“When we tire of well-worn ways, we seek for new. This restless craving in the souls of men spurs them to climb, and to seek the mountain view.” — Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Mountains. What hasn’t been said about them or compared to them? Yet every so often, I need them, their grandeur, their ability to put me into my proper perspective in a world where I am really no more than a speck, all things considered. I don’t feel this way anywhere else but in the mountains, the grandest and certainly among the most inspiring of nature’s sculptures. Lost in a notch or on some leaf-laden path running along streams that move swiftly enough to carry their detritus along with them, I can’t help but be brought to a standstill by their enormity and their permanence.
Buckled from years of plate tectonic movement or the result of her letting off some subterranean steam, mountains give the Earth her character and substance, reaching toward the sky or protruding from the deep ocean floor. They are her wrinkles, showing how long she’s been here and what she knows. Whatever they are called ”“ White, Adirondack, Pocono, Blue Ridge Green, Himalayan or Rocky ”“ these craggy or wooded elevations never fail to arouse passion and create awe in their beholders, for they tell a story of longevity and tenacity in the face of the stupendous forces that helped to shape the very ground we walk on.
I always leave my time among the mountains a bit sad, as though I am leaving old and cherished friends behind, for I never know just when I will return. And even now, nearly half a century since I first laid eyes upon them in a place called North Conway, N.H., I am still transported the moment I catch my first glimpse of their seemingly delicate and foggy blueness against the horizon, tucked below the tree line, waiting, waiting, just as they have for thousands of years and as they hopefully will for thousands more.
Be they rocky promontories or heavily forested slopes, it is mind-boggling to imagine how they got to the heights they achieved and evolved into what they are today, why forces stripped some bare while others were allowed to gradually build up enough soil to allow vegetation to take hold there and thrive. Little in nature happens overnight, and the constant workings both beneath the soil and sea and atop mountains are no exception.
Time matters little in such places where good things do come to those who wait ”¦ and wait ”¦ and wait, and where anything worth doing has been, through the centuries, well worth waiting for.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.
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