[at-l] The Mountains all have Names

[shane@theplacewithnoname.com (Shane Steinkamp)]

Well, I didn't win the writing contest.  This was pretty much expected since
this isn't one of my better pieces - but it did conform to the rule of being
in the Appalachian Mountains.  Fortunately I didn't go spending the prize
money prematurely...  Anyway, as promised, here is (was) my entry.  When Amy
gets back, I hope she posts hers...

Shane

***

THE MOUNTAINS ALL HAVE NAMES

"And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet, and the
winds long to play with your hair."  - Kahlil Gibran

Fox Mountain in the southern Appalachians isn't much of a mountain.  As a
matter of fact, that isn't even its right name.  The real Fox Mountain is
somewhere else.  As teenagers, some friends and I would frequent what we
knew as Fox Mountain; a smallish, rocky, densely wooded mountain with a
bald, grassy peak that had very nice views of a large lake and the
surrounding countryside.  Twenty years ago, there was a small time gravel
pit operating there, and we knew the foreman, who in turn knew the property
owner, and we secured permission to hike and camp in what eventually became
our own private wilderness area.  The gravel pit took up a very small area
in this magnificent landscape, and we had several hundred acres all to
ourselves.  We would hike, wander, swim in the lake, dive off a forty-foot
high cliff, bathe in a waterfall, build campfires, eat camp food, stay up
all night, and generally act like savages without any adults to tell us what
to do.  We never got into any trouble, because there wasn't any trouble to
find.

Well, that was many years ago, and none of us had been out to Fox Mountain
for a long time.  After I got married, my wife and I were exchanging
childhood stories when I suddenly stopped and had a very strange feeling.  I
could hear the mountain calling me.  I have never been sure if we long to
return to nature, or if it calls to us softly until we hear it and respond
to the call.  I phoned my friend Paul; "When was the last time we went up to
Fox Mountain?", I asked him.  "1994, Six years ago, we went hunting,
remember?"  "Well, do you think we can still get permission to go there?"
As it turns out, we could, even though the gravel mine had long since
closed, and the property had changed hands.  We organized a trip that
included Paul, his wife Wendy, my wife Andrea, and myself.  Paul and I grew
up together and were like brothers.  He had married Wendy a year before, and
we didn't know her very well yet, but we liked her.  I had married Andrea
three months before, but I (and Paul, by default) had known her for fourteen
years.  We all got along wonderfully, and this trip seemed like a perfect
way to reinforce our friendships.  We packed the car three weeks later, and
drove on up to Fox Mountain; meandering along country back roads that hadn't
been fixed since the Romans had installed them in the sixth century.  If you
don't believe the Romans laid these roads, then you have never seen these
roads...

As it turned out, the old road to the gravel pit had washed out, and we
wound up going around to the other side of the property.  We arrived
mid-morning on a sunny Friday early in June.  We parked the car and packed
our camp down to a little bluff that had a panoramic view facing north and
east, with Fox Mountain across a little valley to the north, and the lake
clearly visible in the distance to the east.  The spot promised to provide a
fantastic sunrise.

Unfortunately, there wasn't any shade on this outcropping; it was hot, and
water was a steep and dangerous trek down the face of the bluff to the
stream below.   We would, however, avoid most of the bugs way up here, and
so we decided that it was better than sleeping by the water.
We couldn't see the stream, but we could see the pond.  There was a strong
spring on Fox Mountain that flowed down into a little stream, then about
three miles to the lake.  The gravel pit operators had built a mud dam that
had formed a pond that they used to draw water from for their operation.
The old gravel pit was off to the west a few thousand yards, but we couldn't
see it from where we were.  The benefit of the pond was that the sun would
warm the pond during the day, and the stream water below the pond was just
the right temperature of cool to be wonderfully refreshing without freezing
your toes off.  A few yards from where the pond dumped its overflow back to
the stream was where the waterfall was.  There used to be a set of stones
that was just the right size and shape to act as a large reclined chair.
You could sit back in the water and let the stream wash right through your
soul.  I didn't know if it was still there, but I could feel it calling to
me.

