Pelham, Alabama. The year was 1927. Coolidge was president. Gas was 21 cents per gallon. Beer was illegal. Charles Lindberg crossed the Atlantic. Henry Ford unveiled the Model A.

And way down in Alabama, the Twenty-Second state bought 940 acres which included Double Oak Mountain and parts of Little Oak Ridge. The foothills of the Appalachians.

It was such magnificent country that years later, the National Park Service got involved with its development. The NPS acquired 8,000 acres of additional land.

The federal government was going to turn this place into a national park, on par with Yellowstone and Yosemite. They were going to call the park “Little Smoky Mountain National Park.”

But then some guy named Hitler screwed up the world, started a war. Construction ceased. Every able-bodied male was sent overseas.

Today, what remains is Oak Mountain State Park. Otherwise known as “My Office.”

I hike Oak Mountain a lot. It isn’t far from my back door. And whenever I visit, I feel my shoulders lower from my ears.

This morning, I hiked with my dog, Otis (alleged Labrador). We hiked for hours. He sprinted ahead, while I struggled to stay oxygenated.

“Slow down, dangit!” is what I was saying for most of the day.

And I met a colorful mosaic of human beings on the mountain.

Three older women, hiking together, using walking sticks, singing hymns aloud. They were from Alabaster.

“We’re Church of Christ,” they told me. “But we drink like Catholics.”

I passed a young man who was hiking with a newborn baby strapped to his chest. A single dad. His wife died in a car accident. He is raising his infant daughter alone. He feels peace on this mountain.

I met a woman hiking with her teenage daughter. The daughter just graduated college and is joining the military. She is about to ship out for training.

I passed a family from Denmark. They are visiting America and trying to see every state. A mother, father, and two boys. So far they have seen 13 states. Alabama is their 14th.

I asked how they liked Alabama.

“We got two speeding tickets here,” said the father.

On my way to the top of the mountain, my dog greeted a Birmingham car salesman. He was hiking because his doctor told him he needed to take care of his cholesterol. I also met a woman who was training for her upcoming thru-hike on the Appalachian Trail.

I asked why she was going to hike the AT. She answered, “Because my ex-boyfriend’s an idiot.”

There was an elderly man plodding toward the top of the mountain. He pet Otis’s head and gave him a piece of beef jerky. “My wife has Alzheimer’s,” he said. “We’ve been hiking Oak Mountain since the ‘50s, but she doesn’t remember any of that now. So I hike out here and remember her.”

I asked what this place was like in the ‘50s.

He says, “Oh, just like it is America itself. Beautiful mountains; beautiful people.”

Try as I have for the last 15 minutes, I can’t come up with a better closing line than that.