The Name of the Mountain

Rombon. 

It is a name, one of many I am called by. One that you can pronounce and understand. I go by many other names, but most of them cannot be spoken by a human. Names that describe what I am, names that tell my story, names that sing my song.

You’ve heard my true name before, I’m sure, as I sing it endlessly. It is like a whisper if you can listen to it, which speaks of my true nature. It comes with the wind, bearing scents and memories of my life. It can be heard echoing in the deep dark valleys, those forgotten by the world, where mystery roams free. It can be heard in the cacophony of thunder, crashing upon my face, and the rumble of boulders, running down my limbs.

My song can be subtle at times, as still as a bird, soaring on the rising warm air, or as gentle as a flower, bathing in the sun. If you listen, you can hear my song there too. It rises and falls, shifts, and changes with the passing of clouds and time.

What am I, you ask? What is my meaning, my purpose, my significance? My name, though it is one given to me by man, does not tell you what I am. I am many things, you see, encompassing much, yet I stand alone, individual, if looked at from afar. Look too far though, and I disappear in the environment, becoming but a smaller part of a larger whole - just like I am a larger whole, made of many smaller parts when looked at closer.

My roots are deep and they are fire, my core is lasting and it is stone. My head is air, rain, and sun - I am made from all the elements. There is much more to me than meets the eye, much deeper is my truth than what you can see up above.

Some of you call me majestic. Grand, tall, ancient, eternal, unmoving, timeless. 

Deadly. Hostile. Unforgiving. 

Even cruel. 

I am all of those and much more. I wear many faces and many skins, and you cannot say you know me when you’ve only experienced one or two. Every season I change my skin and every day I am a little different than the day before. A little taller, a little shorter. I grow and I collapse, never resting still, though you do not see my movements.

I am home for many things; trees, birds, insects, rabbits, bears, wolves, deer… even humans. Many live and die upon my body, the cycle of life a never-ending show that I get to watch on full display, right before my eyes. I am the birthplace of many storms and a barrier to those blown my way on the winds.

Countless plants and animals have made my skin their home, some even prying into my flesh, seeking shelter. I accept them all, I nourish them all. Humans have made their homes upon my feet as well, though they are much timider of my never resting body. They take great care to where they put their houses, not wanting my rocks to destroy them. They think I am angry at them when I do that. But that is not the case. I am merely old, my body torn and fractured form the incredible forces that gave birth to me so long ago. 

I can still remember it. I remember every moment of my thousands of millennium's long existence.

I did not begin life as grand as I am today. No, once, I was nothing more than a dream, an idea in Gaia’s primordial mind. She thought me up and she liked the idea of me. So I started my life at the bottom of the sea. Yes, quite the opposite of what I am today, don’t you think? 

My birth was made possible by the death of trillions upon trillions. Literally, a sea of death, just so that one could live. The deaths I speak of can be found recorded in my bones to this day - I keep a detailed record of everything that has ever happened. Trillions of tiny sea organisms died, their bodies falling to the bottom of the sea where they gathered in a kind of calcareous mud. Their soft flesh decayed, leaving only tiny shells behind, as hard as stone. Those shells piled up, layer upon layer, building up pressure and forming a calcareous ooze that would once become limestone - my flesh and bones.

For millions of years, these creatures lived and died in the sea. Their shells gathered at the bottom. I went from an idea to substance, a malleable potential waiting for a strong enough force to build me into something glorious.

And sure enough, that force came. You call it tectonics and it is one of the tools Gaia likes to use in creating her art - the one she used to mold me. The calcareous ooze that hardened into limestone was pushed upwards and I emerged from the sea, my head popping up to fresh air for the first time. You can imagine how excited I was.

This did not happen instantly, no. Time runs so fast for you humans, but it goes much slower for me. What I would see as a day in my life, you would see as centuries. If not millennia. 