After camp was set, we set out immediately down the bluff to the pond.  We
went around the pond to the right, and came to the mud dam.  Paul and I were
walking side by side, with the girls trailing behind.  (Note to Yankees:
Friends can only get away with calling their wives 'girls' in the South.)  I
could hear the stream now, and Paul noticed the big grin plastered on my
face.  The cry went up:  "LAST ONE IN IS A ROTTEN EGG!"  A frantic race
ensued, reminiscent of many that had occurred on this spot before.  Gear and
clothing flew in all directions as Paul and I tried to beat each other to
the water that we knew was just on the other end of this dam.  I had no idea
how our wives would respond to a pair of naked savages hurtling toward some
unseen creek, but I contrived to tell them that the laundry soap trapped in
our clothes would wash into the stream and pollute it.  Just about the time
I was getting ready to be proud of myself for thinking of this, the girls
streaked past us, knocking me into the dirt and Paul into the pond.  They
crashed through some bushes, and a very loud double 'KER-SPLASH!' could be
heard.  They had cheated, and beaten us badly in the process.

I had landed poorly, shorts around one ankle, and Paul found it difficult to
swim with his shirt around his head.  It took us a little time to actually
make it into the stream, but once we did, it was everything we had
remembered.  We stayed there the rest of the day, hiding from the heat in
the cool stream.  Innocence restored, we laughed and splashed and took naps
on the cool rocks.
That night in camp, we built a fire, ate hobo stew, and watched the stars
slowly slip across the sky.  When the sun warmed the horizon early the next
morning, we were already awake, waiting for its arrival.  It was better than
any movie we had ever seen.  We packed up and went down to the old gravel
pit and climbed on heavy machinery that we weren't allowed anywhere near as
teenagers.  I pretended to run the bulldozer while Paul and the girls manned
the backhoe, belt-loader, and washer.  The forest had already begun to
reclaim everything, and from the progress of the rust and the deterioration
of the buildings, I figured that in a hundred years you wouldn't even know
it had been a gravel operation.  You wouldn't know man had been here at all,
except for some piles of iron oxide where the bulldozer and backhoe used to
be.

We hiked up to the spring and filled our water bottles straight from the
natural fountain.  We drank here as teenagers without treating the water for
so many years that it seemed silly to do so now.  We hiked back down to the
pond then along the stream, eventually hiking IN the stream because the
going was easier.   About halfway to the lake we came to an old dam that ran
water through a gold sluice.  Legend had it that there was gold in these
hills and that in the 1940's, a prospector had found quite a lot of it right
here.  The wooden sluice itself was long gone, but the stone dam and
tailings pile was still right where it had always been.  In days gone by we
panned in the stream but never found a thing.  The other part of the legend
is that there is a lost gold mine somewhere right here on the side of the
mountain - a story long since proved false by teenage boys with nothing
better to do with their time than scamper all over a mountainside looking
for a lost gold mine.  Paul and I were two of those boys, and we remembered
that search fondly.  In the end, none of us got the fast cars, big houses,
and dream vacations that we had all planed to spend our hoard of gold on...

Once we reached the lake, it was business as usual.  "LAST ONE IN IS A
ROTTEN EGG!"  We swam and stopped for lunch.  I climbed half way up the
bluff overlooking the lake, and found that our old rope swing was still
there.  I just couldn't resist it.  I took a running leap, remembering
countless times of freely swinging out over the lake and flying off into
space before diving perfectly into the blue water below.  When the water was
clear, it was just like swimming in the sky.  That was many years ago - and
I was many pounds lighter then.  Of course, the rope had also aged, and
rather than finding myself flying off into space, I wound up planting my
butt in a sand bar holding the end of a broken rope.  This was rather
hysterical to my audience of three, who offered me a million dollars if I'd
do it again.  I declined, since I doubted their ability to pay, and we had
lunch instead.  Paul climbed all the way up the bluff, and took a running
leap off the end of the forty-foot high natural diving platform.  He hit the
water fairly straight, unlike me, and managed not to embarrass himself.   We
all took turns and had fantastic fun.  After awhile, we got our gear
together and hiked around the other side of Fox Mountain and climbed back
over the top, across the bald, and back down to the pond.  The mountain was
as I remembered, and it gave me great joy just to be in the place again.  I
had a feeling that the mountain was happy too.

