The Hypothetical Hermit of Hawksbill Mountain

Letters from Josh

Hypothetical Hermit of Hawksbill Mountain - Letter 17                                                

  “Howdy, folks!”  Howdy - that’s an excellent greeting, as my brother pointed out yesterday on the trail.  I had returned to my Mountain Troll territory, this time with my mom and brother accompanying me down the side of Hawksbill Mountain, heading towards Rose River Canyon, when he made that observation.  “Yes, and best said with the snapping of suspenders” I concurred, snapping mine.  So, in the spirit of that conversation - Howdy, folks!

  I hope you’ve been doing well over there.  Today, I’d like to bring you some sights from a Sunday ramble, and an interesting thought experiment.  

Yesterday found me heading west again, in search of vistas and a reminder of perspective.  I don’t know about you, but I get so wrapped around the axle of my own focus that it’s hard to know what’s up and what’s down.  The News doesn’t help, providing endless moles to whack, a never ending show of Outrage and Offense, with “something for everyone!  Step right up, step right up, folks, you’llllll hate it!”  The good news is: I’m in charge of what I pay attention to (even the phrase pay attention is a clue for me), and one can find as much respite in the sunlit spiderweb in view right now, as sweeping vista of a meadow by Old Rag mountain. (So, exotic locales are not needed for a chill pill.)  But, speaking of the meadow by Old Rag mountain - there was some sort of alpine Bee Balm out in purple-y force yesterday in that clear mountain air, delighting our bumbly friends to no end as they worked the flowers as busy as a...err…Well, you know.  A multitude of other botanical gems celebrated the sunshine with all the quiet joy of young women in love, greeting the source of their amor with devoted, radiant faces.  I sat and pondered this mountain meadow, the 1.2 billion year old rocks looming in the distance.  A dark forest edge invited my eye to wander, and imagine untroubled bears snuffling along through their daily forage.  Later, arriving at the bottom of the Rose River Canyon, I again stuck my head under the clear waters by the little waterfall for a mountain baptism, letting the spring cool my brain, so overheated by the world.  I still have water trapped in my ears, but hey, that’s OK.  The climb back up to the top was arduous, but, fortunately, the scenery made up for the effort, and here and there through the wise trees, I’d spy quiet glades where the clear sunlight lit ancient rocks, with only a squirrel for a visitor.  Wouldn’t it be neat to spend a few years living in a cabin tucked away in the woods, being The Hermit of Hawksbill Mountain?  Well, actually, I’d guess I’d hate it, get lonely after three hours, aggravated when the cistern broke in a week, and end up trying to sell it on some real estate website, BUT, for the thought experiment, I’ll call it The Hypothetical Hermit of Hawksbill Mountain, where everything works well.  (I view myself as less traveled, but more honest, than John Muir. Ha!  Well, actually, I think he really liked being the original Mountain Troll.)  Oh, to sit out on the front porch in the late afternoon, noticing how the birds start to wrap up their daily routine, the glory of High Noon echoing in the wistful song of the Veery, fast becoming a memory.  And here come the shadows creeping, like softly folding fingers on the grateful hands of the mountain, saying Grace before supper, thankful for another day.  Hear the crackle of the woodstove inside the screen door, and smell the sweet smoke.  Ah, how that scent can bring me back to boyhood in an instant.  Glancing up, watch the first stars pierce the deep blue overhead, as an occasionally breeze dips the maples in a waltz, letting us spy the Distance stretched out below, fading into soft pinks and coppers and blues, the Day snuggling into a downy comforter, off to dream about lands faraway, and rest up for tomorrow.  I can hear an old friend say in a soft country drawl “this is God’s country, Josh”, and I’d have to agree.  As the Hypothetical Hermit of Hawksbill Mountain...I invite you to imagine your own little scene, especially if the troubles of the world kick you around today.  Although what I outline is fiction, the beauty exists.  I often forget, but Rose River doesn’t, and keeps on laughing over the rocks, while the bees work the flowers in the meadow up above.  

• Josh