Why Mountains Make Us Sing
Mountains are a home you swear you’ll never leave—even as you pull up stakes—then swear you must get back to.
Name it Spirit of Place or Genius Loci, as the Romans called it, the reality behind the call of the mountains lives in your heart and soul. It haunts your dreams and sweetens your memories.
For some the mountain is the source of holy visions; the Spirit or Genius may be taken literally. The famous Oglala Lakota holy man known as Black Elk recalled a childhood vision: “Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all [Harney Peak], and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy.” Neihardt, John G. Black Elk Speaks. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc. Pocket Books, 1932, 1959, 1972.
John Muir, the Scots-American and premier naturalist taught: “Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer. Camp out among the grasses and gentians of glacial meadows, in craggy garden nooks full of nature's darlings. Climb the mountains and get their good tidings, Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. As age comes on, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but nature's sources never fail.” Muir, John. Our National Parks. Boston, New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., The Riverside Press, Cambridge, 1901. As found on Sierra Club’s “Quotations from John Muir,” selected by Harold Wood.
See: http://vault.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/writings/favorite_quotations.aspx
And this is why the mountains make us sing.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Monday, April 13, 2015
Mountain Roads, Part Two: Follow your Bliss
If you seek a heart-in-your-mouth one-track mountain road to brave, go to Wester Ross on the coast of the North West Scottish Highlands. John Muir’s heart would sing at Wester Ross’ wilderness beauty. As a bonus, it boasts Bealach na Ba, the Pass of the Cattle, Scotland’s third highest public road, an eleven plus mile (17.8 km) stretch, that traverses the Applecross Mountains. From Applecross at sea level, lying across from the Isles of Raasay and Skye, it swiftly ascends to 2,053.80 ft (626 m). In what feels like rollercoaster-worthy inclines of up to 20% and hairpin switch backs it links remote coastal villages to Lochs Kishorn and Carron.
No guidebook can prepare a tourist for the bliss and terror of driving this pass for the first time. In fact, a road sign warns off neophyte drivers. I checked with locals. A barmaid at my hotel in Gairloch assured me “no problem, love.” However, folks at a café in Shieldaig told me to approach Applecross via the coastal road. For an American brand new to managing a car engineered for the UK and driving from the “passenger” seat, the thrill is amped to white knuckle intensity. The kick to the adrenaline and blood pressure is not recommended for calm driving on “one of the most challenging drives in Scotland,” according to Dangerous Roads: The World’s Most Spectacular Roads (http://www.dangerousroads.org/europe/scotland/60-bealach-na-ba-scotland.html)
But, after all, as the mountaineers say, we do it because it is there.
I started out from Applecross on a clear, brisk day in late October. After passing the charming Flower Tunnel café with its glorious display of hanging flower pots—and darn good coffee—I ventured on to the pass. At first the single lane road seemed no worse (if obviously narrower) than many curvy roads in Appalachia. At home I drove a VW, but in Scotland I had rented a Renault, a four-door beauty, much larger than my cozy Bug. Within minutes the climb got serious enough to wonder what those ancient cattle drovers did when they encountered an oncoming herd. I appreciated the lay-bys, so helpful, especially if no other vehicle forces the decision—who pulls over? Mountain roads demand that drivers know the rules—and pay attention.
My Lord, I thought, the brutal beauty of the in your face mountain sides, their bones jutting through brown bracken: finally a true example of “awesome.” What a road!
I hadn’t foreseen what I encountered next. After rounding a notorious bend and starting downhill on one of the steepest grades, I passed the lay-by on my right at a spot where no rocky ground or stone fence buffered the edge. The land dropped off, how precipitously I had no idea. Nor did I care until a car approached me from below on the same, and only, lane.
Being no fool (ah, pride), I gave the up climbing driver the right of way. Unfortunately, I backed into the lay-by. If I had used my wits (long scattered to the wind), I would have gone far enough up the track to pull into the lay-by face forward—instead of worrying that my rear tire would slip over the edge and cause the car to tumble into the abyss. The other driver passed and waved, oblivious to my trembling grip on the steering wheel. Back on the road, newly alive to the stark beauty of the mountains and gasp out loud views of the lochs, I continued to the villages of Kishorn and Lochcarron.
