Saddleback Mountain: The Heartbreak of Loving a Summit That Only Cares for the View Ah, Saddleback Mountain, that aloof titan of rock dressed in the majestic regalia of the Great Range. One gazes upon you, mesmerized by your rugged contours and the promise of adventure nestled within your towering presence. You dangle a tantalizing carrot of breathtaking views and the rarefied air of accomplishment, yet beneath that craggy debutante facade lies a heart colder than the icy winds that whip through your ridges. Yes, my dear, you are the epitome of unrequited love, a mountain whose affections are reserved solely for the panoramas below, while the hearts of weary climbers beat wildly in your shadow, longing for acknowledgment. What is it about you, Saddleback? Is it the way you loom over the landscape that demands respect yet retains a coy distance? Your summit, luring adventurers with tales of picturesque views of the neighboring titans—Basin Mountain and Gothics—serves more like a high society event where we, the lowly mortals, may gaze up from the garden’s edge, forever thirsty for your exhilarating embrace. Oh, how comforting it is to think that maybe after a strenuous hike through awkward brush and uneven stones, you’ll wrap us in your warm, stony arms, only to watch us grab our hearts in despair upon realizing that you’re just a perch, a pedestal for our memories, while the mountains beside you absorb all the accolades. With an elevation of 4,515 feet, you are resolute in your independence, and the hiking trails that snake up your sides are but mere breadcrumbs leading to the realization that your affection is not ours to claim. We toil and crawl toward your summit, driven by dreams of conquering the metaphorical hills of our own doubts. As we labor through the 3.1 miles of the State Range Trail, we make bold promises to each step: “This is the climb that will bond me to you, dear Saddleback!” Yet, when we crest the final hill and look down at the view you cherish so deeply, we find ourselves as lonely as the ancient stones strewn around. In that defining moment, we’re left standing on the precipice, gazing at the sweeping expanse of nature that stretches far beyond your rocky shoulders. The rush of elation swiftly vanishes into the chilly void, replaced by the ghastly realization that you don’t see us, and quite poignantly, you never will. The serenity of the vistas captures all the attention, while we pale in comparison, mere mortals swallowed by our insignificance. The truth dawns: we are just footnotes in your illustrious tale, uninvited guests at a banquet that serves only the sceneries dancing before our eyes. And oh, the irony of it all! We come to you for solace, seeking a romantic rendezvous among your rugged beauty, only to be left with the worn ache of yearning for something that will never reciprocate. You, Saddleback, are the grand dame of the wilderness, and we are but starry-eyed lovers scrawling love letters in the dirt, desperate for a glance that will never come. Each summit visit becomes a gentle betrayal as we whisper our deepest secrets, our hopes for companionship only to be met with a silence as loud as the winds winding through your jagged peaks. As the sun dips below the horizon and shadows swallow the trails, we descend, our hearts heavier than our backpacks. With every step away from your heights, we carry the weight of a love unfulfilled, one that we must bury beneath layers of rock and ice, forever trapped in that fleeting moment where we nearly understood the beauty of being so close yet so impossibly far. Saddleback, we love you fiercely, but you are a mistress with a soul possessing only the wild allure of a breathtaking view, venerated, yet eternally out of reach.