It took millions of years for me to rise, pushed up by that marvelous engine that drives this world, the one whose surface my feet dip into. As I rose, Gaia used her other tools to start shaping me into my distinct stature. She used her tectonics to slice me up with fault lines and cracks. She used her water to adorn me in ice, snow, and rain, chiseling off parts of my body with glaciers, like a sculptor chisels a block of stone into a statue. Gaia worked with precision and care, making sure I would become as beautiful and breathtaking as possible. I can remember her saying that she couldn’t wait to see the faces of humans, her forthcoming children when they would place their eyes on me. And surely, she used every tool and force at her disposal to craft me into the mountain I am today. And to this day, she still continues her work.

Gaia was right, as she always is. When humans first laid their eyes on me, they marveled with awe. They saw me as insurmountable, immortal, and powerful, as a god. 

Of course, they depended on me for their survival; I held water for them in my snow-covered head and shoulders, saving it for summer days, and releasing it as fresh snowmelt. They looked up to me for lumber, stone, hay, food, they sent their animals to graze on my pastures, sent their workers to cut and dig at my skin, collecting resources, sent their hunters to catch the deer running over my limbs.

The humans, when they lost some of their primal fear, even climbed up to my very summit. I can still remember how proud they were of this and how happy their faces were as they appreciated the view my tallness could provide. I get to see that view every day, but they do not, and their impermanence made them appreciate it that much more.

Ah, humans…

They climb at my slopes and scale at my limbs, efforting to reach my peak, only so they could feel the experience of being at the top for a brief time, before having to go back down. My environment is hostile to them, my rule is unyielding. Though I may be merciful and bountiful at times, none can survive up there with me for long. Sooner or later, they all go down.

And never did more of them go down than during an era of war. From my perspective, it happened very recently, barely longer than a blink of an eye. It was a little over a hundred years ago. Man, such a youngling, a newcomer to this world, came to wage war on my slopes. 

My green ridges turned into barren fields of rubble, the consequence of bombardment and explosions. Men cut my slopes with new roads, carved shelters, and bunkers into my bones. They turned my upper slopes into a human anthill, living in the rocks, freezing in the snow. 

While one side defended my summit, the other wanted to conquer it. Men killed each other in front of my eyes. I watched their blood seep into the cracks of my ancient body, stored, remembered, becoming part of me. Many of their corpses have long decayed now, left buried under the rubble or snow - now they are all part of me. 

The time of war was brief, and even though I am constantly surrounded by death - as well as new life - the death of humans killing each other left a mark that runs deeper than any bomb they threw or any trench they dug. Those things are merely superficial and will all erode before I blink twice, but the hate will remain to haunt me for eons. I am composed of trillions of bodies of sea organisms, yet none of those died from hate. The few hundred humans whose bones wither on my slopes have shaken me to the core.

I am grateful to see humans have come to peace with each other now. Today, they ascend my slopes as friends, adventurers, sharing together the love for beauty, and appreciating Gaia’s art. I like it when they come to visit me. I like seeing their hearts and souls as they contemplate their brief existence, staring at my eternal self. Though I'm far from eternal, compared to them, I could be.

I am grateful the humans gave me a name. Though I do not know what it means - if it means anything at all - I like having it and am flattered by it. And even if it fails to speak of my true self, even if it doesn’t resemble my song in any way, it is a name I was given out of admiration and respect. Not all my brothers and sisters have been named by humans, and I am lucky to be one that has.

Rombon.

And in return, I give names to everyone that comes to visit me, be it a hiker that climbs to my very top or a shepherd that walks my lower slopes. The names I give come in the shapes of answers; every human that ever set foot upon me has had at least one question, burning in their hearts and minds, whether they knew it or not. 

And I make sure that those who visit receive that answer. Some immediately, some after a while. Time, you see, is a thing I take loosely. But answers I always give, no matter where you are. Just like all mountains are connected to a single whole deep underground, so can we share a bond that is not bound by space or time.

Do you have a burning question?

Perhaps I can give you a name that will answer it. All you have to do is come to me and present yourself. Tell me your name as I have told you mine, and I will tell you what you need to know.

I’ll be here, waiting, as I have been for millions of years.

And as I will for millions to come.