Going to the Mountains

When I was a girl,
yes I was a girl, a
very long time ago.

My family would make
the seasonal jaunt
to the mountains
of northern New York.

Uncle Andy would
always proclaim,
"We are going
to the mountains."

Leaving them unnamed.

At first we rented
a farm house and later
built a log cabin.

"The mountains" always
denoted the Adirondacks:
Gore mountain, Oven mountain,
Saddleback.

The cool breezes...
the scent of scotch pine,
the beauty of the maples,
delicacy of the white birch,

the fields of dried hay
dotted with munching cows-
post cards come to life-
lured us back year after year.

Jim grew up
in the shadow
of the peaks.

I was "summer people"
and remain so forty-five
years later.

Jim and I are going north
for a mini vacation:

genealogical research
a book signing for _Judge John Richards_
visits with extended family

But that's only the half of it,
as my mother would say.

For centuries
pilgrims have set out
on spiritual quests...

on foot
on horseback
in caravans

traveling hundreds
of miles...

crossing continents

For me
our journey...
going to the mountains
is tantamount to need...
instinctual

like the geese
drawn to fly
thousands of miles
to get to where they
are supposed to be.

Migrants now...
half year spent in Florida's warmth
and the other half in New York
we are accustomed to moving
our lives and our possessions
twice yearly.

The ritual of going home
to the mountains
sustains us.

The Adironcacks
strong, proud,
stark protectors...
anchor us.

They stand secure
in the knowledge
that their magic,
their majesty,
will always draw us back.

We are marked
with the seal
of mountain people.

So, I take up my backpack
of yarn, a satchel with
needles, scissors, stitch
holders...

I'll pick up stitches
cast on in my youth
add new rows,
another skein of
a different hue, perhaps

and have another length
of joy filled memory

engendered by
going home to the mountains.