At the saddle looking south: final approach to the summit
I approach the saddle uncertain of what I'll see when I look west. On my first hike long ago, the vision of Utah Valley spread out far below was literally intoxicating. Many times I've sat down and just contemplated the exquisite unlikely beauty that man has wrought in these mountain valleys. There is a peace that comes with a little distance. There is a reason we speak of seeking God on the mountaintops.
Other days I pushed on past the saddle with scarcely a glance off the edge. I remember a hike somewhere around 1985. My companions that day were Ray Noorda and Drew Major. Novell was a fast-rising international star. It was the end of another summer, and I'd had little time for anything but work. I decided to visit the mountain again and seek some balance. I chose a Saturday to climb, and announced that I wouldn't be in to work. In those heady but demanding times it was normal to work a full day Saturday.
To my surprise both Ray and Drew indicated they'd like to climb with me. We started well before dawn, and I chose to climb the Timpooneke trail because I thought it would be the easier ascent. Ray was in his early sixties, and I didn't know what shape he was in.
I would have been better served to be concerned for myself. From the beginning of the hike Ray set a fast pace. He was here to climb a mountain. Very well, we'd climb. No need to waste time sitting or stretching, no need to stop for views near or far. You could see them moving as well as you could see them standing. The quicker the mountain was climbed, the more time there'd be for other things. Indeed, the main point of the exercise seemed to be to see how quickly we could get up and down. Wasn't that the measure of success? Do it well, do it quickly?
I did not find peace on the mountain that day. But I did learn more about myself, and my limits. And I learned a great deal about my two companions. Spend time on a mountain with someone and you will of necessity learn much about them. How they handle pain. What vistas appeal to them. How they relate to the world around them. How much they notice about beauty. Whether or not they are constrained by paths laid out by others. What kind of dialogue they choose to pass the hours of toil. How much they are driven or constrained by their personal vision of how things ought to be.
With the right companions, a mountain is a slice of paradise. Today I am not alone. By my own choice, I have invited all my old hiking buddies back for a reunion on the mountain. I try to recall them all. I look at each view and strive to remember other times I've seen it, and other people who commented on it.
Perhaps I am here searching for enlightenment -- a very particular kind of enlightenment. For me, mountains have been more than metaphors. More than places of recreation. They have been sweet sacred spaces; ultimate retreats always available at the edge of every vista. They lie near the core of how I think of myself, and they are the fountain where I drink deep when my soul parches. I wish to explain this to my children, to give to them something of this gift that has been so precious to me. But I can see that they don't "get it". And how can I show them what I see from up here, if they won't come look?