The mountains are calling and I must go. -- John Muir
I have memories of being carried up the face of the old New England mountain in the back pack on my dad's back. Arms around his neck, ducking so I wouldn't get smashed in the face by the leaves and branches. Later, when I was too heavy to be carried, we would scramble up the face to see who could get there first, it was a mile straight up. The back side was longer, maybe two miles, with a more gradual, meandering climb. I remember reaching the top, lying down on the giant boulder and looking straight down into the lake. The boats seemed so tiny, I must have been miles high up in the sky. The lake glistened in the sun, I could see forever.