Sometimes the Mountains Are the Only Ones Who Understand. A personal story of longing, presence, and what the path teaches me

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There are journeys I plan. And there are journeys that seem to plan me — quietly calling from beyond the noise of everyday life.

For me, the mountains belong to the second kind.

No notification tells me it is time to go. No calendar insists.

But one day — sometimes without warning — a quiet voice rises within:

Walk. Go. Leave the streets behind. Seek the high places. Remember who you are.

And when I listen — when I lace my boots and take the first step — the mountains meet me more fully than I expect.

A longing as old as we are

I know this longing is not mine alone. It is a longing written into the story of who we are.

Once, mountains were feared. The ancient Greeks saw Mount Olympus as the realm of the gods. In medieval Europe, peaks were shrouded in legends — of dragons, of spirits, of storms. But that changed.

In the 14th century, Petrarch climbed Mont Ventoux "for the view" — simply because the mountain called to him. Afterward, he wrote:"We look about us for that which we carry within us."

I often feel this. The longing I feel before a walk is not just a longing for landscape. It is a longing for something in me — something I know the mountains can help me touch.

The Romantic poets knew this too.

"In wildness is the preservation of the world," wrote Thoreau."Climb the mountains and get their good tidings," said John Muir.

And when I read those words, they echo what I feel when I walk.

I am walking not only through the land — but through time, through a human hunger for clarity, wonder, and deep belonging.

How the walk begins

When I pack my bag, lace my boots, and take those first steps, I rarely feel light.

I start with a restless mind — full of thoughts, lists, fragments of conversation.

But I trust the trail. I know it will do its work.

Step by step, something shifts. The chatter softens. Breath deepens.

"I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown," wrote John Muir. "For going out, I found, was really going in."

And that is exactly how it feels for me.

After an hour or so, there is only this: step — breath — earth — sky.

I am no longer walking to reach a place. I am walking to be here.

And already, I begin to remember: I am part of this, not apart from it.

What the trail teaches me

Every mountain path teaches me something.

Patience — because I cannot rush the climb.

Humility — because strength alone will not carry me.

Trust — because sometimes the fog wraps the trail, and I must walk on anyway.

I think often of the Tibetan kora — pilgrims walking sacred mountain circuits not to reach a goal, but to transform themselves through the walk.

And of the yamabushi monks in Japan, who walk ancient trails not to conquer peaks, but to be transformed by the path itself.

"If one really wants to experience a different perspective, one should walk," 

wrote Werner Herzog.

I feel this deeply.

And often, when a shaft of sunlight falls through the trees, or when a distant ridge appears through the clouds — I feel something wordless rise in me: gratitude.

And now I know: science supports this.

Research on "awe walks" shows that walking slowly, mindfully in nature reduces anxiety, increases connection, and fosters a deep sense of well-being.

I do not walk the mountains to "get somewhere."I walk them because they teach me how to be.

The philosophy of walking —

and the silence I seek

"Walking is not a sport," writes Frédéric Gros. "It is the best way to go more slowly than any other method that has ever been found. To be slowed down is to become present."

This is why I walk. Step by step, I return to a rhythm older than any modern life.

In these moments, walking becomes an embodied meditation.

I feel it in my body:

• the pull of gravity

• the shift of weight with each step

• the breath syncing with the rhythm of my stride

And then — the silence.

As I climb higher, noise fades. The hum of life disappears.

What remains is a deeper kind of presence:

• the sound of wind across stone

• the rhythm of breath

• the occasional bird call

• 
  

"Silence is not the absence of sound, but the presence of everything," wrote Nan Shepherd.

And in this space, the mountain often gives me gifts: clarity, insight, or simply a deep, peaceful kind of knowing.

"When you walk in silence, the mountain speaks," says an old Zen saying.

And it is true. Some truths can only be heard when I walk in silence beneath an open sky.

The summit — and what stays with me

Reaching the summit is a joy.

But the true gift is not standing at the top. It is what happens along the way.

At the summit, I feel this. I remember: I am breath. I am being. I am presence.

And that is enough.

This is not an achievement. It is a remembering.

What I carry down

Coming down, I feel lighter — not because gravity pulls me, but because the mountains loosen something inside me.

I see more clearly. I greet others on the path with softer eyes. I am less hurried.

The world seems softer, life simpler. And I carry the mountain within me for days, sometimes weeks.

Why I will always walk again

I know I will always return.

Because the mountains give me something I cannot find anywhere else:

• Awe — dissolving ego, opening connection.

• Mindful walking — teaching presence, step by step.

• Gratitude and humility — the true roots of well-being.

• Silence — which reveals more than words ever can.

• Embodiment — a return to living through breath and movement, not just thought.

"Mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambition to achieve," wrote Reinhold Messner. "They are cathedrals, where I practice my religion."

For me, they are cathedrals too. And I will walk them again and again.

Not to escape life.But to meet it — more fully, more gently, more truly — with every step.

If this call lives in you too — listen. The mountains wait not to be conquered, but to walk with you. One step, one breath, one timeless journey.

If something stirred inside you…

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