Once again, I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Don’t I always? Do the mountains not always pull my deprived soul into their sanctuaries of remedial tranquility; a certain mystique that constantly taunts those of us who can only truly live when quenched by the towering cathedrals that are the mountains?
Again, I found myself gazing into the foothills of the Cascades just twenty miles to the east. As I stood there in a trance, a crisp cold wind flowed across my cheek; suddenly my mind flooded with images of past experiences: Joshua Tree, Yosemite, Mt. Whitney, Grand Tetons. I was riddled with Goosebumps as I relived early mornings climbing on minuscule edges that shredded my fingertips on frozen Joshua Tree granite; sunsets watched below Mt. Whitney’s profound crest; frozen mornings enlightened by the vivifying backcountry sunrises of the Yosemite.
I was there, my body felt those memories. The wind struck a chord within my soul, releasing a flood of memories that reminded me of my need for the mountains. Still, there I stood gazing into the Cascades longing for my spirit to be filled; knowing it will, wondering when.