All my life I’ve been surrounded by vast mountains rolling across the terrain like land waves frozen in time. I used to think they held me in like some sort of fortress, keeping the outside world from invading the small town I grew up in, and keeping me from engaging the ever-growing world outside. Sure, I would occasionally venture out with my family to the flatter parts surrounding the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, but the hills were where I always came back to. It’s a unique experience that I haven’t had anyone relate to other than those I grew up with, and I used to feel confined by their monolithic presence.
The first time I ever truly experienced different terrain was in ninth grade. The entire high school chorus was packed onto a large tour bus en route to Disney World, which was a lengthy nine hour drive from northeast Georgia to Orlando, Florida. At some point on the journey, I fell asleep curled up against the cold window pane of the bus that gently rocked back and forth as it sped down the interstate all through the evening and night. Then suddenly it was about nine o’clock in the morning, and I was blearily blinking my sleep-heavy eyes open and seeing out into the flattest land I had ever seen. Not one hill in sight. Not even buildings, really. We were somewhere along the interstate that was nothing but hot asphalt and flat earth. I looked up at the vibrant blue sky and blanched at the discovery that I could see it for miles, unobstructed by the mountains I was so used to. My mind thought back to a perfectly fitting passage from the book "Eragon" that I had never really understood until that moment:
“It unnerved Eragon how flat everything was; the plains were unbroken by hummocks or mounds. He had lived his entire life surrounded by mountains and hills. Without them he felt exposed and vulnerable, like a mouse under an eagle’s keen eye.”
I similarly felt very small and very exposed. I also felt very silly to have such emotions, but the big expanse of horizon unbroken by nary a hill made me feel like I was suddenly the size of an ant.
Of course, the feeling dwindled as we arrived at Disney World and spent our time running about like kids in a 1,100 acre candy store. I think I rode The Tower of Terror eight times on that trip, even though my knees wobbled so hard the first time I got off the ride that I could barely walk out of the gift shop. I did not think about that feeling again until after high school, when I decided to go to Valdosta State University in south Georgia. The drive to and from home used to be a jarring six hours of mountains to flat land, but now it doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I’ve become accustomed to the view of fields of cotton and tobacco that greet me on my way to south Georgia and the added pull of gravity that I swore up and down I felt when I resided in the lower altitude my freshman year.
It was, of course, my time spent at VSU that fostered a new and fonder feeling for the mountains that I thought once held me prisoner. There is one specific moment along the drive home where I round a corner and suddenly, the beautiful sight of blue mountain ridges peek over from the top of the horizon. It's my favorite part of the drive home. It feels like a welcome, and when I finally drive into my hometown, the giant mounds feel more like an embrace rather than a fortress. I'm sure many feel the same way about their homes after going away to school, but this feeling runs deep within me and has not changed since the first time I drove home after months of being away at school.
My sense of adventure is about as large as Bilbo Baggins’, but like his cozy Hobbit hole in the Shire, no matter where I go, my heart is always in the mountains of home. They are calling me, and I must go.
