The cabin was such a wonderful place to be a child -- fishing in the lake, building a house from rocks and sticks, four wheeling over damp red dirt. S'mores and songs at night, my grandmother's warbling voice reaching across the fire pit as she rocked a grandchild on her lap.
My mom and I are exceptionally close, I'd say. If I could choose a person to be just like, it would be her. But I'll save that sappiness for another time, as it will suffice to tell you she's my best friend.
Having two of my very favorites together - mountain and mom - was really, really special for me.
We watched a couple Meg Ryan movies, legs wrapped in blankets knitted by relatives, one of my grandpa's old sweatshirts under my head. We talked about what we've done with our lives and what I'm doing with mine next. We giggled and talked and listened and drank hot chocolate heated in a red-speckled kettle.
The next morning when we woke up, the entire mountain was shrouded in a dense, wet fog. It danced in and out for most of the morning and reminded me entirely of the moors of England. Real Wuthering Heights quality fog. I hope I always remember getting up that morning, feet cold despite my thick socks, and treading into the kitchen to see my mom out on the porch. Her back was to me, and she was leaning against the railing, head tilted back, exposing her neck to the heavy gray fog waiting in the gully beyond her.
When it had cleared enough we hiked up to the lookout over Zion's. It's still early in the season, so there were only spotted yellow patches, but the mountain in the heat of fall is a lovely buttery yellow thanks to all the aspens. Gosh, this place fills my heart.
Perfect; now you're primed for the gratuitous and excessive pictures of the two of us/foliage shots!! All the most important parts of a story.
Love you long time, Momma.
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