Mountains have a way of shutting out the world, and a stream running through them seals the deal. Last weekend, I hiked up a rough trail and found one—a steady flow of water threading between the peaks, rocks lining its path. I sat on a flat stone by the edge, the air cool and damp, and let it take over.

The stream moved without fanfare, sliding over stones with a soft, endless ripple that drowned out everything else. No traffic hum, no buzzing phone—just that sound, steady and close, pulling my focus until the world beyond the ridges didn’t exist.

I stared at the water, watching it catch light and slip past, and the noise in my head faded. The mountains loomed above, solid and indifferent, cutting off any signal that might drag me back, including cell phone signals. It was just me and the stream, and for a while, that was all there was.