Half of living in
mountains has nothing to do with traversing them, with huckleberry
identification, tent assembly, propane-heater maintenance, or proper
clothes layering. The major duty of mountain life lies in our
observation of the horizon. Rocky parapets call up a certain look;
eyes that do not see what lies between or within, see only the border
detail in dark uniform. We can go into the mountains, we can nestle
in their skirts, we can clamber to the top and with them listen to
the sky, but the best of a human's understanding of her mountains is
done from afar. A mountain is a symbol. A big symbol, many of them
crouched together on the periphery of our lives, a thousand
definitions, callous and nurturing. So many symbols require
sympathetic synapses to receive them. They awaken in us all the many
definitions of being human, and recall our compassion for complexity,
dredged from each iris and trained on the mountains beyond.
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