The return trip, reversing the ups and downs and meet-yourself-coming turns, offered the greatest bonuses of all. The ever changeable mountain weather provided showers that the setting sun turned to bevies of rainbows. And, oh, the sight of the Isles of Raasay and Skye: cobalt mountains floating in the shimmering sea, topped by backlit mist and cloud.
But don’t take my word for it. Look for yourself online or book a trip.
The enduring lesson of Wester Ross, to quote Henry David Thoreau: “In wildness is the preservation of the world.”
The life-long lesson of the Bealach na Ba is that nature made a place one must respect, a place that invites the spirit to transcend the mundane—but you must obey the rules of the road. Look and listen. Think and live.
Oh yes, and follow your bliss; it will take you, spirit renewed, to a home away from home.
If you seek a heart-in-your-mouth one-track mountain road to brave, go to Wester Ross on the coast of the North West Scottish Highlands. John Muir’s heart would sing at Wester Ross’ wilderness beauty. As a bonus, it boasts Bealach na Ba, the Pass of the Cattle, Scotland’s third highest public road, an eleven plus mile (17.8 km) stretch, that traverses the Applecross Mountains. From Applecross at sea level, lying across from the Isles of Raasay and Skye, it swiftly ascends to 2,053.80 ft (626 m). In what feels like rollercoaster-worthy inclines of up to 20% and hairpin switch backs it links remote coastal villages to Lochs Kishorn and Carron.
No guidebook can prepare a tourist for the bliss and terror of driving this pass for the first time. In fact, a road sign warns off neophyte drivers. I checked with locals. A barmaid at my hotel in Gairloch assured me “no problem, love.” However, folks at a café in Shieldaig told me to approach Applecross via the coastal road. For an American brand new to managing a car engineered for the UK and driving from the “passenger” seat, the thrill is amped to white knuckle intensity. The kick to the adrenaline and blood pressure is not recommended for calm driving on “one of the most challenging drives in Scotland,” according to Dangerous Roads: The World’s Most Spectacular Roads (http://www.dangerousroads.org/europe/scotland/60-bealach-na-ba-scotland.html)
But, after all, as the mountaineers say, we do it because it is there.
I started out from Applecross on a clear, brisk day in late October. After passing the charming Flower Tunnel café with its glorious display of hanging flower pots—and darn good coffee—I ventured on to the pass. At first the single lane road seemed no worse (if obviously narrower) than many curvy roads in Appalachia. At home I drove a VW, but in Scotland I had rented a Renault, a four-door beauty, much larger than my cozy Bug. Within minutes the climb got serious enough to wonder what those ancient cattle drovers did when they encountered an oncoming herd. I appreciated the lay-bys, so helpful, especially if no other vehicle forces the decision—who pulls over? Mountain roads demand that drivers know the rules—and pay attention.
My Lord, I thought, the brutal beauty of the in your face mountain sides, their bones jutting through brown bracken: finally a true example of “awesome.” What a road!
I hadn’t foreseen what I encountered next. After rounding a notorious bend and starting downhill on one of the steepest grades, I passed the lay-by on my right at a spot where no rocky ground or stone fence buffered the edge. The land dropped off, how precipitously I had no idea. Nor did I care until a car approached me from below on the same, and only, lane.
Being no fool (ah, pride), I gave the up climbing driver the right of way. Unfortunately, I backed into the lay-by. If I had used my wits (long scattered to the wind), I would have gone far enough up the track to pull into the lay-by face forward—instead of worrying that my rear tire would slip over the edge and cause the car to tumble into the abyss. The other driver passed and waved, oblivious to my trembling grip on the steering wheel. Back on the road, newly alive to the stark beauty of the mountains and gasp out loud views of the lochs, I continued to the villages of Kishorn and Lochcarron.
The return trip, reversing the ups and downs and meet-yourself-coming turns, offered the greatest bonuses of all. The ever changeable mountain weather provided showers that the setting sun turned to bevies of rainbows. And, oh, the sight of the Isles of Raasay and Skye: cobalt mountains floating in the shimmering sea, topped by backlit mist and cloud.
But don’t take my word for it. Look for yourself online or book a trip.
The enduring lesson of Wester Ross, to quote Henry David Thoreau: “In wildness is the preservation of the world.”
