sure. wait. what?

ONE OF the things I like about my city is its proximity to the mountains. I am no mountaineer, but the idea of having the majestic mountains right in my backyard is enough to grant me solace.

In this city, almost everyone and their mothers are outdoorsy. People’s dating profiles almost always include at least one photo of them wearing full hiking gear, standing in between the towering yellow larches with snow-capped mountains in the background. This schtick is ubiquitous enough that other people poke fun at it by stating on their bios that no, they absolutely do not enjoy hiking or skiing or biking, and you better not ask why.

I, too, am not big on the outdoors. I go to an indoor climbing gym, and I hike only when I get invited by friends who are lot more athletic than I am. (On a scale of 0 to Hidilyn Diaz, I’m a negative 22). I rarely visit the towns close to the mountains either. I guess it’s easy to take for granted the closeness of the mountains knowing that they’re stationary. They’re mountains. They’re not going anywhere.

It’s been a while since I went to the mountains, so when L asked me to join him on a day trip to a nearby tourist town last summer, I said yes without question. We didn’t hike up, but we visited the town that sits right by the mountains’ feet.

The plan was to go scootering around downtown, check out the gift shops, and buy my favorite strawberry tea. We did all of the above, and then some. We went to a home goods store with an entire wall covered in music posters. I tried black cherry soda and Beaver Tails for the first time. I ate good vegetarian pizza (artichokes are chef’s kiss!).

Looking at the mountains, its curves and edges etched on the cerulean sky, I felt an odd sense of intimacy despite the altitude, despite the literal distance between me and them. I felt calmness. I felt peace. It might be the rarity of this moment that triggered such feelings. At the end of the day, I am still not an outdoors person.

I used to want to be a granola girl so bad — I wanted to be the type who climbs outdoors, who skis and snowboards in the winter, who trail-runs for fun — but the fantasy outweighed any willingness to actually do the work. There was a disconnect between thought and action. I enjoyed the comforts of my couch way more than I was willing to use a bear spray.

For now, it’s enough to know that the mountains are just there, sitting together in a silent assembly, watching over my city, watching over me.