. "My" mountains mesmerized me and comforted me. Made my world feel smaller while somehow teasing me to explore what lay beyond.

I miss them every day.

While I live in one of the nicest cities I imagine there exists in the world, and there are certainly dozens of lovely parts, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t long for the beauty that surrounded me in my youth. I followed a childhood in Roanoke with a college-hood in Harrisonburg, just up the highway, watching amber and pink sunsets behind the surrounding Blue Ridge. Mountains were just another piece of me. 

Now, when I see them, which is not often enough, they elicit a visceral reaction in me. I suppose it’s because of their immersion into my DNA at a young age. But I guess it could also be that they take me back to a time and place of simplicity and happiness. Plus, they’re just so beautiful. They make me happy.

This weekend, I’ve been surrounded by California mountains. Whereas Virginia mountains remind me of hot summer misty mornings and meandering drives down honeysuckled roads, California mountains simply bring one word to mind: majesty. They are majestic in their beauty, each one different, peppered with trees or grass or even mud, but crisp and ripply underneath. If you haven’t been to Northern California, it’s hard to describe them satisfactorily, to provide the image you need to appreciate their beauty. Just picture majesty. I adore them.

Yesterday, the ride from Carmel to Big Sur, the subsequent hike, and the further subsequent lunch overlooking the Pacific to one side and said mountains to the other summoned that familiar peace.  I mean, after all, it cannot get more majestic than to face one direction and see a whale jumping in the endless waters, and the other to face a crystal-clear stunning mountain of incredible height. We, the seven of us, had to stop our walk under these mountains at one point to let five or six deer cross our paths and bound into the beauty. As the sun set over the Pacific a few hours later, the mountains shifted in shape and color, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them.

And for one second today, driving with my college roommate north toward San Francisco and her new home and baby just beyond, I found myself distracted as we talked. We turned and came upon a stretch of mountains in the distance, seemingly linked by bridges and bays. It actually took my breath away for a moment, because the beauty of it was, I don’t know, almost shocking, completely different from that of my youth but just as profound. Something stirred in me again, and I think that something was happiness. I became even more acutely aware of just how important beauty can be in someone’s life, especially if it’s your own definition for your own reasons triggering your own memories. 

For me, this means mountains. It means getting away whenever I can afford to, whether for a few hours to the west in my home state or a few hours away in a plane. Seeking beauty wherever I can find it. And how lucky am I that flat, mountainless Richmond offers enough beauty in my friends to tide me over in between. And being surrounded by old friends and majestic mountains for the past few days has been a gift. 

It has been a beautiful weekend.