By Richard Mabey Jr.

My father was influenced by mountains, from the very time that he came into this world. My father was born, not in a hospital, but in the very home that his father had built at the end of Mabey Lane. To the south, just past Route 202, stood the majestic Hook Mountain, the name of the mountain range that ran through Lincoln Park.

For my beloved father there was the mountain, almost calling him to greater heights. My father and I had a common bond of having our boyhood filled with looking for arrowheads atop the mountain range that ran along Route 202 in Lincoln Park. There was something special about the mountain. It called to the very heart and core of my dad’s inner being.

During World War II, Dad was assigned to the Seventh Army Air Corps and was assigned to Hickam Air Field in Hawaii. There to the east of the grand and glorious open field of Hickam stood the overwhelming heights of the Koolau Mountain Range. Once again, my dad’s imagination was stirred, to be in the presence of a magnificent mountain.

Now at 67, I look back and realize how much the presence of mountains impressed my father. His phrases often referenced mountains. My father would often say, “that’s a high mountain to climb,” in reference to undertaking a big task or a long-range goal. On the evening of my Eagle Scout Dinner, Dad told me that I had climbed a tall mountain and that he was all so very proud of me.

My father, in his 28 years of volunteer service as Scoutmaster of Boy Scout Troop 170, taught hundreds of boys about the beauty and grandeur of the mountain, in the many times that the troop hiked the Appalachian Trail. But he also taught the boys the respect of the mountain. That in order to successfully climb the mountain, a scout needed to be aware of every single ounce of weight inside his backpack. It is a mindset that is essential when hiking the rugged terrain of the Appalachian Trail.

Dad often told me of the times when he walked down the wooded path, with his father, to the old Morris Canal. Grandpa was the single last employee of the Morris Canal to serve as the Chief Engineer of Incline Plane Ten East. After the Morris Canal closed for business, Grandpa and Dad would often revisit the old incline plane. I remember Dad often telling me that, as a young boy, it stirred his imagination how the grinding gears could effortlessly pull the heavy canal boats, up that very steep hill.

At the age of 77, my dad longed for a simpler lifestyle. He had just beat kidney cancer, having had one of his kidneys removed. Things were looking up for Dad. My father bought a three-acre field that lied at the foot of the infamous Kittatinny Mountain, part of the Appalachian Mountains, in the farming community of Saint Thomas, Pennsylvania.

Together, my father and I built a home on that field. As the home was being built, Dad would often look at the majestic Kittatinny and tell me how much it meant to him, to have a home that would set on the foothill of a high mountain. Sadly, shortly after my dad turned 78, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Dad suffered terribly. In an early morning in May of 2006, Dad went Home to be with the Lord. His bedroom windows looked out to Kittatinny Mountain.

It always stirred my father’s imagination to contemplate the endurance of a mountain. “A mountain is timeless,” Dad would often say to me.

I live in Central Florida now. It is only recently that I have understood the root of my homesick blues. Florida is flatland; no hills, no mountains. Deep in my veins, I can feel the call of a mountain beckoning me. My people were drawn to mountains. My great great grandfather, William Mabey was born in September of 1837. Around the age of 20, he built a home for his bride, Catherine Ann (Van Orden) Mabey, and himself, atop Hook Mountain, in what is now known as Lincoln Park.

I can feel the spirits of my forefathers calling me home, to return to the foothills of a mountain. The gentle whisper, of those loved ones who have come before me, beckons me in the wee hours of the night. I know deep in the chambers of my heart, lies within a profound need to say fare-thee-well to Florida.

Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com. Please put on the subject line: My Life Publications.