Day 7: Mountain
In college, my best friend was a mountain.
It was a small mountain. But from the top I could see for 50 miles. To the south the desert stretched on and on forever. To the north the mountain range grew bigger and bigger, climbing to a snow-covered peak in the distance.
My dormitory was at the foot of this mountain. So we spent many mornings together.
At 7:30am I’d lace up my shoes, pull open the first-story window and hop directly onto the trail.
In less than a minute I’d scramble up the smooth red rocks and pass the swing hanging from the gnarled old pine. Then I’d make my way up the dry stream bed, avoiding the thorns and loose stones, on and on to the top of the first hill.
From there I could catch my first glimpse of the summit. But I wouldn’t stop. Breathing hard, I’d push on, jumping from rock to rock, ducking under fallen trees, and taking long reaching strides as the trail grew steeper.
Within 15 minutes I’d be at the top.
I spent many sunrises there, on top of the mountain. Many sunsets too.
It’s where I went to explore, to escape, and to unwind.
On days I wanted to be alone (of which there were many), I went to the mountain. It protected me. It gave me shelter — a place to hide.
On days I wanted to explore, it showed me endless adventure.
On days I was angry, or sad, or afraid, the mountain gave me peace and quiet. When no one else would listen, the mountain echoed my every word.
I could move at my own pace on the mountain. Whether I wanted to sprint, walk, or lay on my back staring at the clouds, I always had its full support.
If I fell, I might scrape my knee. But it wouldn’t judge me.
On the mountain I could be myself.