Rocky Mountain High

Conversation with my dad, when he mentioned the mountains:
Me:  “Ugh.  I hate the mountains.”
Dad:  “You HATE the mountains.”
Me:  “Yes.”
Dad:  “YOU hate the mountains.”
Me:  “Yes.”
Dad:  “You hate the MOUNTAINS.”
Me:  “Yes.”
Dad:  “Well, that can’t be.  No one hates the mountains.”

Estes Park, CO

Dad was right—I don’t hate the mountains; I do, however, love to bait him with that kind of comment.  The truth is that I have a love/dislike relationship with the mountains.  I grew up in Ft. Collins, Colorado, at the base of the foothills.  My family spent time in the mountains every summer and fall.  We went to Estes Park, a bustling, scenic little town that serves as a base for the three million tourists who come to Rocky Mountain National Park every year.  The six of us would walk around Estes, eating caramel corn while we wandered in and out of shops that sold everything from dreamcatchers to pocket knives with scenes of the Rockies painted on their blades.

Cabin in Hermit Park

From Estes, we sometimes went up into Rocky Mountain National Park to hike.  More often, we drove two miles from Estes to Hermit Park, where we camped for a few days.  Hermit Park is about one thousand acres of pine- and aspen-covered mountains, with an unexpected meadow in the middle of it.  When we went there, in the seventies and eighties, almost no one else was there.  The cabins were rustic but perfectly serviceable for our family, with bunk beds and a table.  There was no running water, so as soon as we arrived, we walked to the pump and filled up containers with water.  Mom cooked our meals over the campfire, then we’d sing and toast marshmallows while the sun went down.

Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it?  Except for this:

Road to Estes Park

Getting there.  The drive from Ft. Collins to Loveland is easy.  But then you have to drive up a canyon to get from Loveland to Estes Park.  That drive up the canyon is a beautiful scenic thrill for most people.  I am not one of those people.  I get motion sick if I even move my head too fast.  As a kid, sitting in the back of our minivan while we drove the twenty-five miles of winding roads up the canyon to Estes Park was torture.  As soon as we began the drive, my stomach began to protest.  It didn’t help to have my little brother Adam wave beef jerky in front of my face, asking me if I wanted some.  The whole drive was a battle to keep myself from throwing up.  I didn’t always win that battle.

I also have severe asthma, so the minute I got out of the van in the mountains, I’d begin to wheeze and sneeze—different plants and trees meant new pollens for my lungs to react to.  Worst of all, though, for me, was the bugs.  I’m terrified of bugs.  And mountain bugs are different from city bugs—they are numerous and enormous.  Bees are the size of hummingbirds.  Red ants look like they could carry off an entire picnic basket, not crumbs.  And then there are the ticks—vile little vampires that look like poppy seeds but attach themselves to human flesh and have to be pried off.

Sickness and bugs aside, once I’m in the mountains, I love them.  I’ve always thought that cities are prose; the mountains are poetry.  Some of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen and moments I’ve experienced have been in the mountains:

The meadow in Hermit Park–an unexpected open grassy field, dotted with columbine and Indian paintbrush.

Dad teaching us to skip rocks in the lake by the meadow.

The most vivid yellow I’ve ever seen–the leaves of aspen trees in autumn.

Meadow in Hermit Park

A moment during a September dusk when the six of us were walking back to our cabin, and Dad stopped us.  He pointed across the meadow and whispered for us to be still.  There was a line of elk stretching from one end of the meadow up into the mountain on the other side.  As they ambled across the meadow, they bugled—an unforgettable sound that begins as a trumpet and ends as a haunting, high-pitched shriek.

Sitting with my family on a huge, flat rock next to a lake in Rocky Mountain National Park.  The lake was absolutely still, the water so clear I could see down to the bottom.  And the air, filled with the smell of pine and lakewater, was so fresh that I could take great gulps of it without needing my inhaler.

Monty and I on our honeymoon, at a bed and breakfast near Estes, watching a sudden afternoon thunderstorm from the porch of our room, then taking a walk afterward in the equally sudden sunshine, the trees still quivering with raindrops.

John Denver wrote “Rocky Mountain High” after living in the Rockies for three years.  He was inspired to write the line, “I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky,” after watching the Perseid meteor shower on a dark, moonless night in the mountains.  Monty and I have watched the Perseid meteor shower together every August since we’ve been married—in our backyard, in semi-dark spots in the city, and, in the last five years, parked next to a cornfield on completely silent summer nights.  This year, we’ll be watching it in Hermit Park.  Monty already reserved the cabin.  I’ll probably get sick during the drive up the canyon.  I’ll have to bring inhalers and a bag full of allergy medication.  But.  I’ll get to see the Perseid meteor shower in the mountains.

I’m finally embracing this lesson—that life is about pushing myself through discomfort in order to find something beautiful.  It’s about deciding that I’ll swallow down the rising anxiety, brace myself for a battle against my fears and pain, and head out on my journey—a journey whose end will be the stuff of dreams.  After this particular journey, I’ll get to lie on my back next to Monty while we watch it rain fire in the sky.  That’s worth any amount of discomfort or fear.  Even if Monty has to pry a tick off of me when we get home.  It will still have been worth it.