Mountain Song

In just under a week, we are going to leave for Utah and Colorado. Elizabeth is going to Utah and I'm going to Colorado. My brother and I plan to go on a 6.5 day, 90 mile backpacking trip around and through the Canyons of the Ancient National Monument. In preparation for this trip, I've been half-heartedly training by riding my bike to and from work and donning my backpack.

When Elizabeth's sister Carrie and her son Asher came to visit, we took a short trip to one of the only mountain-like features in the area: Kamiak Butte. A 4-mile trail climbs the butte, follows along its crest, and then drops back down to the parking lot. I decided to carry Sonora in our kid backpack and hike the trail quickly to get into shape. Elizabeth carried Rowyn in a baby sling thing, and Carrie pushed Asher in a jogger.

The thing that always surprises when I visit the butte is how much it feels like wilderness. In reality, it is little more than a large, wooded bump that rises 1,300 feet above the surrounding rolling fields. But once the trees surround me and my feet hit the loamy earth and the musky air fills my lungs, I feel as if I am in a mountain range.

On this occasion, I was trying my best not to be distracted by my surroundings. Kamiak Butte was a great place to train for a backpacking trip, sort of an outdoor gym. But as we reached the top of the the first ascent, Sonora said "This mountain sings a pretty song." Her words stopped me.

When I asked her what she meant, she did not elaborate, but I knew what she meant, and I am immensely grateful she hears that song. I stopped then to listen, to feel, for myself, as I should have done earlier. "Should we wait for Mom and Carrie?" I asked. Sonora said we should, and we did. The hike was slower after that, but more enjoyable. When we reached a downed log, Sonora asked to walk on it, so I took her out of the backpack and she scampered around on the log, which is something I always liked doing, still like doing, when I am in a forest. She walked the rest of the hike.

When we came to a fork in the trail, we decided to go up to the summit. Sonora and Asher climbed up the trail to the top. They proceeded with gusto; they didn't know that reaching a summit is often significant to people, but they seemed driven to ascend. At the summit, they climbed onto and jumped from small boulders and we all stared for a moment at the falling, fiery sun. We returned to the cars just after dark.

At two months old, Rowyn is too young to let us know of her recreational likes and dislikes, but Sonora has definitely indicated a love of nature, and that brings me deep satisfaction. Part of me wonders why I care whether or not my daughters like to be outside. They have their own personalities; they will inevitably have likes and dislikes different from mine, but this one matters a lot to me. I think it has something to do with my perception of wholesomeness and fulfillment. Hearing a mountain sing seems to me to be akin to feeling life, to tasting beauty, to embracing kindness, to hearing God. I want my girls to know that, even though they move about freely, they are planted in their planet, they are a part of it: the dirt under their fingernails and between their toes is the dirt that grows their food and holds up the tree that cradles the robin's nest; it is the dirt that holds their house up, that will be the receptacle of memories, will harbor the imprint of their tender feet, so that when they return to that place in many years, the dirt will enshroud them in memories of running and planting and playing and singing and will say softly, over and over, "you were here, you were here, you were alive, you are rooted."