Over the course of my life, I’ve lived in various settings that are considered mountainous. I grew up in northcentral West Virginia, part of the Appalachian Mountains. The Appalachians are ancient and erosion over time has produced a more rolling topography.

Living in Alaska for nearly five years introduced me to different mountains – geologically younger and, to my eyes, more spectacular.

I lived in Anchorage just shy of two years in the mid-1970s, where my home looked out on the Chugach Mountains. I found the northern sunsets enchanting in winter, when the setting sun’s extended alpenglow bathed the snowy slopes in mauves and gold.

Readers of my blog will know about my love of mountains. But today I want to write about two different times when I’ve lived in close, intimate proximity to a mountain. In both cases I’ve observed these peaks over seasons and years, and they became a part of my daily life.

The first instance came when I lived on Kodiak Island, Alaska, from 1969 to 1972. My husband was then a US Navy flight surgeon, assigned to the base hospital on the US Coast Guard Air Station. We lived in base housing and our kitchen window looked out on Barometer Mountain. Every pilot, military or civilian, who landed a plane on Kodiak knew this mountain intimately, since the runway ended literally at the foot of Barometer.

The mountain’s name was apt – a glance out the window gave me a sense of the weather. We frequently had inclement weather as Kodiak Island sits in the Gulf of Alaska. I would note where the cloud ceiling was on the mountain, or how clearly I could see the lower slopes under the ceiling. I then chose my outerwear accordingly.  

Kodiak was subject to active weather patterns, which often meant clouds moving through without precipitation. Sunsets at those times were often stunningly beautiful.

We left Kodiak when my husband’s military duty ended. For two decades I didn’t live with mountains nearby except for our two years in Anchorage.  I made my home in New Hampshire for thirteen years before moving to Vermont. By then, my marriage had ended, my children were grown, and I was looking for change.

A new relationship drew me to the Green Mountain state. After living in yet another suburban area for two years, we began searching for a location that offered more immediate outdoor opportunities. I responded to an ad for property within the boundary of the Green Mountain National Forest. Liking what I heard from the real estate agent, I decided to see the property for myself.

The town of Lincoln is what Vermonters call a “hill town” – located a bit off the beaten trail at a higher elevation. Formerly home to small dairy farms, the town nestles in a valley at the foot of the north-south-trending Green Mountains. Overlooking the town is Mount Abraham, named not after our sixteenth president but a Revolutionary War general, Benjamin Lincoln. Mount Abe (as locals call it) is the state’s fifth highest mountain.

As I followed the directions to the property for sale, I kept driving up in elevation and closer to the mountain. The narrow dirt road flattened out about two miles from the village center. After glimpses of Mount Abe for the last mile, I rounded a bend to an unobscured view of the mountain rising up before me. Off to the side was a small house, but I took no notice. My gaze rose up unobstructed to the peak, still white from an early spring snow.

I think I made my decision at that moment: this is where I want to live. I thought about the cross-country skiing, the snowshoeing opportunities in the winter, the summer hiking, the proximity to the mountain.

While I don’t have that unobstructed view of Mount Abe from my house, I could if I wanted to clear all the trees. I’ve cleared enough to have a summer peek-a-boo view. I can see the mountain through the trees in winter, and it’s only a three-minute walk to the spot that captured me.

Like Barometer on Kodiak, Mount Abe provides me with a reading on the weather and gorgeous sunset colors. Only recently did I realize the mountain outside my window in Lincoln is about the same elevation as the higher Kodiak peaks. Is that why I’ve lived here, contented, for three decades?

Just last week, Mount Abe presented a cloak of sunset colors I’ve not seen in the three decades I’ve made this my home. Sadly, I was in my car, heading home, without my cellphone. The sun was close to setting, often the point of maximum colors, and the mountain had three bands of horizontal coloration. The lower band was an intense reddish-orange; above that a mid-elevation band of bluish-gray overlaying the conifers; and then the snowy peak, a brilliant white in the setting sun.

I was home five minutes later but the patriotic colors were gone along with the sun. But they remain yet in my memory, a celebration of this mountain’s winter beauty.