John Muir, the great American naturalist, heard voices. “The mountains are calling,” he said, ”and I must go.”
Merle Haggard had a name for that calling, that yearning to be off and outward bound. He called it “White line Fever”, and said it was a’ sickness born deep within his soul.’
The mountains are calling us as well. They have names; The Bitterroot, The Beartooth, the Absaroka and the Rattlesnake. And who can ignore the mighty Tetons? They are all calling like a siren that must be answered.
Mary and I have been in 49 of the 50 states, leaving Alaska to the imagination, and in the process we have contracted that fever that Merle had. It never leaves one; it always calls.
Summer is coming, and the call is growing louder now. Its been a few years since we last tried to calm the burning. I feel like we may have to take one more dose of highway to quench that eternal longing. We have not seen the Columbia River. Mary has not seen the Oregon coastline. And Montana, sweet Montana is beckoning again.
(The miles), Merle said, “continue to remind (me) how fast I’m growin’ old
Guess I’ll die with this fever in my soul”.
If you plan on visiting us this summer, better call before you come. We might, just might, not be home.
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