There are many reason, varied and inconsequential, as to why I love mountains.
It could be the hot summer nights spent in Honduras, watching the stars twinkle over them while pop ballads played out a neighbors window, sweat cooling on my legs and my cousins promise to drag me out exploring in them one day soon jingling in my head. (I did go exploring in them eventually, and yelling across one side of a peak to another while the sun beat down hot on my neck, the only girl in a crowd of rowdy boys, it’s an experience not soon forgotten)
It could be my teenage years spent riding the BART train back and forth underneath the shadow of Mt. Diablo, from one near-life adventure in San Francisco to the next, it’s gentle curves pure poetry at sundown.
There is this idea of eternity in them, of endurance and strength. Architecture can crumble, mighty rivers run dry, but mountains stay forever, don’t they? Thats not true of course, everything erodes over time but in a single lifetime a mountain can feel like this side of forever-always.
I don’t run away to the mountains to escape, though I make a joke of that enough that you would think it’s true. Being in the shadow of a giant, seeing peaks appear on the horizon, watching the land fold itself into beauty in the swirls of mountain ranges, it’s the feeling of being electrifyingly alive and just this side of almost lost that calls to me.