Arrive early, when only a few cars litter the parking lot, a cool mountain air lingering along ankles. You don't know where you are meant to be going, take screenshots of trailheads before cell service disappears into the valleys below. The dog stops in every stream to frolic, you stare at pine trees and wonder why you haven't fallen in love with this iteration of wilderness yet.
It's not for lack of trying.
A few miles in, the trail begins to climb. Up, up, toward the treeline, toward the sky, switchbacks across flowering meadows and babbling brooks, patches of snow strewn like afterthoughts, and then, around a particularly treacherous corner, an alpine lake appears at the feet of cragged peaks. Someone once told me if the Appalachians were comforting grandparents, the Rocky Mountains were unruly teenagers, and I can see the resemblance. So much to prove, so much ending up only half right.
The last mile before we reach the car, the dog is running: she sees the end in sight. (She sleeps the whole way home.) I was won over, for a moment, by the high mountains, but when we reach the outskirts of civilization, the wildfire smoggy valley floor, the perpetual afternoon overcast, it blows off me like dirt on the trail.
My time in COlorado comes to an end.
I haven't words yet for what to make of it.
No comments:
Post a Comment