We began our final descent and started to break through the clouds. I leaned out of my seat, craning my head toward the window around a young man sleeping, slouched and snoring. He looked terribly uncomfortable but he was smiling and I knew why. I was careful not to wake him but I just had to see. The dense white began to fade like a large cotton ball coming a part in strands and chunks and I saw the first patch of green. Then, I was hit in the face with a big shamrock glove and knocked giddy with emerald brilliance and the mountains of Washington. I stood there as long as I could, bent over, twisted around the napping passenger and took it all in until my legs cramped from 20 hours of flight and I sat back down. I closed my eyes and imprinted the vision in my mind. If I shut them now, I would see those same beautiful green mountains.

There was very little green in the place from where I travelled, except around the great rivers of the land I spent the last 15 months. It had its own unique beauty and magnificence with a history, ancient and mysterious. It was also harsh and sometimes horrific. America went there five years ago in search of nuclear bombs, but the only weapon of mass destruction we found was the most devastating of all – blind and ignorant hate. We did our best to dismantle the death-dealing torpedo that split the country apart and I felt good about what we had done. My time was well spent, but there was always something missing.

The absent part was not like an arm or a leg. Rather, it was something more inexplicable as if my five senses had gone to sleep and I was left only with the sixth that signaled me to signs of danger or opportunities to positively change dire situations. However, the first indication of green woke all five from hibernation. They arose from their slumber not like a lazy Saturday morning when you wake up slow. It was more similar to Christmas when I was eight, knowing I had been good and Santa would reward me well, and I came out of sleep fully alert.

Seeing the mountains and green on the flight in, I developed my plan for reintegration back into a life unfamiliar. It was a simple strategy – I would run those peaks every chance I got. That was the extent of it with no more details other than a map with all the parks in the state of Washington. I got up early on my first day back and drove to the nearest park with large, green hills.

My drive took me through Tacoma and east of Seattle to a place called the Issaquah Alps. I parked my car, retrieved a trail map, and started running up Cougar Mountain. The climb burned my thighs accustomed to flat land, but they were strong from months of carrying the heavy weight of body armor and I continued up at a slow pace. I assumed risk and didn’t look down at the trail for secure footing, but kept my eyes on every tree and moss covered rock that rose from the rich soil. I hungrily breathed the fresh smell of the forest through my nose, mouth and every part of me.

I considered all that made this wonderful scent was produced from what was once alive, but now long dead, decayed and thought it ironic such beauty comes from death. A friend came to mind. We used to run similar terrain together in upstate New York. He died on another mountain in a place much like where I spent the last year. I prayed some good comes from his loss and put his memory away for another day.

I passed a brook with a small waterfall, listened, and understood why that sublime sound is mimicked and sold by the millions on compact disks in music stores. The climb continued, but I refused to walk, though it probably would have been faster. I kept my head and eyes up now, searching for the summit and reprieve from my struggle for oxygen.

When I finally reached the top, fog obscured the view, so I walked the crest with hands interlocked behind my head, bringing my breathing to a relaxed rhythm. A box with a notebook in it for travelers to sign was nailed to a wooden stand. I opened the container, read a few passages, and wrote in shaky handwriting, “Thank you God.”

I then descended the mountain, retracing my steps, unconstrained, to the parking lot and warmth of my car.

On the drive back I stopped at the No Bull Tavern for a beer. It was still early and there was only one other customer, a man I learned lived on Cougar Mountain on land his grandfather homesteaded before Washington was a state. His eyes were a spectacular shade green. He had snow-capped hair and wise skin with ridgelines and deep valleys, like the landscape in his backyard. I ordered a stout, watched the cream colored head form, and listened to the old gentleman talk about bee-keeping, his children, grandchildren, one great-grandchild, salmon fishing, and the coming winter on his mountain. Satisfied I heard all he had to say, he asked, “Aside from your family what did you miss most?”

I took the beer, drank long and slow, treasuring the taste of maple, barley and smoke. I sat the glass down and looked at him. I studied him for a long while and said finally, “You.”