Mountains

I remember staring at the Rocky Mountains of Colorado from my grandparent's guest room window in Denver. The mountains fascinated me. We lived in Minnesota. There are no mountains in Minnesota. The land is flat, sometimes hilly, sometimes forested, but there are no mountains. Mountains were mythical, storied, extraordinary, colossal rocks, colossal outcroppings, vast mysterious forests of evergreen concealing bears and gold mines and old wooden buildings where armed outlaws and desperados played poker and drank whiskey from shot glasses. Mountains captured my imagination. And nothing compared to the reality of being on a mountain. On it, in it, through it, over it. The smell of pine was potent. Water ladled from a big oak barrel by my uncle’s cabin was the purest & coldest water I’d ever drunk. The water seemed primal. If you drank enough of it it could turn you into a dinosaur. Or a bear. I’d like life as a bear. Or so I thought. Now that I’m old I prefer life as a human. It’s easier to find food on a grocery shelf than stand in a mountain stream swatting at trout, dig up a toothsome root or claw honey out of a hive. I love honey, but I wouldn’t want to spend hours looking for it. I’m a spoiled human. Civilization has spoiled me. I have electricity to warm me & cook my food or keep it fresh & cold in a refrigerator. I have lights & TV & a laptop to hear music & see what people are up to. But no mountains. If you want to see a mountain you’ve got to go to a mountain. Climb the mountain. Sit on a rock & ponder the sky. And wonder where the air of the ordinary ends & the sky begins.