With summertime comes the urge to climb
a mountain. But by mountain I am not referring to a pine-studded
mound several miles outside of town that rises gently out of the
ground like the round, lazy shell of a sleeping turtle. I want a far
peak that strikes the sky, silent and commanding – a jagged line
straight to the sun. I want to climb a mountain that takes hours to
summit, that regally shadows me and fights against my burning calves,
pushing the sweat out on my face. I want to shudder in one of its
huge echoing crevasses, losing sight of the path behind me, feeling
small and helpless under the unmoving glare of its rocky face.
