A fighter.

David Cramer had a Haiku party in January from which I took home a goldfish. I put him in a Mason jar (the goldfish, not David Cramer) and fed him crumbs of whatever my family had for dinner.

He’s still alive, and I’m so proud of him I’m giving him a name. Manitou. After Theodore Roosevelt’s horse.

Tough guy.

Mystery Peak.

I recognize that we are storytelling creatures, and that this is a big and beautiful part of the genius of our human souls.  But sometimes I like to remember that we weave these stories from pretty minuscule data points strung together by miles of unknown wilderness.  I mean there are billions of people on earth I don’t know and don’t even know about.  But you would think that I’d have at least a passing familiarity with the people that live around me every day.  Especially if the people in question were actually mountains.  Not so!

I grew up thinking that the pointy mountain visible through Rock Canyon from the Provo Temple was called Provo Peak.  Wrong.  That guy is Shingle Mill Peak.  The guy to his south is Freedom Peak, and the guy further south and west is, finally, Provo Peak.  Provo Peak is the tallest out of all of them, but you don’t see him from most of East Provo because Y Mountain is in the way.  (You can actually get a great view of him through Rock Canyon from the top of the hill by University Mall.)

But there are also lost mountains I wouldn’t have even know to look for.  There’s this shy girl who lives between Squaw Peak and Cascade Mountain, and most of Provo can’t even see her -- Squaw Peak completely covers her up.  But if you’re driving south on I-15 toward Provo, you can see her clear as day, just hanging out between Cascade and Squaw.  She’s actually taller than Squaw Peak, and gentler.  I don’t even know her name.  If you know her name, would you tell me who she is?