Once upon a time, there was a girl who grew up in the mountains of New York. She loved them, and they were hers.
Then one day, she took a trip to Colorado. And the mountains there were majestic. They had snow and peaks that touched the clouds, and they enchanted her.
So when her time came to get married, the girl took her boy back to those big, magical mountains in Colorado, where he fell under their spell, too.
And enchanted they stayed for many years. Every chance they got, the girl and the boy ventured to those big mountains.
They hiked them.
Slept in them.
And they were theirs.
The girl and the boy lived in Alabama, near so many pretty, closer mountains. But those mountains weren’t good enough.
They were short.
They didn’t touch the clouds.
And they had no snow.
So they were never visited. Everything east of the Mississippi was scoffed at, looked over, forgotten about.
But then one day, the girl and the boy decided to pay the Great Smoky Mountains a visit. And they soon realized that these mountains were magical too.
They were green.
And had views forever.
The girl couldn’t believe that she had never given these mountains a chance. They too held adventures, and were only a short drive away.
All those years, the mountains east of the Mississippi had been ignored. But it was finally time to make up for lost moments.
And so new states were visited.
New trails were explored.
And new dirt was slept on.
These mountains were not giants, but they were enough. And the girl and the boy were reminded that all mountains are worthy of love.