Strong Mountain

by Rick Branson

If you were to leave the city of San Francisco, California and drive north on highway 101 for a few hours you would be delighted. As the cities get smaller and become towns, the trees get larger and more stoic. The highway meanders through Northern California’s lush valleys filled with grape vineyards and the occasional pear orchards nestled between majestic mountain peaks.

There is a small town called Willits whose population is about four
-thousand, and whose claim to fame is “Gateway to the Redwoods.” This is where I spent the first twenty years of my life. I enjoyed the outdoors: hunting, fishing, hiking, and doing chores on the farm. Like all small towns everybody knew everyone else and rumors traveled far and fast. Most kids went off to college or the military after graduation, and those who stayed behind went to work in the lumber mill. Drinking and fighting became a sport on weekends along with football games and four-wheeling in the mud. The area is known for its marijuana cultivation, rowdy rednecks, and, in the old days, ornery loggers. All things considered it wasn’t
a bad place to grow up.

I never really fit in with any group in high school. I played football
with the “jocks,” rode bulls with “goat ropers,” drank with the “rough
crowd,” and worked on cars with the “gear heads” in auto shop. It was
in auto shop where I first met Jason. He worked on his little Opal car a
lot, but for the most part he kept to himself. We talked a few times, and I just couldn’t help but like the guy. For reasons I still cannot explain, I always felt a calm peaceful feeling whenever Jason was around. Something in his eyes and mannerisms expressed a combination of wisdom and gentleness.

Early one spring morning of my junior year, I came to school and met
up with a buddy named Brad. Right away we decided it was going to be a nice day out, such a nice day in fact, that it would be a shame to spend it in school. Off we went in Brad’s old Dodge Dart in search of someone old enough to purchase some beer for us. At the gas station we ran into Jason, whose plans for the day were in concordance with our own. Just about this time Jason’s older brother, Jeff, (who was old enough to buy beer) happened to stop in. Oddly, meeting Jeff for the first time, I was overcome with the same calm, peaceful feeling as when Jason is near.

With the promise to Jeff that we would be careful, the three of us
“amigos” were off to Jason’s parentless house with our prized twelve-pack of beer. I have been all over the place in my travels on the back roads around Willits, but never before had I been to Strong Mountain. During the hour long ride over a bumpy, dirt road deep into the mountains Jason explained something to me. “I live on Strong Mountain,” he said. “It’s where all of my family lives, and our last name is Strong.” He told me his family has lived there for many years.

When we finally arrived, I was very impressed with the family’s large,
country home. The trees and surrounding hills are beautiful. A small
stream gurgled behind the house and the air smelled clean and sweet. I don’t know what came over the three of us that spring day, maybe it was the few beers we shared. We laughed and played like young boys, rolling down grassy hills with our bodies until we were dizzy, jumping from one flagstone step to another while pretending the ground was hot lava, and shooting baskets in an old rustic barn like NBA stars. Later, as we were walking down a dirt road that skirts the property, Brad suggested to Jason that they should take me to a place called Quartz Rock. Jason hesitated and I sensed his reluctance to reveal something special to him. After further urging from Brad he finally agreed. I was excited and I knew I was about to see something wonderful.

We crossed the road and climbed a fence near an open expanse of
grassy hillside. I noticed a large rock the size of a small house near
an equally huge oak tree. Jason led us to the rock’s base and we then
climbed to its top. I was surprised to find an opening in the top that was approximately eighteen inches in diameter. I was even more surprised when I peered inside and realized that the rock was hollow with millions of crystals hanging from its inner walls. I had never seen anything like this; it was beautiful. The amazement must have shown on my face because Brad just smiled when I looked to him for an explanation. Jason looked serious, like he had just entered a church.

There were several loose crystals near the edge of the hole, and I picked up a few to put in my pocket. Jason reached out and touched my arm to stop me. “Please don’t,” he said. I then asked him what the big deal was.“If everyone who comes to this place takes a piece soon the beauty will be no more,” he replied. I immediately understood his logic, and I put the crystals back. Something told me there was a deeper meaning to his words, and this was somehow a major life lesson for me. We walked back to Jason’s house and later returned to town ending our day of freedom.

I didn’t see Jason again until school began in the fall. We would pass
each other in the halls or I would see him in auto shop wrenching on his car. We talked a few times but he mostly kept to himself. One morning an ugly storm came in. Black clouds covered the sky and the wind blew fiercely. The rain pelted the earth as Mother Nature raged. I was at school early that dark morning lifting weights for football and listening to the radio. A news flash reported a tree had fallen on a car and someone was trapped inside. After class I saw Brad with tears in his eyes. He told me that Jason had been killed.

A lone cottonwood tree alongside a bare stretch of dirt road had fallen
on Jason’s car, killing him instantly. Rescue workers said the odds and
timing were tantamount to being struck by lightning twice in the same
day. Our school held an assembly the following week and Jason’s parents attended. When I met them, I once again felt the same calm, peaceful feeling come over me as when I was near their sons Jason and Jeff. Their eyes contained the same mixture of wisdom and gentleness and their posture was constantly relaxed. They both smiled easily despite their loss. They spoke to us at the assembly and explained that on the night prior to Jason’s death, he had sat them down to talk. Jason expressed his love for them and thanked them for being wonderful parents. It was almost as if he knew he was going away.

I told my son this story once, I guess about the same time he was old
enough to ask me why I named him Jason. Years later I went back up to Quartz Rock. It was unmistakable and easy to find. I reached the top only to find that the hole was gone and the rock was solid. I realized then that the three of us had played like boys that spring day because we felt our childhood slipping away from us. I had returned to Quartz Rock because I was feeling my teenage years slipping away from me. I then understood the lesson Jason had given me about the crystals.