The Formula for Footing

I have just returned to the mitten state from the great Rocky Mountains of Colorado – boy do they have a way of charming even the most weathered soul. After a year of rooting into Michigan dirt between a pandemic and some other life occasions that made it wise to stay put, my friends from college and I were due west and went wheels up in pursuit of some higher elevation.

Colorado has always had a special place in my heart; the centennial state is where I first saw Rocky Mountain peaks, elk, and a moose. There is something about turning a corner on a switch back in some rusting vehicle to be surprised with the next view as you climb into the rather welcoming mountains. The landscapes of Colorado remind me of an octopus – effortlessly changing form and colors. In Morrison we viewed smooth red rocks, in Evergreen jagged charcoal cliff edges were mirrored in the still lake, and in Estes Park the pearly white peaks were practically giving off their own glow. Who better to share these mysteriously erratic views with than three of my best friends from college; Erikah, as giggly as she is kind. She is forever taking advantage of opportunities for jokes and is effortlessly blissful and a true joy to be around. Erikah loves a solid night's rest, any and all dogs, and could probably walk the globe if nobody tried to stop her and there was a path that covered the entirety of it. She is a great travel buddy and a friend I am grateful for. Meagan, who never misses a chance to make fun of you; she has a jar full of smart-ass comments that she carries with her everywhere and they never cease to be hilarious and true, although she can bring you back down to earth with one harmless jab she is by far the nicest person I hang around with in this life. She truly cares for people and it is obvious in all that she does. She makes fun of me every time I say, “Hi,” to a stranger on the street and then she turns to say, “have a nice day.” Finally, Matti; I am certain she is a decedent of Jeanne Baret. She is a frequent flyer, a fellow lover of hunting and fishing, and has a story for everything. Her childlike chuckle is highly contagious; she enjoys laughing loudly with all of us – I consider myself blessed to be able to call each of them a friend and to have traveled into the high country with a set of adventurous women like them.

While I’d love to recount every inch of the ground covered in this long feral weekend, I will summarize the highlights and some thoughts instead because as I sit here back on my porch on a partly sunny Wednesday afternoon in Michigan, the kind where the dense clouds are practically blue and the evening sun is lifting puddles off of the wet pavement, I can only think of one thing; how do we strike a balance between the adventure and the sedentary? How do we draw lines between the alluring distant lands and the comforts of home? How do we work incredibly hard but remember to make play a priority and does any overlap exist?

It is tough to strike a balance between civilized and feral – between honoring our modern necessity for conveniences while recognizing our wild blood hungry to walk upwards. I’m not sure that the haunting elk crossing our path on the trails can be compared to the sweetness of the hummingbird sipping nectar from the backyard’s flowers. I’m not so sure that the inconceivable landscape of foothills both close and far as you cast your eyes across land with no end can be compared to the lamp's soft glimmer in your living room as you return home to the comforts that a hot shower or warm meal can provide. The two do not live in the same category but yet both define our humanness. Without home there would be no exhilaration in going far away from it and without lands so far from home, no joy in returning after a long time away. Our ever-progressing technologies have stolen our flare for survival and yet our day to day lives have provided us with everything we could ever need to live more effortlessly by the minute. I’m not sure which I would choose given the choice but every time I return to the wild I must say it somehow too, feels like home. Each time I wade in the river or let the nearby pine graze against my passing shoulders I have an intrinsic sense that I am apart of this broader circle too. The one where the grass would overgrow if the deer did not eat it and the mountain lion would die without the deer and so on and so forth; only our four-legged friends have somehow found the balance before us and made it all make much more sense.

I now sit in an enclosed porch heated by a knob I can simply turn to warm the house that requires no collection of twigs or mingling of steel wool and a battery and debate whether I am even worthy of describing the nature that exists outside these windows that I desperately need to clean.

