Writing From the Side of a Mountain

Prelude to WA: Climbing Mountains 

“You may be a little cold some nights on mountain tops above the timber line, but you will see the stars and by and by you can sleep enough in your town bed, or at least in your grave. – John Muir, “Yellowstone, North Dakota” an essay in Wilderness Essays

The blurred motion of the trees framed by the passenger seat window of a car driving on mountain roads was one of the most vivid memories of Astrid’s childhood. That, and the motion sickness that usually ensued. Looking out the window of a moving vehicle, whether it was a school bus on the 20 minute ride to or from school, or in a car, all she saw was the blurred green and brown of trees, maybe rocks, all a blend of forest color, covering the sides of mountains that were sometimes just a few feet from the car. 

Locals call the road “The Gap.” It’s a place where PA Route 44 follows a stream through the hollow (very narrow valley between mountains). It was one of the five roads that led into the valley where she grew up, but this one didn’t go over the mountains, it squeezed between them. 

Sometimes as she rode through this shaded and close road, she would move closer to her window and look up toward the top of the mountains. The mountain sides were shaded, green, and dark with damp, and at places, had rivulets of water dripping down the rocks. “I wonder what it’s like to climb up that mountain,” she would wonder. Slippery, steep, difficult, uncomfortable, exhausting. There wouldn’t be trails. She would have to push past breathlessness, sweaty and cold at the same time. The leaf litter would be deep, musty, maybe slimy. But it didn’t stop her from wanting to climb. And she wondered why. 

The memory flitted back to her, when, in Mt. Rainier National Park, she pushed herself up a partially paved, inclined trail winding around the feet of the great mountain, along with hundreds of other hikers on a foggy morning. 

The trips Astrid recounts in Not I don’t usually reveal their themes until she is sifting through the notes and photos, recalling the emotions, struggles and joys. It evolves through watchfulness, gratitude and thoughtfulness, of recording people and places in ink and in pictures. But her August 2024 trip’s theme had one unifying element, large and looming, beautiful and daunting, present before she even stepped on the plane. 

California was burning. Specifically, the area to where Bjorn had planned Snorri’s graduation trip–where he had made various reservations. Wild fires were very close, and closing in. Hotels and AirBnBs were cancelling. National Parks were closing. 

So he changed plans fast. “I trust you,” Astrid said when he asked what she wanted to do. Washington state wasn’t burning. The mountains there weren’t burning.  

Later that year, and going into 2025, Astrid’s family was challenged with a move. They had lived in their Southwest Michigan home for 19 years and 5 months, raising sons, cats, fish; battling garden rodents of all kinds, shoveling snow (no room for a snow blower), home-maintenance-ing, and accumulating treasures (and not-really-treasures, but “waste-not, want-not”, so don’t throw that out). 

There were so, so, many different tasks and stages to move through until they were settled and living in their new home. So much letting go, looking forward, looking back, being sad, being happy, some dread, some excitement, and a whole lot of work, physical and mental and social and business-y. A lot of very strong, conflicting feelings. It was a veritable mountain. So having just visited Mt. Rainier, seen its splendor and experienced a little of its power, and understanding the huge endevour climbing it would entail, Bjorn and Astrid named their move, “Mt. Relocation.”

It was a code name they would refer to often, collecting documents in files named “Mt. Relocation.” Because uprooting your home is challenging, and takes planning, comes with difficulties unexpected and unforeseen, setbacks, tasks big and small, hard and easy. Like climbing a mountain.   

In Washington, when presented with the steep incline on a trail around Mt. Rainier, with thigh muscles burning, back aching under her fog-soaked jacket and energy dwindling, Astrid would inch forward, sometimes with one slow step after the other. The “slow and steady” attitude worked on steep mountain trails, it worked when life seemed like a hurricane of worries, it would be invaluable when navigating up and over Mt. Relocation. 

Can a person write while climbing up the side of a mountain, clinging to whatever they can, disoriented, lacking a base-camp, with the details of the far-away destination shrouded in mist? Yes, but the result may be a little rough and worn, spattered with mud and water-soaked. 

Right now, Astrid is writing in fits and starts, squeezing it in while working day in and day out to get to the other side of Mt. Relocation. There may be more typos, awkward sentences and just plain weird transitions in her posts for a while. Please excuse the awkwardness. She’s fighting gravity on a steep trail, writing from the side of a mountain.