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when you find yourself standing at the small clear pond at the very base of the mountain. The peaks circle the pond, so you find yourself standing, like a small child, at the very foot of this monster. I begged it to let me enjoy the ride without a storm or accident. Standing at the edge of the pond, and gazing up at the section of the mountain called "knife's edge", I closed my eyes and whispered questions about my life to the wind. In return, I heard an eagle in the distance. We were ready to start our climb.

I was rewarded, during this climb, with a twisted ankle at the very start. But we continued on I didn't think it was that bad. By the time we made it to Pamola Peak, I wished I'd never come. The climb up the boulders took many hours, and my ankle began to swell. As we gazed off into the distance from Pamola Peak, I smiled the weather was stunningly clear. Then I turned and glanced at the path before us a nail-biting walk across knife's edge, and then a long jagged hike the rest of the way up to the one-mile high Baxter Peak. If I could have jumped back to the bottom and survived I would have. But there was no turning back so we continued onand I was beginning to limp.

Many hours later, as the day was approaching dusk, we finally reached Baxter peak. My brother-in-law and I took pictures of each other triumphantly at small rock pile at the top. Then we sat quietly apart and ate our supper. As I nibbled on the canned ham I gazed at the clouds that floated by within reach. Then I looked down at the pond far below and the river beyond. My eyes traced the rolling hills of central Maine, interspersed with jagged peaks of mountains in the distance. Small white blotches of tiny towns, but otherwise I could have convinced myself that the few folks on the mountain top on this day were the only people left in the entire world. The earth was nothing but green and bluethe sky above the brightest blue I've ever seen in my life.

I closed my eyes and allowed the mountain air to brush across my flushed face. When I opened them again there was a birdI don't know what kind except that I thought it was much too tiny to be capable of flying this high. Yet there it was in front of me, hovering above a cliff that dropped thousands of feet. Then it dropped and dove for some trees further down the cliff and to the left. I smiledbecause my questions had been answered.

Only mountains can answer questions of the soul like who we are, and from that, what our passions are. This is where the Penobscot Indians roamed surely this Mountain held a place in their heart. It would forever hold a place in minejust as every mountain does.

The answer to the question how does one find their true passion? My answer is simple hike a mountain, be kind to it and respect it and it will answer that question for you. Or better yet it will help you discover the answer for yourself.

Learn more about this author, Ryan Dube.
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