Ana sat in front of me in U.S. History, using a bowie knife with precision to pare the skin off a cucumber in long green strips.   Her long flaxen hair hung chaotically over the back of her chair, swinging in disarray as she turned around to me.

“Want some?”  She leaned back, watching me out of the corner of her eye, offering a slice, using the flat blade as a serving platter. I shook my head almost imperceptibly, trying in vain to stay focused on the teacher lecturing up front.  Ana shrugged at my self-consciousness, popped it in her own mouth and flashed a grin.  She proceeded to eat the cucumber whole, wrapping her mouth around it and biting off chunks.   “You’re missing out, farmer boy…” she whispered to me between bites. 

She was very mistaken.  I didn’t miss out on anything having to do with Ana.  I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her from the moment she had arrived at our high school.  The ripple effect reached me within minutes, as I felt the impact of her presence on campus immediately.  My best friend elbowed me in the ribs, pointing out a new girl being escorted down the hall by the assistant principal.  Students stared at the wake she left behind:  her flowing blonde hair, toothy smile and bold blue eyes making direct contact with everyone she met.  Unlike me, she appeared completely at ease in a brand new situation, greeting people she had never met before.  My chest squeezes whenever I think of that first eye lock with her in the hall.  As she passed, I knew she watched me watching her. 

From her neck up, Ana fit right in with the other girls. But the similarity ended there.  She preferred wearing Goodwill-purchased baggy torn khaki shorts or peasant skirts with uneven hems, loose fitting faded T shirts and ripped tennis shoes without shoelaces.  Her legs were covered with long blonde hair, as were her armpits.  She smelled as earthy as if she had been camping without a shower for three days, but then riding her bike to school from her home 8 miles away in all kinds of weather accounted for that.   One day she arrived late to school, pushing her bike through 6 inches of snow in soaking tennis shoes, wearing her usual broad smile reflecting her achievement.  

It took me a few days to find out about her by listening in on others’ conversations since I’m not much into making small talk myself.  I was an observer by nature, a kid from a ranch, used to bucking bales, working the fields and milking cows.  I learned she grew up in Nepal, the daughter of two Peace Corps workers who were retiring from twenty years of service.  Her father, an avid mountain climber who had conquered Everest and other Himalayan peaks, had recently accepted a professorship at a local college, moving to the northwest to be near the numerous alpine climbing challenges.  

“Do you know where I can get a bicycle tire patch kit?”  She had come up behind me as I was locking my bike to the rack one morning.  I stood up and stared straight into that golden hair and sky blue eyes, swallowing hard before I answered. 

“Uh, sure, there’s a five and dime store downtown on Fourth Street that has them.”  I thought for a moment.   “I’ve got one if you need one now.”

“No, that’s okay.  Just wondered if you knew… in case I need one, that is.”  She hesitated for a moment, asked me my name, and then turned around, tossing off over her shoulder as she strode away, “I’m Ana.”

“I know, “ I replied once she was beyond hearing. 

As the weeks passed, Ana did a lot of talking while I did a lot of listening.  At lunch, she would sometimes come sit down beside me on a concrete retaining wall facing the eastern mountain peaks in the distance.  She learned that I lived quite a ways outside town and asked about the farm chores I did early in the morning before I rode my bike into school.  She told me about her life in Nepal, and how she missed the villagers she had come to know there.   She said they were often very contemplative, like me, so she felt comfortable with me.

She pointed at the 14,000 foot snowy peak 90 miles away, visible on clear days from all points in our county.  “I’m going to climb it with my dad next week.  I can’t wait!  It has been over a year since I climbed with him.”   She pulled out her knife and carved away at a chunk of cheese she had pulled from her pocket, touching my finger tips as she handed me a piece.  “I think I can hear the mountain calling my name.” 

I sat looking at the mountain, my fingers tingling, savoring the cheese and listening hard.  “I think I hear it.”

“You want to come with us?  I can borrow some gear.  I know you’d love it, there’s nothing else on earth like it.”

“I can’t, Ana.  I’ve got to help with the seeding at home.  I can’t just leave my dad to do it alone.”

“You’re missing out, farmer boy…you can’t just spend your whole life on the ranch.”  She laughed, gently bumping shoulders with me and then hopped off the wall, leaving me behind to head back to class. 

She was partly right.  I miss her all right.  The mountain claimed her, swallowed her up, and didn’t let her go. 

For fifty years now, whenever I am in my fields, working the ground, mowing the hay, or just walking at dusk as the swallows dip and swoop around me, the mountain watches me watching her as she passes on the breeze, amazed at the wake she left behind.