Today was the first day of a vacation week for my husband. We began the day by taking one of our cars to the car shop for regular maintenance.  We spent the rest of the morning doing necessary jobs and toying with the idea of taking a family drive together: we checked our email, paid the rent, emptied the trash cans and swept the floors. And we continued to contemplate a drive – to the mountains.

At 11:30 am, with floors swept, but not one dish washed, we decided to head out (and leave the dishes until later). Our destination was about 90 miles away and 7,000 feet up. The first hour-and-a-half was city driving. This can be tedious and we passed the time by means of audio books. These are not books on tape, but “live” readings by Mom; I read selected books aloud to my family.

After the first hour-and-a-half we were still in the city and getting very hungry; there was no sign of the mountains ahead. We decided to stop for a bite to eat, but then the traffic ground to a stop. Sigh. We inched along, waiting to find a likely off-ramp with some eating establishment. Our “quick” drive up to the mountains had become bogged down; we were stuck in traffic that showed no signs of opening up, and still we could not see the mountains. Hmmmm.

We soon spied a Jack-in-the-Box just off the freeway. (It was a very clean Jack-in-the-Box, I might add. We were very pleased that we stopped there. And we had a nice lunch.) As we ate we had a clear view of the traffic on the freeway. It continued its slow, slow progress and my husband began to “hint” to our girls that we may not be continuing our trip up to the mountains. There was just too much traffic, and as I mentioned, the mountains weren’t even in view.

These hints were not well-received and while both our daughters remained polite at this disappointing news, they became intent on watching the stream of traffic on the freeway and passing encouragement onto my husband and me that the cars were moving faster.

It was a little uncertain whether we would be turning back or pressing forward on our outing. It seemed a shame to go home without seeing the mountains. Then Daddy said, “Yes! We’re going up the mountain!” Hurray!

So we continued on our way. The mountains came into view not 15 minutes from our lunch stop. Hurray! There they were, right in front of us; and we began our ascent. The lower hills were very green and lushly clothed in new spring growth. Intricate textures of green on green with swaths of purple and yellow and creamy white blossoms: all were pieced together to fitly trim the knees of the mountain.

As we ascended higher and higher, something interesting began to happen. It actually began in the lowest regions of the mountain: our girls became alive! Their imaginations and desires and ideas began to awaken and respond to the grandness of the mountain before them. They both rolled down their windows and positioned their heads either outside of the car or very near the outside of the car; their awakening senses craved the feel of the tingling cold air upon their faces and the cool breaths of mountain in their lungs. Their comments and exclamations were filled with wonder and excitement. They were giddy with the unfoldings of the mountain before them. Our city girls were getting a dose of mountain therapy. My husband and I glanced at each other, realizing how long it had been since we had taken the girls on such a simple, but awe-inspiring adventure.

So we drove on. At 3,000 feet, one of our daughters informed us that we were 36,000 inches high! (That was a little mental math.) After thousands of feet of ascent and many, many curves and turns, we reached our destination: a small mountain town by a lake.

The landscape was dominated by rocks. And not just rocks, but huge boulders that ran in seams along the mountainside and were piled one upon the other. They were fissured and cracked and worn. And they were calling.

In their majestic rock voices they called to our girls. And our girls answered in leaps and bounds as they clambered up the piles of broken rocks and on up the hillside. This is what I call “Mountain Goat Therapy” and my girls loved it. Leaping from one outcropping to another, they couldn’t get enough of this independent freedom of movement: picking their way along rocky ridges where there was no way but the one they made from one step to another and from leap to leap.

But at last we had to call them down. Their mountain goat therapy brought the color to their faces and brightened their eye. It both exercised and relaxed their muscles. Reluctantly we left “our mountain”; it had become ours in a special way. We had walked it, and leaped it, and felt it.

We left the mountain and drove home. But we also brought some of the mountain home with us; we are content.