Mount McKinley, 1985
It is the middle of the night, but the sky still holds the pink glow of the midnight sun. Is it sunset or sunrise or both at the same time? I press my forehead against the small round airplane window to peer at the ground below, but the earth is shrouded in clouds. The plane banks right. Out of the cushion of clouds rises the mass of Denali's upper slopes, her back covered in snow and washed with the pink light of midnight. The plane's wingtip grazes the summit. I am so small.
Mount McGinnis, 2012
The helicopter makes a slow turn to put its nose to the wind. The mountain ridge rises to meet us as our pilot gently sets his skids on the mossy turf. We aren't the first ones to visit the mountain top, as evidenced by the narrow trail up the ridge to the summit and the piles of mountain sheep scat scattered liberally about. I stay a safe distance back from the cliffs where these sheep make their home. Pellets of sleet strike my cheeks. The wind whips the ends of my hair that stick out from below the borrowed stocking cap. It's our chance to say good-bye again, and to say it in style. It is another gift Mom left us, this hairbrained plot to lay her to rest atop the mountain she'd looked at from the valley floor for so many years. What I don't yet understand is how the sight of this mountain will act as a giant gravestone, a massive reminder of the massive love that was my mother.
Mount St. Helens, 2013
I can see the summit. For miles, I look up the rocky slope ahead of me. One pole to the next, one foot in front of the other. "Because it's there" seems like such a silly reason to do anything. But the weather is good and I'm in as good a shape now as I will ever be. Through the trees, up the boulder field and up the ashy, windy slope. I can see the summit. It's just ahead.
I have looked at this mountain from below for years now but only recently has she called to me. Now that I am scrambling up her jagged back, she looks so much bigger. I don't know if I can make it. The grey scree stretches on forever in front of me. 50 steps at a time. Then 20. Then 10. I think I can. I think I can.
The last step, my line of sight comes even with and then over the lip of the crater rim, I draw in a breath of wonder. I knew if would be spectacular, but I never expected it would be like this. The whole northwest opens up before me and I am reminded once again how small I truly am.
As for God, his way is perfect: The word of Jehovah is tried; His is a shield unto all them that take refuge in him. For who is God, save Jehovah? And who is a rock, save our God? God is my strong fortress; and he guideth the perfect in his way. He maketh his feet like hinds' feet, And setteth me upon my high places.
2 Samuel 22:31-34
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