The mountain to the west of us has this little bald spot that it tries to cover up with trees and their leaves every year. But when the sky is just right you can see that it really is a massive rock at the edge of it's range.
I like that it has a little bald spot. It's the part of them that says - I am a mountain, not just a little hill.
It tells me of all of the storms that pass over it, keeping any topsoil and plants from staying there long enough to soften up it's profile.
This is a mountain that 'has our back', so to speak. If a front comes in from the west looking to hammer our valley, this is the mountain that is going to stop it - or at least soften the blow.
It's bald spot shows the hits it takes so that we don't have to. I can't imagine just how miserable some winters would be if we didn't have these guys taking the main hit when the storms come through.
But then it cares enough about its' appearance to spruce up a bit each Spring - like putting on its' 'going to meeting' clothes.
This mountain is the guy who presses his trousers and combs his hair. He has a long hard day and a tough job to do, but he wants to look his best even when he is just meeting me at the train station.
He's a nice guy and I appreciate the job he does. Bald spot and all.
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