From Santa Rosa, Harry and I wended our way inland to Route 5 and turned the Bug north toward Dunsmuir. Brittany, our son Bryant’s girlfriend, grew up there and asked us to stop and say hello to her parents.

Brittany’s folks welcomed us in, and over coffee and muffins we learned about what it was like for their daughter to grow up in northern California. Dunsmuir is a small town of sixteen hundred, and nature is its biggest draw. The Upper Sacramento River lures trout fishermen, and winter skiing was popular until the recent drought robbed the nearby hillsides of snow. There are numerous hiking trails, lakes and waterfalls, all within view of the beautiful and mystical Mount Shasta nine miles to the north. Brittany’s playground was a natural wonderland.

We were invited to stay overnight, but it was still early in the day and we hoped to get more miles under us. I’d heard stories about Mount Shasta and was itching to get a closer view, so after a warm farewell we were back in the Bug.

Driving up Route 5, Shasta is hidden behind cliffs. After miles with no sighting, I was beginning to wonder if the mountain really existed or if maybe it was a figment of the overactive imaginations that perpetuated the myth of Lemurians living there. Legend has it that thousands of years ago cataclysms and wars drove people underground seeking safety. The highly evolved and spiritual Lemurians are said to inhabit a subterranean city called Telos, part of an Inner Earth complex of cities. Mount Shasta supposedly contains a vortex leading to the sacred underworld. The area also has a history of strange occurrences, including Bigfoot and UFO sightings.

Poet Joaquin Miller writes that Shasta is “lonely as God, and white as a winter moon.” It “starts up sudden and solitary from the heart of the great black forests of Northern California.” After twenty minutes of driving, I saw what the poet meant.

I had been straining my gaze through the windshield for any sign of the hallowed peak. Then the Bug came around a curve, and suddenly a mile ahead, there it was, a white specter glistening against a brilliant blue sky. A filmy cloud stretched from the summit like a windblown scarf. The scene was breathtaking.

Situated fifty miles south of the Oregon border, Mount Shasta is second only to Mount Rainier as the highest peak in the Cascades and can be seen as far away as 140 miles. Shasta is considered one of the earth’s sacred mountains, along with Olympus, home of the gods of mythology, and Sinai, where Moses received the Ten Commandments. These mountains are believed to have spiritual power and are revered by indigenous peoples who have received revelations and inspirations at the hallowed sites.

Standing alone, Shasta is actually a dormant volcano with a peak that rises a majestic ten thousand feet above the surrounding landscape. For two centuries Shasta was a landmark along the Siskiyou Trail, a footpath used by Native Americans for trade and travel between California’s Central Valley and the Pacific Northwest.

The mountain may have gotten its name from Russians who found their way into the Sacramento Valley. When they saw the steep, snow-covered slopes, they gave the name “Tchastal,” meaning “white and pure,” and native tribes heard the word as Shasta.

It was a crystalline clear day when we stopped at an overlook park to gawk at the snowy peaks. We didn’t get near enough for a climb, and we didn’t see Bigfoot or any flying objects. There is, however, an ethereal quality about the volcano—something otherworldly.

Naturalist John Muir, in 1874, captured the feeling when he wrote, “When I first caught sight of Mt. Shasta, over the braided folds of the Sacramento Valley, I was fifty miles away and afoot, alone and weary. Yet all my blood turned to wine, and I have not been weary since.”

For Harry and me, standing next to Mount Shasta was sort of like that.