In the bus I realise I have been suffering from mountain hunger for a long time. Our tour around
reveals a constant, changing panoply of wild harsh craggy mountains, gently
sloping hills and steep falling cliffs. Even on the flat, we know we are high
In 1970 at the age of eighteen, I migrated with my parents and two brothers from the north-eastern part of North America to
. My father had
been based in Perth
Western Australia Australia
during WWII, heading out in submarines as a torpedo gunner to battles in the Coral Sea. My parents married three weeks before .
From the moment my father returned home in 1946, he tried to persuade my mother
to move to Pearl Harbour . Australia
Sublimated were the mountains until two days ago when our group went for a balloon flight over the incredible terrain of
Cappadocia. Mountains dropped
away beneath us, real, tough, unforgiving, dark, high, brooding, Biblical
mountains; weird formations shaped by tuff (pronounced too-fah), volcanic ash which
has settled in deep furrows over the ground, and mixed with rain to form a soft
stone. We float, rarely flaring the gas fire once we are up. A dazzle of
balloons fill the sky and seem to touch the mountain tops.
From high above I see how everything relates. I am in the semi with the wide view, not a squat VW. The re-cognition of mountains jars something in my psyche, provides a sudden abundance of meat and drink for my hungry soul. I am completely seduced, once again in a place were I can climb a mountain. Perhaps it is time for a change.