MYSTERY ON THE MOUNTAIN
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| Sugarloaf Mountain stands like a sentinel, on the
south rim of the valley of Little River. A strange and mysterious place,
the old mountain, with its
curious red rock formations and timeless old Oak trees, and the view of familiar
places, so far away. It is all at once lonely,
magical, beautiful and mysterious. The mystery is not frightening, but
enchanting and seems only to deepen with Spring and the coming of new leaves on the
trees. If the old mountain could speak, it would recount
legends of Indian scouts keeping
watch from its prominence; of Indian Maidens
fashioning beads from its rocky outcroppings; their Shamen, climbing to
the summit for religious ceremony; of Spanish Soldiers and Priests making their way
to East Texas missions, scaling its heights to survey the valley below
and leaving crosses carved on
some massive Oak trees; of outlaws and pioneer hunters who visited it’s lofty
summit and took shelter in a secluded cave;
of a gnarled old Oak, rooted in the mother rock and bearing acorns said to be half rock; of lovers
seeking the seclusion of it’s clefts.
Some say treasure is buried here, but even more precious is the bounty
of beauty and mystery, and the unfolding of nature. In Summer beneath blue sky and puffy white clouds,
the heat and stillness are often
oppressive. The mountain is home to birds
and insects that send out their calls, penetrating the leafy
solitude, but the mystery remains. In Autumn, with the falling of the leaves, it
seems the mystery is close
to being revealed, but it is not so, for fast on the heels of Autumn comes Winter. Now gray clouds
cover the sky, only the cold wind
whispers through the bare branches of the trees. It reveals nothing! Winter will give way to Spring and soon young
leaves will come forth once more,
deepening the mystery, and so it persists, just as it has, perhaps since the Earth was
new. Copyright: Robert L.
Gaston, February 1987 |