That night the girls went to bed early, and Paul and I stayed up stoking the
fire and reminiscing about days gone by.  Eventually, he went to bed too,
and I was left alone with the fire and my thoughts.  In that quiet time, I
began to hear a voice, ever so soft, calling to me.  I knew it was the
mountain - and I knew I had to go.  I pondered the wisdom of wandering off
naked into the dark, hot, moonless night; but this place was like home to
me, and I had no fear here.
I felt my way down the steep rock face without much difficulty.  Down in the
gully, near the pond, it was pitch black except for the stars overhead.  I
could hear the frogs croaking in the pond, however, and once I reached the
dam my eyes had recovered enough from staring into the fire that I could
just start to see.  I reached the stream, and crossed it, finding myself at
the foot of Fox Mountain.  From here there was a faint trail to the top, and
I felt drawn there, so I up I went and walked out onto the bald.  The sky
stretched expansively over head, and the heat didn't seem so intolerable up
here.  I lay down in the cool grass, far more comfortable than any sleeping
pad, and watched the stars slide lazily across the midnight sky.   I could
feel the mountain beneath me, and I could see the Dance of the Planets and
the Dance of the Stars.  I was acutely aware that I too was on a planet that
was part of the dance.  The mountain was singing to me too; a delicate
lullaby almost too subtle to notice.  I was a creature in his natural
habitat, and I was at peace.  I wondered aloud, "What is your name, old man
mountain?"  Everything has a name.  A private, secret name that only the
thing, person, or creature itself knows.  Sometimes I wonder what would
happen if everyone knew everyone else's private names.  I told the mountain
my name, and I slid slowly into the dreamtime.  The mountain whispered
secrets to my spirit, and for a while I became the mountain, and the
mountain became a man.  The wind was my breath, and the streams were my
veins.  My heartbeat was the rhythm of the tides, and my day was four
seasons long.  I knew my name, and the names of the mountains around me.  I
was, as a mountain, a creature in my own way, slumbering the ages away while
little things scurry around me only to be quickly lost to the passing of
time.  Then I was a man again, and I slept fitfully, cradled by the mountain
as it sang to me softly.  In the early dawn it began to rain, and I
stretched luxuriously as the cool raindrops kissed me gently.  I rose with
the sun, and strolled dreamily back to camp.  The rain had stopped, and
breakfast was almost ready.  Wendy was a little surprised when I slipped
into camp quietly.  "Now where were you?", she wanted to know.  "I told
you," Paul said, "He's been off talking to trees or whispering to rocks or
dancing in the rain.  You'll get used to it.  At least this time he wasn't
gone for days on end."  Andrea, who was used to my midnight vanishing act,
concurred.  I just smiled and accepted my breakfast sheepishly.  "I was
sleeping on the mountain.", I explained.  "In the rain?", she wanted to
know.  "Well, have you every actually experienced the rain?  I mean really
visited with the rain?", I asked.  "Now you're starting to scare me.  A
naked man in camp asking me if I have visited with the rain...", she said
sarcastically.  "It's like skinny dipping, but you're visiting with the rain
instead of visiting with the river.", I explained.  She shrugged, and Paul
waved frantically behind her for me to let the subject drop until she had
some coffee.

After breakfast we climbed back up to the top of Fox Mountain, with the
intention to then go west and explore the side of the mountain we missed
yesterday.  The weather was turning dark again, however, and the rain began
to pelt us a little.  Everybody reached for raingear, but then I turned to
my friend, "Paul, do you think...?"  He looked at me, and my grin was
contagious.  He smiled back and we both knew the drill.  The cry went up:
"RAIN DANCE!"  Gear, pack, clothes, and boots got stuffed into trash bags,
and Wendy learned what I meant by visiting with the rain.  We laughed, we
danced, we cried, we rolled around in the grass, and had a nice long visit
with the rain.  "See? ", I said eventually, "Isn't it fun to visit with the
rain?"  "Well," she said, "I still think you're crazy."

We spent the rest of the day on the mountain, and came home very late.  The
inside of our house seemed to be very poor accommodations compared to the
splendor we had been spoiled in all weekend.  Since that time Andrea and I
have had a child, and we'll have to wait until she's a little older to take
her out very far.  I can hardly wait to introduce her to the mountains.
Paul reports that Wendy has been caught three or four times standing in
their back yard during a rain storm.
"Well," I said, "Maybe she's just crazy."  He laughed and said, "Well, we're
all crazy sometimes."

Maybe he's right, but I can't wait to get back.  The rain would probably
appreciate a visit, and the mountains probably would too.  If you happen to
be out, and meet the rain or happen upon some friendly mountain.  Be sure
and tell them that I said, 'Hello.'  Don't worry; they'll know who you mean.
They already know my name, and they know yours too.  Have a nice visit, and
remember: If you know how to listen, the mountains all have names.

Shane