Zoe and Dad Mountain

Spring 1998.

We were winding our way up the mountain that loomed over Aviano, Italy. From the back seat came a small, inquisitive voice. Zoe, age six, had a question.

“Dad, what’s this mountain called?”

“They call it Monte Cavallo. And the town at the base of the mountain is Piancavallo. That’s where we’re going.”

“Why do they name mountains?”

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

“Oh…”

A pause.

Then another question.

“What’s the name of that mountain?” she asked, pointing to a small hill just to the right of the road.

“I’m not sure it has a name.”

“Why?”

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

She thought about this for a moment.

“Why? I’m little—and I have a name.”

She had a point.

I pulled the car over.

“Zoe, do you like that mountain?” I asked, pointing to the hill.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to climb it?”

“YES!”

We climbed out of the car and scampered up the “mountain.” When we reached the top, Zoe turned to me, beaming.

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

“I’m glad you do, Zoe. Would you like to name it?”

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

She proclaimed it—and so it was.

You won’t find it on a map.

But it’s there.

And it is our mountain.

 

The picture above was taken on the summit of Zoe and Dad Mountain to commemorate the event.