Well, it's not exactly mine -- it's mortgaged -- but the name on the deed is mine and has been for the past three decades now, plus the fact that it begins at the foundation of our house in the northern Catskills and rises gently to its peak a couple of thousand feet later, more. I'm somewhere on that mountain all the time, so, for all intents and purposes, it's mine. If I don't want you to find me you won't. My rough estimate is that I've climbed my mountain in the neighborhood of six thousand times, probably more, not always six thousand to the top but always some place on its slopes. I know my mountain well. Often, when I'm not on it, I make believe I am, and, when I am on it, I pinch myself and feel grateful, not always but often. There is constant discovery, always something seen that wasn't seen before, and, when that something catches my attention, I can stop and stare and allow it to sink in. Where is there new growth? What are the colors? Breathe in the scent. Has an animal been here? A turkey? A white tail? What's that in the dirt? A scratch? A track? Is the grass pressed down? In this space of time I am only what I am and nothing more. I would come here if there were a tragedy in my life. I would come here to keep from losing my mind. Some other mountain really doesn't interest me. I've never had the desire to climb the seven highest. I've never even had the desire to climb all the peaks in the Catskills. What I want is to know my mountain well, to take on its delight and its wonder. For a mountain to come to life you must be there. I've watched it grow dark, and I've watched it grow light, always enthralled, always entranced, always with my senses at their peak. I am alive, and at any instant something miraculous might happen! That bear? You know, the one who's out there but you've never seen him, seen sign but not him? You still might. But, you won't know until the bear shows himself, and, if he shows himself, he doesn't know you're there, which is exactly where you'd need to be.
