It’s no secret that I’m out of shape. But the huffing and puffing that grabs my lungs and ties them into a taunting fit of wheezing and coughing is not from my excess weight or lack of sufficient exercise. Okay, well maybe it has something to do with it, but the loss of breath, this time, is a direct result of the elevation of the Colorado Rockies, a range that I have a long-standing admiration for. That approbation runs deep enough that as I stand on a ridge in Snowmass and look out, I completely disregard the fact that I just fatally wounded my camera onto a rock and into the cold creek moments ago.
It’s here that I welcome the thin air and plummeting temperatures. The winding roads, the wildness of its interiors, everything about the Rockies assemble inside me a true appreciation of the chances I’ve had to bath in all its glory over the years. Like a devote Catholic making their weekly church visit or a yogi rising at five a.m. to stretch even further than the day before, I stare off my balcony or through my car window, into the woods or directly in front of me on the trail and I thank my lucky stars for the powers around me. The mountains are the closest thing I’ve ever had to a deity. I throw my respect at them like a helpless child repenting his most foolish sins inside a wooden phone booth of God and Priest. This is my cathedral and I bask in it for all I can before trudging into the belly of the Midwest.
perfect frame to a vantage point all your own: the window shot
Aspen trees make me happy