The life-long lesson of the Bealach na Ba is that nature made a place one must respect, a place that invites the spirit to transcend the mundane—but you must obey the rules of the road. Look and listen. Think and live.
Oh yes, and follow your bliss; it will take you, spirit renewed, to a home away from home.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Mountain Roads, Part One
Where would you go, adventurer?
A daily commute in West Virginia on, you hope, a paved two lane road or, if necessary, a wide-ish dirt road? Or a trek to some hideaway in the Smokies from Maggie Valley, North Carolina, to Walland, Tennessee. Maybe a lovely Sunday drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway or the Skyline Drive? If you have a mind for far-flung driving, how about attempting the Scottish Highlands?
Those used to mountain driving know even familiar routes promise surprises, even catastrophe. All part of the fun, you say. Quite right, especially if your cell phone is charged and you can grab a tower to transmit your emergency call. So what can happen as you’re driving a road that twists up from Route 2 at the Ohio River to a mishmash of connecting roads that make their way around, over, and through the hills to Wheeling, WV?
It’s night. You’re singing along to your favorite song. You round the sharp bend where the road was blasted through pure rock, not mere shale, mud, and gravel. And yikes! A massive boulder covers the entire left lane and half your right. From experience you know not to turn that bend at lawful speed limit. You hit the brakes.
Around the formidable obstruction walk five men in coveralls, jackets, and various headgear, some looking official. Even in your headlights’ glare, it’s hard to tell if they are local law enforcement or WVDOT. Some wave flashlights while others, hands on hips, nod their heads and confirm, yes, by God, there is a huge chunk of rock—twice as tall as they are—making a mess of the road. It seems they got to the site minutes before you blundered on the scene. You wait for someone to wave you on . . . or tell you to (horrors) back up.
Now this rock slide nowhere matches the 1997 or 2009 mountain come-downs on Interstate 40 near Ashville, NC, and the Tennessee border, closing the road for months, forcing long detours on other mountain roads. Drivers ground their teeth and paid the extra price in time and gas. No. This is just another adventure on a West Virginia country road like any John Denver celebrated in song. And, after all, you are only miles from home. In daylight this snag, one of many to be expected in this neck of the woods, will be no big deal to the locals and the DOT, but you would like to get home.
As one of the men shuffles toward your VW, you roll down the window. “How’s the road ahead, sir?” It’s always good to show respect.
He leans into your window, his face a mask of authority. “One of the men will lead you around. The road is stable in your lane until you get about twenty yards on where it gave way above the creek. You’ll have to go into the left for a spell. Go slow.”
“Yes, sir,” you say. “Thanks.”
Luckily, that mishmash allows for numerous connectors to anywhere you want to go—just in case. That’s the lesson of mountain roads. If you have the time, you have alternatives. A good lesson.
In a future Mountain Musings take a heart-in-your mouth trip on the Bealach-nam-Bo or Bealach na Ba’ (pass of the cattle), thought to be the highest public road in the British Isles on the west coast of the Highlands across from the Isle of Skye.
Where would you go, adventurer?
A daily commute in West Virginia on, you hope, a paved two lane road or, if necessary, a wide-ish dirt road? Or a trek to some hideaway in the Smokies from Maggie Valley, North Carolina, to Walland, Tennessee. Maybe a lovely Sunday drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway or the Skyline Drive? If you have a mind for far-flung driving, how about attempting the Scottish Highlands?
Those used to mountain driving know even familiar routes promise surprises, even catastrophe. All part of the fun, you say. Quite right, especially if your cell phone is charged and you can grab a tower to transmit your emergency call. So what can happen as you’re driving a road that twists up from Route 2 at the Ohio River to a mishmash of connecting roads that make their way around, over, and through the hills to Wheeling, WV?
It’s night. You’re singing along to your favorite song. You round the sharp bend where the road was blasted through pure rock, not mere shale, mud, and gravel. And yikes! A massive boulder covers the entire left lane and half your right. From experience you know not to turn that bend at lawful speed limit. You hit the brakes.
