And I Must Go

When I was younger, I would have told you I was a beach person. My birthday is in the summer, and I reveled in the extremes of the hot sun and the cool water. I also grew up 8 hours from the beach, so getting to visit the ocean was always a special trip. I loved the grittiness of the sand, the saltiness of the water, the push and pull of the waves. I loved the exhausted feeling at the end of the day, when you're a bit sunburnt and thirsty and the rasp of salt and sand is still on your skin, but you know you've had a day well-spent in the water.

I still love the ocean today; there's something so tranquil about hearing the waves crash and feeling your body float in the tide, about searching for (and not finding) where the water ends and the sky begins.

But, as I've gotten older, the mountains have grown on me more and more.

When I was in my early teens, I used to travel each summer to Ruidoso, New Mexico, with family friends. There was something so exciting about the trip into the mountains - seeing the rugged shapes rise from the flat landscape in front of you, feeling the temperature shift and drop, smelling the pine trees as they tower over the roadside. We'd hike near our cabin, play in the freezing stream, go bear-watching at night... and would come down feeling so rested and refreshed.

In my life so far, I've had the chance to visit the Appalachians and the Rockies, the Davis Mountains of Texas, the Green Mountains of Vermont, the Uwharrie Mountains of the Carolinas, among others. All of them speak to me on an elemental, soul-stirring level. The mountains soothe my spirit when I'm troubled. They make me feel brave.

I can't help but believe some of this is genetic. My mother's people come from the Smokies, generations of folks making their way in the wilderness of East Tennessee, and before that, in the highlands of Scotland. My father's people hail from the cragged, rocky wilds of Sicily and the rolling green hills of Ireland.

Maybe a little piece of my soul remembers that the mountains are a haven. The towering heights aren't a danger, but a home.

Sitting on a ledge or a hillside, awestruck at the panorama in front of me.

Snow and ice everywhere, trying not to slip as I walk the trails, but not caring when I fall.

The rocks retaining their sun-baked warmth, as the desert spreads out in front of me all the way to Mexico.

The way the clouds roll in and change around the summits of the Smokies, sunny one minute; foggy and mysterious the next.

Walking through a patch of wildflowers, hearing the bees buzz and the birds sing.

Climbing a ladder that's bolted into the rock, fearing the heights but knowing the climb is worth it.

As I focus in 2016 on being well,  I am trying to spend time figuring out what makes me feel whole and complete, and doing more of those things. So I'll tell you - I've spent almost every weekend of 2016 so far climbing one kind of mountain or another, and I plan to keep on climbing whenever I can.

"I couldn't help myself. -The hills were beckoning and... the sky was so blue today... and everything was so green and fragrant, I had to be a part of it." - Fraulein Maria, The Sound of Music

"The mountains are calling, and I must go." - John Muir