July 2018
I’m not particularly a stranger to Colorado.
I’ve visited a few times, the long winding roads into the mountains a snake fading into the horizon. The purpling clouds hanging overhead in the evening always reminded me of the rainbow skies of an Oklahoma sunset in the summer time, hot wind at my back as I would watch the sun slip into darkness. I’ve spent a few weekends in the Denver area–a ball game with my father in the summertime one year, an old video game forgotten in exchange for a night under the flood lights, a Marina concert on the eve of my 18th birthday, an odd and deep yearning lodged beneath my ribs.
We took this particular trip when Lauren, my roommate, and I were considering a move, considering outside options in terms of where we may live or what we really wanted to do in the unnamed future. I look back sometimes and am thankful we didn’t leave home, for many reasons, but mostly because it forced me to take a look at the reasons for why I was considering leaving in the first place. I felt listless, unmoored at a dock I thought I didn’t need, and I wanted to feel a bit more control over the direction rather than sitting unused in the harbor.
This trip turned out to be just what I needed.
When Lauren and I finished our ten hour drive into Denver, we ended up staying in a small suburb just outside of the city, where the roads laid out in a similar pattern to back home, with the addition of the mountainous backdrop. The sky, a clear and cerulean blue, stretched out over us as we drove into a neighborhood across the street from some fairgrounds, and we slept off the day’s travel
The Rockies
We drove to Estes Park in the morning, then traveled a little ways past it into the heart of the Rocky Mountains. The lush green of the foothills obscured everything but the road in some places, and then immediately dropped off into cliffs, multitudinous shades blending together in browns and reds and blacks, as we rounded a corner. I could see what looked like roads below us, but I couldn’t be sure since they were covered in the greenery of the mountains. I was struck then, with the beauty I had missed so much of in the Alps of Germany. I missed the nature and the unadulterated view of the hillsides sloping up into the skyline and the sound of birds and wildlife and the earth itself heaving a sigh into the sunny summer day. I didn’t want the trip to end, in that moment.
Eventually, after we had lathered ourselves in sunscreen but before we boarded one of the buses that would take us into the Rocky Mountain National Park, I realized a dire mistake we were just about to embark on.
We were so dumb.
We spent exactly one day acclimating to the higher altitude and then simultaneously decided we would go on a hike in the Rocky Mountains the next day.
It was too late.
We already boarded the bus.
By the time we made it to the trailhead and talked to the ranger at the edge of what was definitely a forest, we passed the point of no return, making it impossible to not accomplish the monumental task of climbing a mountain. Prairie girls, we were, we still foolhardily took to the task, pushing through the exhaustion from the drive to hike and hike and hike.
To be honest, I don’t really remember the walking so much as I remember the pit stops on the trails. The evergreens shot up around us like weeds in a garden, overtaking the rocky landscape–squirrels and birds and snakes wound their way around the inclines of the rock face. Lauren and I chatted with a few family units making the trip themselves on those breaks.We laughed about our own stupidity–who decides to hike in the mountains the second day?!
We rounded one of the corners, not quite far enough into the mountains to obscure the full view, and I caught a glimpse of the full breadth of the wilderness. Miles and miles stretched out before us, so far down the roads looked like scars on the face of the foothills, growth over and healed by time.
I always say nature astounds me.
It’s as true a statement as any.
But take it from a woman who used to loathe camping trips even when she was in the Girl Scouts–someone who screamed when she even saw a glimpse of a raccoon, or (even still) runs away at the slightest inkling of a wasp–I am so in awe of what this world has to offer I can’t help but feel small. I can’t help but respect it, writing homages to the beauty I’ve seen in the course of my short life. I don’t care how many mountains or streams or rivers or forests I see. I’ll always want to stop. I’ll always want to take stock of what might eventually fade away.
We eventually made it to the end of the trail, weaving through boardwalk lain down by those who came before us. Emerald Lake was the last stop on the hike, several miles into the mountains, and we still had the entire trail to hike back down. There were several people there already, so after a short rest we backtracked to a stream off the side of the trail to relax at before returning. The water was so clear, and so cold, that it shocked my system when I dipped my toes in. Even now, thinking of the smooth rock beneath my feet gives me a sense of serenity that makes me want to go back.
Relaxing Night? Nah.
That evening, Lauren and I were ready to pass out on top of the sheets rather than crawl between them. The hike had taken a lot out of us, and the good food and company made the end cap of the day sweet. We had visited a local restaurant for dinner, so we were both sated and happy. I had just pulled off my boots, and by the time I was gingerly peeling a particularly putrid-smelling sock from my foot I heard Lauren from the other room let out a scream.
“What is that?!” I heard Lauren call from the next room. “Sam, they’re everywhere!”
I didn’t have a clue what she was going on about, but I was in for a rude awakening–the moment I stepped foot into the bedroom and looked behind the bed at which Lauren pointed so accusingly, I nearly screamed.
There were spiders.
Everywhere.
They crawled in between the floorboards and behind some of the piping of the basement ceiling, and the moment we both looked for them, they were all we could see. I took a broom, swatting as many as I could see even though my heart pounded through my chest, a beating in my ear drums I couldn’t quite shake. Lauren ended up sleeping on the couch out where I was because of the proximity to the bed in the other room, and I still have nightmares about them crawling between the sheets.
I shudder to think of them still there.
We didn’t leave until the beginning of the next week, but our gallivanting is a story for another time. I dream a lot of the Rocky Mountains skies in the summer time, now, with the crisp air and sunlight unobscured by the dust we so often see in Oklahoma. I think of what that trip represented: a new time and place, a new destination, a new step.
Sam