Around the formidable obstruction walk five men in coveralls, jackets, and various headgear, some looking official. Even in your headlights’ glare, it’s hard to tell if they are local law enforcement or WVDOT. Some wave flashlights while others, hands on hips, nod their heads and confirm, yes, by God, there is a huge chunk of rock—twice as tall as they are—making a mess of the road. It seems they got to the site minutes before you blundered on the scene. You wait for someone to wave you on . . . or tell you to (horrors) back up.
Now this rock slide nowhere matches the 1997 or 2009 mountain come-downs on Interstate 40 near Ashville, NC, and the Tennessee border, closing the road for months, forcing long detours on other mountain roads. Drivers ground their teeth and paid the extra price in time and gas. No. This is just another adventure on a West Virginia country road like any John Denver celebrated in song. And, after all, you are only miles from home. In daylight this snag, one of many to be expected in this neck of the woods, will be no big deal to the locals and the DOT, but you would like to get home.
As one of the men shuffles toward your VW, you roll down the window. “How’s the road ahead, sir?” It’s always good to show respect.
He leans into your window, his face a mask of authority. “One of the men will lead you around. The road is stable in your lane until you get about twenty yards on where it gave way above the creek. You’ll have to go into the left for a spell. Go slow.”
“Yes, sir,” you say. “Thanks.”
Luckily, that mishmash allows for numerous connectors to anywhere you want to go—just in case. That’s the lesson of mountain roads. If you have the time, you have alternatives. A good lesson.
In a future Mountain Musings take a heart-in-your mouth trip on the Bealach-nam-Bo or Bealach na Ba’ (pass of the cattle), thought to be the highest public road in the British Isles on the west coast of the Highlands across from the Isle of Skye.
Monday, March 9, 2015
When Mountains Make Us Sing
When Mountains Make Us Sing
Family, friends, and neighbors are often spread far and wide in the mountains. Any visit is special, especially when the visitor is welcome.
One of the happiest childhood songs is “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain.” For a snappy tune carried on a rocking, hand clapping rhythm it ranks right up there with “I Been Working on the Railroad.” And while we know Dinah has a banjo-playing friend in the kitchen, obviously the one keeping Dinah from blowing her horn, we don’t have a clue about just who is coming round that mountain.
She is well anticipated for her visit is announced multiple times before the second verse paints a grand picture. She must be rich, what with those six white horses she’s driving. Six. White. Horses. Pulling a carriage? A stage coach? A buckboard? No matter. She’s driving them and they shine in the sunlight, tails flying, nostrils flaring.
No wonder everyone all comes out to greet her. What a sight. You can just imagine the dust those rolling wheels and twenty-four massive hooves stir up. And while we’re at it, if those roads she drives over are typical—rutted and stone studded—she must be the most amazing driver with well nigh supernatural horses. As you sit there clapping your hands and stamping your feet (for who could forbear?), know that they are flying to keep up with your singing.
Surely they will have a feast, for aren’t we told the old red rooster is to be sacrificed for such a joyous occasion? That killing the rooster is a hard patch to sing, but ah, the reward—all those gathered to greet her are to smack their lips on chicken and dumplings. Now what could be finer? If you haven’t yet had some of that fabled fried/baked/roasted/fricasseed/stewed chicken, head for your favorite chicken emporium. If you’re ever in Charlotte, VA, in Albemarle County, do stop at Michie Tavern for the best old time fried chicken you’ll ever taste. First bite: your eyes will roll back in your head.
Now the shouting of “Hallelujah” when she comes may be a carryover from the old gospel song upon “She’ll Be Coming” is said to be based, but I’ll bet it’s the chicken.
Family, friends, and neighbors are often spread far and wide in the mountains. Any visit is special, especially when the visitor is welcome.
One of the happiest childhood songs is “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain.” For a snappy tune carried on a rocking, hand clapping rhythm it ranks right up there with “I Been Working on the Railroad.” And while we know Dinah has a banjo-playing friend in the kitchen, obviously the one keeping Dinah from blowing her horn, we don’t have a clue about just who is coming round that mountain.
She is well anticipated for her visit is announced multiple times before the second verse paints a grand picture. She must be rich, what with those six white horses she’s driving. Six. White. Horses. Pulling a carriage? A stage coach? A buckboard? No matter. She’s driving them and they shine in the sunlight, tails flying, nostrils flaring.
