I feel nurtured and swaddled by our mountains. They comfort me. They wrap their rocky arms around us, extending peaks into the sky, offering the wilds of life through various flora and fauna of the most stereotypical Canadian fashion. They descend below to open up into lush valleys, cradling rivers that ebb and flow around the curves, rivers that dance along from meandering laziness into passionate tangos of white water torrents.
We hike, we pick berries, we ski and toboggan. Our breath is taken away by vistas of incomparable beauty. We camp to seek solace in the silence that seems to shout louder than the noisiest of cities until our ears embrace the nothingness.
Snow gathers in autumn along the tops of the highest mountains, craggy peaks catching the first of many snowfalls, reminding us yet again of the coming winter. We watch that snowline creep down until we too are in the thick of this magic form of water. The mountains take charge in the most desolate of seasons gifting us true adventure as we play with peril in search of fun. The mountains give to us and take from us with no regard. Respect is demanded and given wholeheartedly. Those who live in the mountains have a sort of unspoken acceptance of the privilege of living among the magnificent brutality.
The snow melts in the spring, from trickles to torrents; each stream joining with others to gather force on its eternal journey down. Indulgent and gracious, these mountains seem to watch the creeks and rivers play at their feet like tolerant grandmothers.
They await us, silent and sure, ready to give us, conditionally, what our souls covet and need.
I feel safe in my mountains. I feel cared for. I would never want to willingly leave these fortresses. Although I love my whole country and find breathtaking beauty from coast to prairie to coast; there is, for me, no place like my mountain home.