Do you hear the mountains calling?

Mount shasta’s strange little town

We had driven to Bunny Flat — etching through the dark, windy roads of Mount Shasta. There was no movement but the movement of the dense forest. Rustling — here. There — an eerie shadow. We laughed nervously. Nothing bad could happen at Bunny Flat… right?

The night was cold but the sky was warm. Underneath Shasta’s scattering stars, everything became unfamiliar — the moon thrilled, the trees compelled, and the volcanic air tasted like vinegar. I found myself as the lost inhabitant of a new world. Andrew and I sat on top of Niko’s car, debating whether the moon seemed pink. (It did.) There’s something spiritual – almost otherworldly here, I said. If you were to write about this moment, what would you say? He asked. There is silence.

***

To begin: in the Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus writes that “at the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman.” At John Muir’s first glimpse of Mount Shasta, he writes that “all (his) blood turned to wine, and (he) has not been weary since.” For centuries before Muir, the Achumawi, Modoc, Atsugewi, and Wintu tribes have worshiped Shasta as the universe’s center, tracing their origin to a sacred spring at her peak. Even today, she is revered as an entity, an energy, and the muse behind an enigma of myths. There is Temos — a city of lights beneath the volcano — and the Lemurians — its (frequently-spotted) 7-foot, gown-wearing, higher dimensional residents. There is bigfoot, lizard-people, UFO landing pads, and tree spirits. And there are the Shastians — the inhabitants of Shasta’s spiritually diverse, and strange, little town.

***

Upon arriving in town, we stumbled into an art gallery on the corner of main street. The sounds of guzheng drifted lazily across the room, and images of Buddha lined the walls. Behind the counter stood the establishment’s artist and owner, dressed in HanFu, looking at us warily. 你是中国人吗？I asked tentatively. She nodded, smiling at the sound of her mother-tongue. When I asked for her thoughts on the spirituality behind Shasta, she sighed. I am an artist, she states. I am an artist, so beauty can just be beauty. Others may find a UFO or hear a calling from the Gods, but I just see strangely shaped clouds. Still, I noticed that each of her paintings feature Shasta, painstakingly painted alongside various Chinese deities; tall, striking, vibrant, and (dare I say) spiritual. I thanked her by buying a pair of handmade earrings. She handed me a red paper crane. For prosperity and protection, she said.

In the ‘Everything and Nothing store’ across the street, the owner told me the story of how her family ended up in Shasta. She was an equestrian from Orange County. After the death of her sister, her family heard a “calling” from Shasta. She pointed to the oak tree in the center of the room, explaining that its trunk is surrounded with souvenirs from those who’ve lost loved ones too soon. We met Gus, her pitbull. I sat with Gus by the counter. Do you feel it? She asked. Isn’t there something different about the mountains? I ask her what she believes that difference to be. She smiled cryptically. I can only say that it has to do with facing yourself, she says, trailing off. I was called here, and so were you.

***

To begin: There is a little bench, tucked away in a hidden campus corner, that I frequent. There, the air is cooler, shrouded by the shadow of redwoods. There, my silence is constantly interrupted — a soft crunching of the leaves — the ambiance of water cascading across rocks — the bristling of wind against the soft tide of the tree trunks — and my breath — warm and heavy against the vacancy of this temporary world.

There in the Everything and Nothing store — as I contemplated what it might mean to use Mount Shasta to “face yourself” — I was reminded of my little bench and the sanctity of my hidden corner of the world.

***

We were wandering the streets when we found a yard sale hosted by an old man, his grandson, and his friend, Wayne. He told us that he’s been collecting trinkets for over 60 years, having traveled across the country throughout his early life. His grandson shook his head, telling us that they’ve decided to sell everything because there was no space in the house for living. The grandfather showed us his collection of vintage cameras, before rushing out with Wayne to feed the stray cats in town — their daily ritual, his grandson explained. On his way out, Wayne gave me a fist bump, telling me that though this town can seem eerie, we shouldn’t feel intimidated. Everywhere is sacred to someone, or something, he said. His grandson introduced us to their eight cats. I bought a little glass tray and a USSR era camera.

***

Before driving home, we visited a stream of holy water. Climbed the rocks. Carefully lowered our faces down. And drank —

***

To begin: On the glistening stones of that sacred creek, I faced myself. I looked into the cascading streams and saw nothing but the uncertainty of water, the determination of rock. I was shapeless in this strange new world, but I have been

gifted a red paper crane — pet a pitbull named Gus — and stumbled
into the Murakami-esque yard of a sweet old man, his grandson, and their friend, Wayne
I have stood beneath an oak-tree
and remarked at its beauty and grief — and walked
through unfamiliar streets and found the familiar
little bench where I have cried — I have gulped
a handful of Holy Water and tasted —
my dad’s green tea –

***

To begin: In the Myth of Sisyphus, Camus writes that “this heart within me I can feel, and I judge that it exists. This world I can touch, and I likewise judge that it exists. There ends my knowledge, (...) forever I shall be a stranger to myself.”

***

To begin: I am unacquainted with Shasta’s streets, but I know the inhumanity of her beauty, the silence of her streets, and the quiet warmth of sacred places.

***

We had driven to Bunny Flat — etching through the roads of Mount Shasta. There was no movement but the movements of the forest. The night was warm and underneath Shasta’s stars, everything became familiar — the moon, the trees, and the volcanic air. I found myself as the new inhabitant of a strange world.

Andrew and I sat on top of Niko’s car, debating whether the moon seemed pink. If you were to write about this moment, what would you say? He asked. There is silence.

I have heard the mountains calling. Have you?

Words: Emily Peng

Photos: Alisa Karesh, Emily Langston

Design: Nam Doan