I have always been fascinated by mountains. Part 1.
(A series prompted by some reflections from having been in the mountains the past few days.)
The real beginning of my relationship with mountains was when I was around 11 or 12 years old. My little sister had a medical scare and we ended up taking several trips to Children’s Hospital in Boston one summer. After one of those trips, I cajoled my family into driving north into New Hampshire. (We were so excited to explore new states during those days, and would relish even the sight of the Welcome signs.)
This was long before GPS and we had a Rand McNally travel atlas that I would pore over religiously every day, planning new routes and explorations. We ended up spending a week in the White Mountains, driving up Mount Washington so tepidly, so enthralled by nature and the contrast from our urban life in Brooklyn.
Over the next few years, we would excitedly return to New England often, eventually exploring seemingly every nook and corner of upstate New York, New Hampshire, and Vermont, by car at least. (We were not a very physically active family so I don’t know if it ever even occurred to us to get out of the car and hike a trail or climb a mountain.)
My independent exploration of mountains began when I was 21. I had been admitted to UCLA for grad school and flew out there for a week to check out the scene. It was my first time on the West Coast and while I loved the nature, the school, or at least the biostatistics department, did not impress me very much.
I had budgeted 10 days for the trip and after a day or two of exploring the campus, I spent the next few days checking out Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and Hollywood. (I had reached out to the MSA before coming and they had found a local college student who graciously offered to host me during my visit - thank you Affan Shaikh, you’re a real one.)
After a few days, I was feeling restless, uncertain, and really questioning the meaning of my life, as is natural when one is facing great transition. So I went and bought a road atlas and looked for the familiar friendly green sections indicating mountains. I noticed Mount Whitney, the highest peak in California, and figured it was only about four or five hours away, so I headed there.
On the way, I got pulled over by California Highway Patrol for speeding. This was 2008. The officer walked up in a giant cowboy hat and asked me if I knew how fast I was going.
“I’m so sorry officer, I responded. “I grew up in New York and this is my first time in California. I love it so much and it’s so beautiful. I’m going to the mountains for the first time.”
”You say it’s your first time in California?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” I nodded.
His face broke into a grin. “Well, welcome to California. And don’t drive so fast.” No ticket, no warning. God is great.
That was the only time I could ever play the “This is my first time in California card” and I’m glad it worked 🙂
To be continued.