No wonder everyone all comes out to greet her. What a sight. You can just imagine the dust those rolling wheels and twenty-four massive hooves stir up. And while we’re at it, if those roads she drives over are typical—rutted and stone studded—she must be the most amazing driver with well nigh supernatural horses. As you sit there clapping your hands and stamping your feet (for who could forbear?), know that they are flying to keep up with your singing.
Surely they will have a feast, for aren’t we told the old red rooster is to be sacrificed for such a joyous occasion? That killing the rooster is a hard patch to sing, but ah, the reward—all those gathered to greet her are to smack their lips on chicken and dumplings. Now what could be finer? If you haven’t yet had some of that fabled fried/baked/roasted/fricasseed/stewed chicken, head for your favorite chicken emporium. If you’re ever in Charlotte, VA, in Albemarle County, do stop at Michie Tavern for the best old time fried chicken you’ll ever taste. First bite: your eyes will roll back in your head.
Now the shouting of “Hallelujah” when she comes may be a carryover from the old gospel song upon “She’ll Be Coming” is said to be based, but I’ll bet it’s the chicken.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Why a Mountain?
MOUNTAIN MUSINGS
Why a mountain? If you have been to one, lived on one, or left one behind, you know the answer. So all these mountains you hear tell about, are they for real?
Some mountains have their roots in this world. Their images haunt our photos, guidebooks, or even songs: Kilimanjaro, McKinley, and Machu Picchu.
Some rise above their physical reality and live in our imaginations because of a great story: Heidi’s Swiss Alps where she lives with her grandfather and helps Peter the goatherd and his grandmother; King Arthur’s Mount Snowden in Wales; the Virginian’s Grand Tetons in Wyoming.
Some are Biblical: from Psalm 121 KJV: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help”; Noah’s Mount Ararat; or Moses’ Mount Sinai.
Some are fantastical: Tolkien’s Mount Doom or the Misty Mountains mythical
or mythical: Mount Olympus.
No matter where or when, without or within, mountains have an ineffable quality to make us believe in the possibility of both/and and give up a dependence on a narrower field of either/or.
Mountains demand transcendence. Mountains create myths and miracles—and multiple realities.
Mountains kill. Mountains heal.
Mountains teach us who we are. Mountains make us sing.
And sometimes we kill mountains. Just ask any who have seen the monstrous bulldozers that have invaded the mountains of Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. (See Richard B. Drake, A History of Appalachia, University of KY Press, 2003 or go to: http://www.mountainroadshow.com/misc/MTR_Tour_Guide_KY_VA%20_WV.pdf)
For me, some mountains—the Scottish Highlands and the Appalachians in USA— cross the barriers of time and space to cohabit two realities. They exist as physical realities and in my memory of lived experience.
Why a mountain? If you have been to one, lived on one, or left one behind, you know the answer. So all these mountains you hear tell about, are they for real?
Some mountains have their roots in this world. Their images haunt our photos, guidebooks, or even songs: Kilimanjaro, McKinley, and Machu Picchu.
Some rise above their physical reality and live in our imaginations because of a great story: Heidi’s Swiss Alps where she lives with her grandfather and helps Peter the goatherd and his grandmother; King Arthur’s Mount Snowden in Wales; the Virginian’s Grand Tetons in Wyoming.
Some are Biblical: from Psalm 121 KJV: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help”; Noah’s Mount Ararat; or Moses’ Mount Sinai.
Some are fantastical: Tolkien’s Mount Doom or the Misty Mountains mythical
or mythical: Mount Olympus.
No matter where or when, without or within, mountains have an ineffable quality to make us believe in the possibility of both/and and give up a dependence on a narrower field of either/or.
Mountains demand transcendence. Mountains create myths and miracles—and multiple realities.
Mountains kill. Mountains heal.
Mountains teach us who we are. Mountains make us sing.
And sometimes we kill mountains. Just ask any who have seen the monstrous bulldozers that have invaded the mountains of Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. (See Richard B. Drake, A History of Appalachia, University of KY Press, 2003 or go to: http://www.mountainroadshow.com/misc/MTR_Tour_Guide_KY_VA%20_WV.pdf)
For me, some mountains—the Scottish Highlands and the Appalachians in USA— cross the barriers of time and space to cohabit two realities. They exist as physical realities and in my memory of lived experience.
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