As I have been adjusting to "real" life again, living far, far away from the mountains of the West, I often take time to remember what it felt like to be immersed in the quiescence and beauty of the alpine landscape.  For me, it is the finest place in which to be.  Unfortunately, however, I cannot be in it all the time.  Many of us, I suspect, are no different.  We often would like to be somewhere other than where we are now.
     But we are not.  I once read a book by Gaston Rebuffat, one of the most famous, in his day, mountain guide in the Alps.  Rebuffat writes eloquently of his affection for the heights and his love for all things remote and wild.  He offers some poignant thoughts and insights into living life with mountains, and not.
     As he closes his book, Rebuffat writes, "It is raining in Paris, and I am dreaming of high hills."  He cannot wait to get back to his beloved mountains.  He knows that in the mountains he--we--encounter a deeper awareness of life, an awareness that seems to break into the ethereal and transcendent, that we cannot experience in the land below. He realizes, as did the famous American naturalist John Muir, that a day in the mountains, treading in the light of their heights, is like a day that we would have nowhere else.
     It is this sense of transcendence, this feeling of lilting and otherworldly beauty that draws people, including me, to the mountains.  The mountains, the lofty landscapes of tundra and rock that roam about the planet, speak to us powerfully about the promise of our human condition.  There is always more to know, there is always more to find.  We dream of better and higher things.
     So do we need God to experience this transcendence?  Let's consider that, yes, mountains are remarkable and amazing, but if they are our only source of transcendence, we miss the point of what transcendence is all about.  It cannot be real unless God is, too.