Beyond the palm trees.  Mt. Wilson is out there with a famous observatory that opened in 1904.  You can't see it because of all the smoke from the fires the firefighters have been fighting for days now.   You may think you see a ridge line or a hillside but that is just the smoke playing tricks on your eyes. 

I meant to say yesterday, because everything comes back to 1904, that Robert Frost had a life "plagued with grief and loss" (Wikipedia entry).  His oldest child Elliot, born in 1896, died of cholera in 1904.  Later on another son Carol committed suicide, his daughter Marjorie died in childbirth, another daughter died as an infant, and his daugther Irma was committed to a mental hospital in 1947.  So you can appreciate how he might not have been the happiest poet, and why he took a dim view of lots of things including fire and ice.  Still, there are people who think "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" (1922) is a happy poem, like he's describing a Thomas Kinkade painting.  He is not, trust me.  It is not a happy poem.  Read it again.

Of course meaning can be elusive, I admit it.  There will always be things you can't see.  For instance, smoke will get in the way and alter your perspective just like grief and loss do.   There are songs about it.  

At the moment, however, we probably don't need another mountain.  There are mountains and hillsides enough to climb, when you think about it.  And plenty of oceans and rivers to cross too.  Enough to last until the end of time at any rate.   Or until the smoke clears.  You wait and see.