When I was 11, it was the highest peak in the world. It was a place where eagles soared, mountain lions lurked, Chumash Indian spirits dwelled. Remote it was, and regal. The great shoulders of the mountain were perfumed with sage. A crown of red rock touched the heavens. Often the peak was enshrouded in fog, activating a tenderfoot scout’s already over-active imagination. It was a big mountain and more than a little scary. During my first trip to the top I shivered in my brand-new hiking boots. 

From the summit I could see the whole world: Mt. Hollywood and the Los Angeles Basin, the Channel Islands and the San Fernando Valley, the Santa Monica Mountains themselves from end to end, and much more geography that my Scoutmaster patiently helped me match to the map.