Y Mountain

"Why is there a Y on that mountain?" the girls asked as we drove into Provo.

"It stands for "BYU," I explained.

"Oh."
"But why is it on the mountain?" they persisted.

"I guess because it gives the freshmen students somewhere to hike." I couldn't think of a better reason.

"Oh."
"Can we go there?"

The last morning of our Utah trip, the girls and I parked the rental car at the new-to-me Y parking lot (very nice). We ambled our way up the mountain just as the morning sun was squeaking over the top.

We held hands.
The air was thin and cool.
We took frequent water breaks.

I thought of the many times I'd hiked to the Y while I was a student, and marveled at how much time has passed. If only my 19/20 year-old self could have had a glimpse into the future to see my life now. Perhaps I would have hiked, way back then, with a little more lightness of step, a little more gratitude, a little more joy. As I remember it, I often went to Y mountain with the weight of the world on my shoulders.

And here I was, walking with two of my daughters. Laughing. Encouraging each other.

Then just when the girls were out of breath and the water bottles were empty, we arrived. At the Y. Madi scrambled up the white-washed cement like a mountain goat while Leasie and I took the extra switch-back trail so we could sit together on the tippy-top.

Ah the view - the buildings, roads, and expansive lake spread out before us miniaturized from our high perch. The city looked like it was a model under a glass case in a museum, the cars just matchbox toys.

As we sat side by side, the sun rolled over the mountain top until its rays rested on our shoulders and warmed our backs.

All is well.