I Lift My Eyes to the Hills Part 2

That last entry wasn't supposed to be a cliff-hanger, I just got interrupted and posted it half-done. I hate to disappoint, but really nothing dramatic happened. Daniel's Finnish candies worked better than lozenges on my sore throat, and all six of us made it to the top of Mount Langley.

Standing there on the summit with the wind nipping my cheeks and my labored breathing and pounding heart slowing to their usual paces, I thanked God for His creation, and especially for the powerful lessons I have learned through His creation about Himself. He obviously knows that I understand things best when they are explained to me through illustrations and metaphors and comparisons, because He has used mountains and my experiences backpacking over and over as pictures of different facets of my relationship with Him.

I have had an almost reverent fear of mountains ever since one particular day when I was traveling with my family through the Canadian Rockies. It was a gray, cloudy, misty day, and the road we were driving was flanked on the right side by a small valley, and then an enormous, towering range of peaks that showed bits and pieces of themselves for fleeting moments through the clouds. We had spent the past several days in the vicinity, driving through mountains, around mountains, and over mountains. The beauty of the place was truly too much to take in. From the minute detail of tiny wildflowers tucked next to a rock, to the sweeping views of entire mountain ranges, layer upon layer, none of it could have been more perfectly designed to take away the breath and make me want to sit and drink it all in for the rest of my life, even if a thousand artists worked together for centuries.

That day I was sitting in the back seat of the car and I remember coming to a sop because of roadwork going on up ahead. It had been a long drive. I leaned my chin on my hand and glanced out the window. Above us, the clouds churned in dark masses. For an instant they parted, allowing me to catch a glimpse of a silvery gray, rocky summit. I distinctly remember the thoughts that bolted through my head in rapid succession.

First, I had an intense impulse to get up into that mountain and find out what mysteries and surprises and adventures it held. I wanted to climb its slopes, and see the view from the top. I wanted to discover everything there was to discover about it, and perhaps never come down again.

Then, I was overwhelmed with the thought of "where would I even start??" I had never climbed or backpacked before, but I had already noticed the deceptiveness of mountains - that what looks like a nice little triangle peak from 15 miles away may look quite different from one mile away, and certainly looks entirely different once you get right up next to it. In fact, you never do seem to be "right up next to it" because it just sort of melts into the surrounding landscape once you start getting close. It didn't seem to me as though one could simply hop out of the car and stroll on up into the mountain... but if not, how did one go about it? I wanted someone to show me.

My third thought was one of fear. Who knew what calamity might occur if I ever were to attempt conquering a mountain like that? Wild animals... rock slides... falls from towering heights... inclement weather... etc etc. I concluded that the view from the car window was quite thrilling enough - why look for more?

Because there was beauty up there... beauty that I couldn't even conceive of.

And from that moment I was addicted. I knew I wanted to go mountaineering.