The Wisdom of a Mountain

Cobb Mountain, California. August 6, 2019. View from Boggs State Forest.

I planned a hike up Cobb Mountain, which happens to be the mountain I live on and tallest mountain in the Mayacamas Mountain range in Northern California. I chose a Friday during the shelter in place period of the Covid-19 pandemic even though I was warned by my partner, Jim, that it would be hot. He recommended waiting a day or two, but my intuition was strong. It said ‘no, Friday.’

Thursday of that week came and it was an unusually difficult day. I took on the weekly shopping for us, as Jim is in a high risk category for the virus. I went to five stores and each excursion entailed wearing a mask, using alcohol soaked wipes as gloves to touch anything in the store, being hyper aware of social distancing—which is next to impossible when isles are less than six feet wide, and then spraying everything with alcohol once at the car.

Add to that, working with the inherent judgments that arise for those not wearing masks and those not even attempting to honor social distancing, taking time to implore store management to require masks for all patrons, and taking time to catch up on news. By the time I returned home, I was exhausted, stressed and discouraged. The virus was now acting in differing ways, there was the growing conflict with those that wanted to open up the economy and those that felt it was too risky, and the ongoing saga of mishandled leadership  as the administration continued to stumble along.

All this was a perfect storm for feeling hopeless, sad and depressed. And I did. I got home and cried in the shower--the shower that now needed to follow a trip into town just to be sure every chance of the virus' survival is washed away.

The next morning I packed my daypack and drove to the entrance of the abandoned road that led to the peak. Having realized I had only partially scaled the mountain after the Valley Fire in 2015, I packed up a little meditating dog figure, some of Shyla’s ashes and hair, and decided to make it a pilgrimage to the top.  

The first and only time I hiked to the top was with a good friend in the spring of 2015, just months before the fire. I took pictures of many sacred elder Douglas Fir and Pine trees we saw on that hike. Now, I was super curious to see what survived and what didn’t. Did any of them survive?

The day was cooler than predicted and my body felt strong. It wasn’t too far up in altitude that the living forest gave way to a vast area of enormous dead trees surrounded with 4 1/2 years worth of shrubby growth—stubble, really, in relation to the height of the ghostly poles.

The dogwoods were broad and brilliant, over six feet tall and in bloom with substantially larger blossoms than those near my home. The madrones were strutting their large shiny new leaves and  wildflowers were prolific.

It was here that I remembered the the Mountain Meditation--a common meditation in the mindfulness world. The idea is that with all the things that pass on the surface and in the life of a mountain—daytime, nighttime, light, shadow, nice weather, stormy weather, flora, fauna, seasons, and even fires—the mountain remains in it’s majestic stillness, solidity and sacredness.

I was witnessing and experiencing this literally as I climbed still higher and saw places that I remembered from the original hike. At one point, I saw the remains of a tree I remembered taking a picture of because of how uniquely it had grown after it’s top had been severed.  I filtered through my photos searching back and found it, green and strong surrounded by a green and strong forest. Now, it was but a ginormous charred disfigured stick among a forest of charred sticks.

And yet, the mountain remained.

One of many elder trees lost in the Valley Fire of 2015. May, 2020. (Vertical panorama.)

“Great things are done when men and mountains meet.” William Blake

Cool kinked tree pre-Valley Fire. Cobb Mountain, CA. April, 2015.

Kinked tree after Valley Fire. Cobb Mountain, CA. May, 2020.

The more I climbed, the more it felt like the High Sierras where fewer and fewer live trees survived in the stark and difficult terrain. When I made it to the top, it was as I suspected and as I had seen from the road far below, the crown of the mountain was a convex bowl of large charred toothpicks, save the few cell towers and human made apparatus’ that supported their operation.

As I roamed from one barren peak to the next, it felt like a Sci Fi movie where I had landed on a dead planet and longingly searched for life. At the second cell tower station, I climbed on the tallest rock formation to capture a panorama photo and just down the hill, toward the first station, I noticed some green. Sure enough, as I looked more closely, it was one large standing green conifer. A tree survived??! Wow! In the midst of all the surrounding death. That would definitely be where I created the altar.

I scrambled across the land to discover not one, but some six trees standing with the very tops of their crowns green. Would they survive? Well, it had been over four years and here they were.

Bits of an ode surfaced in my mind. These trees are now the elders of the mountain—well for the top of the mountain, anyway. They will be the ones that repopulate their kind over the generations to come.

Just how long had it been since the fire, I thought? Siri calculated it and it was exactly 1,700 days prior. I didn’t want to come the day before or the day after, no, my intuition said today. Today.

One of the six remaining living conifers on the crown of Cobb Mountain. May, 2020.

I placed the meditating dog, hair and ashes at the base of the tallest and strongest looking tree and wrote this homage in my travel journal:

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May 8, 2020

Exactly 1,700 days ago the Valley Fire of 2015 decimated this forest.
Some six conifers remain near the top and have become the elders of this part of the forest.
They are charged with helping to repopulate the forest and look over it’s well being for generations to come.

To these trees:

May you be healthy and strong and may all your offspring and their offspring be healthy and strong, and so on.

This altar is in honor of your relatives—those that have passed and those that will come.

Thank you for your dignity, wisdom and life giving to all the creatures of the forest.

With deep regards,

JoAnn

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Then, aside the tree I settled in and meditated on the mountain, as the mountain, for the mountain.

The wisdom from the mountain? Yes, despots and empires rise and fall. Humans will do terribly small and reprehensible things to each others. Pandemics will come and go. Economies will crash. And....a billion-and-one acts of kindness will result from such things, such as the surviving trees offering their body as a home to the birds, ants, and more after a devastating fire takes virtually all of her relatives.

And the mountain remains, bearing witness to it all. Holding it all. Steady, stable, grounded and rooted deeply into the earth.

What wisdom do you find in mountains?

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Author

JoAnn Saccato, MA, is a certified teacher with the Mindfulness Training Institute, life coach, author and consultant. She is the author of Companioning the Sacred Journey: A Guide to Creating a Compassionate Container for Your Spiritual Practice and Mindful and Intentional Living: A Path to Peace Clarity and Freedom.

Mindfulness is an umbrella term used for a large body of popular health and wellness practices based on purposefully bringing a curious, kind and non-judgmental attention to moment by moment experience. It is a scientifically proven approach that helps reduce stress and stress-related illnesses, increase focus and attention, decrease incidences of and relapses with depression, reduce anxiety, reduce relapses in addiction, and aids in sleep and digestive disorders. It has also been shown to increase well being, life satisfaction and happiness, as well as improved social relationships.

You can reach JoAnn at JoAnn@MindfulAndIntentionalLiving.com. To follow her visit: www.MindfulAndIntentionalLiving.com