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The Mountains of the Night

by Bruce Taylor

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"The worst of madness is to learn what has to be unlearnt." -- Erasmus, 1514

"Oedipus , your mother wants you--"
-- College humor, circa 1969

 

The Mountains of the Night exist in perpetual darkness on the planet. They are in the twilight of Pluto, the other side of midnight, the landscape of your blackest fears. When you find them, as we all must find them, you have only two choices: to travel them or decline. One choice leads to the Intolerable Death of Spirit, the other leads to death as well -- for ultimately, that is where life leads -- but death with Grace and Nobility. When you find these mountains, the trails lead you to the Cliffs of Despair, The Forest of Fear, the icy, slippery Summits of Harsh Memories: failed relationships, missed opportunities, self-doubts, illness, loss. Formidable mountains. Mount Rainier? Nothing. Mount Everest? Simple. The Mountains of the Night?

Treacherous. Oh, God, so treacherous.

Yet, to ever fully know, to ever fully embrace whom we really are, to ever come to know that truth, that light, burning, burning, bright, we must travel those Mountains-- of the Night.

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Dedications

It is with great pride that I dedicate this book to the following individuals:

To the memory of the great Secretary of the Interior, Harold Ickes, under whose leadership, in 1937, "...a National Park Service study team proposed a 3,000,000-acre Ice Peaks National Park, extending from the Canadian border to Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Adams, including large chunks of the Alpine Lakes Country, a park which, in the words of the team, 'would outrank any other park in the United States... or any future possibility for such a park.'"*

Little did anyone know then that the U.S. Forest Service would become the undoing of such a plan and would become Mr. Ickes' Mountains of the Night as well. Neither did anyone at that time foresee Global Warming in the 1990s; it is heartbreaking to see What Might Have Been, not only in terms of what would have been a magnificent park, but all the snow and ice that makes the Cascades as majestic and as wild as they are could well be melted, gone, within our lifetimes.

To Todd Christoffel who has hiked with me on many a trail in the Mountains of the Day: the Sierras, Olympics, Cascades. Whether we be scorched, soaked, bug-chewed or snowed upon, we kept on hiking through such difficulties to stay for a while, just a little while, in the Magic of Wild Places. Also thanks to Mike Munro, his son Daniel, Brian Herbert, Dick Reuther, Bill Smith and his son, Matt.

To Morley, Austin Anton, Steve Riggens and hypnotherapist Charles Tebbetts and the fascinating study and power of hypnosis and EMDR for helping me explore my Mountains of the Night.

To naturopaths, acupuncturists and the fine work they do: particular thanks to the work of Richard Brightheart, Keith Halperin and NAET for eliminating my allergies and vastly enhancing my health.

*The Alpine Lakes, 1971, The Mountaineers, Seattle, WA, page 109.

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Initial Earthquake

One of the ancient psychogeologic forces foreshadowing the birth of the Mountains of the Night.

June, 1993

I sat stunned in the chair. Dr. Antonio Roggen had just completed a session of a new counseling therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization Reprocessing, which he was evaluating in terms of its effectiveness. He had asked me about my paternal grandmother, her hostility and her violence. Then he moved his fingers left to right across my visual field, forcing my eyes to move farther than they naturally would. Suddenly, I saw it. Instantly, I felt a burning on my face where my grandmother had slapped me forty-four years ago. I was two years old again, slapped so hard that I went flying across the room.

From feeling stunned, I went into shock, then the tears. "Oh, my God, I whispered, "more of the puzzle. I equate feeling good and getting what I want not only with my mother leaving me and my father's anger--"

Antonio nodded slowly, "but with being hit. You never knew that before, did you?"

I shook my head. "Not about being hit. No."

Antonio sighed. "And you wonder why you've struggled with feeling OK about yourself, about going ahead in life?"

I leaned over in the chair, hands to my face.

Antonio, softly, "What on earth could a child, age two, possibly do to deserve being hit?"

I whispered, "My crime? All I wanted was another Shredded Wheat Biscuit..."

And I wept.

 

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