Being in the mountains is like, there's a whispy purple peak off in the distance. So whispy it doesn't even look real. It's like an illusion; shadowy and transparent. It's only when you get close that the hulking heap of rock and ice solidifies before your eyes. It changes, from hardly there to very real. And it's a paradox. A mix of solid rock graced with snow. But sovereign, like God. Approach it with respect, and it will show you secret delights: fields bursting with wildflowers, rich diversity in wildlife, the silent tranqulity as if you're the only person who ever visited, melting snow trickling in streams, washing your burdened and battered boots. And at the top: silence. Cool, ethereal silence too good to enjoy for very long. You have to go back down and tell others what you've seen.
That is beautiful prose, Whitehorse - absolutely beautiful! I was
almost “up there with you”.
Key word: almost.On one of my trips from Alaska (home state) to the Lower 48, we were makin’ dust through the Yukon Territory on the Alcan Highway (this would have been in ’78) and my travel-mate noticed a herd of mountain goats waaaaaay up on the side of a “hill” – I estimate a 3,000 foot vertical climb in about 3 miles). Said her: “Ohhhh! Cool! Let’s climb up and look at them!” To which I said, “What, are you nuts?”
That was our last trip together.
I don’t miss her.
Give me a boat or an RV.
