My cousin challenged us to post something positive on Facebook this week, so I posted a photo I took many years ago of Swasey Basin in Utah:
I went backpacking here with a group of young women from church and the Bishopric. My dad was a member of the Bishopric at the time, so I got to spend a week hiking with him. The lake water was fresh off the glacier and freezing to swim in. Burke Peterson built us an amazing hot shower out of a milk jug and a tiny machined showerhead. He also managed to contrive pineapple upside-down cake over the fire, in a dutch oven. The stars were astounding. The campfire smoke always seemed to follow me no matter where I sat. And at one point the Bishopric lost their minds, rolling boulders downhill and whooping it up like ten-year-olds.
Above and around all of those fun memories is the beauty itself, permeating everything. Mountains have always called to me. There's something about their particular beauty that I find glorious, and the only fault I can find with where I currently live is that it isn't mountainous. When I go home to Utah, I go into my parents' backyard and greet Mount Timpanogos as if it were a family member, long unseen. I've missed you. How have you been? I wish I could take you home with me.
I've been to a lot of lovely places, from the smooth rolling green of Wales to the caramel beach of Makaha, Oahu and the curling white waves and rugged rocks of Lake Superior, but nothing touches my heart the way Utah's mountains do.