Mountain ridges and manmade towers

 

Today Meg and I hiked to the top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest.  (Meg is my dog.)  The climb was steep, at times forcing me to mimic Meg… all fours.  In the end we made our way up and up until finally, we were at the top. 

The view from the top is incredible.  I’ve always been fascinated by trees and from here I can see an ocean of them; red oaks, white pines, silver maples.  Trees are the kings and queens of the mountains.  With laurel at their feet (attendants in waiting) the trees line the ridges and stretch upward, proud rulers of the highlands. 

As I looked out across the valleys to opposing peaks my eyes were drawn higher to the clouds just above those peaks, patting them on the head like little children as they passed by.  They were the remnants of a front that passed through last night dumping a couple inches of rain, swelling creaks and washing out roads.  They were traveling fast, as if trying to catch up with their brother and sister clouds out ahead of them.

At the top of this particular ridge stood an electrical tower, a great pyramid of angle iron, bolts and brackets.  Leaning against a bottom brace I wondered out loud how in the world those linemen managed to get the necessary tools and materials to this remote location.  Meg offered no plausible explanation. 

Yet, in the shadow of a great human achievement of cold steel and bare wires, I couldn’t help but notice how insignificant and ugly it was.  Standing on that ridge, that tower and others like it, formed a great electrical highway through the Blue Ridge Mountains.  But alongside those blue mountains the towers were overwhelmingly unimpressive. 

In college I took Geology 101.  So I know a little bit about tectonic plates shifting, butting into one another like bulls trying to lay claim to territory.  Over millions of years this heated debate resulted in the great upheaval of rock and earth we call mountain ranges.  I’ve been told that this one, the one my ancestors called home, has actually been eroding for quite some time. 

So I know just a little bit about the science behind the mountains.  And I know just a little bit about the engineering behind the towers.  (To borrow a saying from one of my mountaineer friends, you can take all I know about either of those subjects, put it in a thimble and it will roll around like a BB in a boxcar.)  Still, when I’m standing on one of those mountains I feel something that college geology can’t explain.  One word for it is “awe.”  I’m impressed by the tower and the engineers who put it there.  But I’m in awe of the mountains and the creator who put them here.

Standing on the top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest I lean against a manmade tower and worship the one who made man and mountains.  I worship the one who created the brains that can create towers and skyscrapers and I worship the one who created beauty that eclipses the best those brains can imagine.

Standing on top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest I worship the same one that an ancient Jewish poet worshiped when he wrote, “O Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.  Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.”  (Psalm 90:1-3)