The last two days, I had the chance to stare out my rental car windshield at the mountain ranges surrounding Las Vegas and plan my future. I’m going to climb those mountains.
Las Vegas is a dirty, disintegrating, neon-clad city in the middle of the Mojave desert. Every 100 feet, you’ll see a gaudy billboard with advertisements for the latest music artists, fights, magicians, or specialty shows premiering at any of the 60 or so casinos and ritzy hotels. When Nicolas Cage isn’t putting aged singers in headlocks, the city is known for big spenders flying in on fancy planes and dropping half a million dollars in a single weekend in an ill-advised poker game, Elvis impersonators, and somehow being an American icon while still existing out in the middle of the desert. Yet, only a few miles outside the city borders, enormous mountain ranges fill the horizon with jagged landscapes and looming peaks. For all the glitz of the city streets, I’m finding myself drawn to the towering masses of rock and stone.
Should I translate my desire to hike up intense inclines as deeper meaning into my own life goals? Maybe I can turn it into a metaphor for troubled times and perseverance. Honestly, I’d rather just lace up my boots and start walking. It’s easier than reading into it.
Mountain: I will find you, and I will climb you.
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