Zoe and Dad Mountain

Spring 1998. We were winding our way up the mountain above Aviano, Italy, when a little voice piped up from the back seat.

“Dad, what’s this mountain called?”

“Monte Cavallo. The town we’re going to is Piancavallo, at the base of the mountain.”

“Why do they name mountains?”

“I don’t know, Zoe. I suppose because they’re there.”

She pointed out the window. “What’s that mountain called?”

I glanced at the small hill beside the road. “I’m not sure it has a name.”

“Why?”

“People don’t usually name hills. They’re too little.”

“Why? I’m little, and I have a name.”

She had a point. I pulled over.

“Do you like that mountain?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to climb it?”

“YES!”

We got out and scrambled to the top. Zoe looked around, pleased with our conquest.

“Dad, I like this mountain a whole lot!”

“Then would you like to name it?”

“Yes! I name this mountain Zoe and Dad Mountain!”

And so it was. You won’t find it on a map, but it’s there. It’s our mountain.

The photo above was taken at the summit to commemorate the occasion.