Nonetheless, Matti took us into the Boulder Mountains Park just hours before a thunder storm rolled in. She made hiking look as easy as stepping onto a moving airport walkway and we followed along joyfully with our audible breathing and faces sticky with sweat. When we arrived to the final look out after a couple of miles of trails, we were certain the mountains spoke and a longwinded rumble shook the hairs on our arms. I was certain if mountains spoke their voices would in fact be as low as thunder. The indigo clouds gathered across the far away peaks and as we sat quietly catching our breaths on the scattered rocky edge a fortuitous strike of lightening radiated the dark sky. We watched the bolt stretch to the bottom of the distant valley and cloud shadows crawl across the nearby foothills as the storm drew closer. A collision of nature unraveled on the mountains as sunlight fought for a few last moments to warm the trees and our skin but the storm demanded rain. A few drops on our legs were enough to put a bit of fire under us and we made our way back down the mountain side. It is funny the way you can never decide if going uphill is as difficult as going downhill but my knees are certain that my burning thighs are more worthy of the view than a return to the parked car. The balance crosses my mind again in this moment, the ascent to the overwhelming spectacles and the descent to a relaxing roll home in the breezy car; both wonderful in their own ways. The intrinsic motivation of climbing mountains can be difficult to explain to those who find no need to venture into the not easily achievable overlooks, to dirty clothes you quite like to wear, to let your otherwise smooth feet toughen and blister. Hiking mountains for sheer enjoyment has little tangible rewards unless you are lucky enough to spot a shed antler or long ago lost arrowhead and yet each step back down towards earth, I feel that I have gained something to return back with, something that I will carry with me for a few days or even a lifetime. It is rare that I leave the land without having been gifted something. Certainly, hiking into the woods or kayaking out into the choppy lake in pursuit of wild game has the potential of a physical gift if you have practiced shooting your bow and casting your fly line just enough but I would be lying if I said walking away empty handed from an east facing trail in the early day didn’t leave me buoyant or at the very least with some new found knowledge or peace instilled in my mind.

We work so hard to make money and purchase possessions, understandably so, but I sometimes wonder how it is we can do this with most of our time when we know things like mountain peaks and grassy meadow valleys are out there waiting for us. We are certainly meant to do more than watch clouds pass by on secluded mountain peaks but wasn’t the courageous sea-bound, mountain-bound, or west-bound human setting out for the unknown wild the start of something grand each time? Would we not be here chattering away on a piece of glowing paper that can be stored with hundreds of others on a folding plastic vessel with tiny gears that I can take anywhere with me if we had not had a longing for more? Long ago we went west to get to work, to find gold, find land, find news. Now, we go west to remember that the simplicity and yet grandness of the mountain itself was all we ever really wanted and all we ever really needed. When I think of what we went after and what we found I think of the city elk. The elk carrying his heavy antlered and readily armed head paces through Estes Park peacefully unimpressed by the walls we humans have built as he roams about but, in his poignant eyes, you can see his ancestral blood remembers the way the grass once felt beneath the concrete that buried it. He too, roams through a new world where cars and bikes rush past him on the street (I am certain that one day the elk in this town will adapt so much they will have blinkers on their asses to avoid collisions in these restless roads and carry golf clubs on their back just in case) but I can’t help but notice that when night falls the elk does not sleep between walls but under the stars; he returns to the dark forest calmed by the hooting owl and chirping crickets to sleep quietly until another day comes. I hope I will take a page from his book for my own from time to time, I think he may be onto something that we long ago left behind.

At any rate, the transient bliss of ascending into mountains and each curve in the road revealing another layer of verdant aspens and alpine illuminated by a midday sun has never grown old to me or my friends; the view reminds me of what God’s face might look like and it is always nice to meet the big guy so closely again when I return to the land. I often wonder why I ever leave places like that behind but as I sit here, I remember the aroma of the lilacs that bloomed in my yard while I was away. I think of just yesterday, how I jumped out of Erikah’s purple-ish fusion and squeezed my old college friends tightly before they tore away from my driveway bound a few hours north; a reminder that distance does in fact make reuniting oh so good. That hearing my friend’s laughter roar through Matti’s 200,000 mile plus Honda CR-V and singing terribly and loudly with them to songs showered with static while venturing deep into snowcapped hills would maybe not be so wildly perfect if we did it every day. Just like the lilacs wouldn’t be so sweet to return home to, had I been here to watch them bloom all along. While I am certain I will never grow tired of my larger-than-life college friends, the captivating and infinite mountain ranges, or the soft periwinkle pedals of the spring lilacs in the Midwest; I am certain that the ineffable existence of each; near or far, is just enough for me. Perhaps, all of it, in doses and in combination, sometimes this and sometimes that, is the balance I am seeking. The rugged and wise elk aimlessly pursuing grass in the bustling tourist town also retreats to the wild in the evening just to remember the goodness of the golf courses greens when he returns. While I often dream of what this silly suburban land that I look out onto from my porch did look like before we covered it in brick homes and wonder how many trees once lived here, I curiously rest my chin on the windowsill watching the spry rabbits chew on clover I let grow a little taller in the yard and I enjoy seeing my neighbor Charlie do just the same across the road and wave to me before returning to the comforting glow of his living room television.

Tomorrow, while I sit and stare at the many emails that poured into my inbox in my absence, I will remember that I am lucky to have work and that the work pays for the plane tickets and the tickets take us to far away lands worth visiting. That neither the work I do from my quiet home office tapping away on my keyboard nor the stroll up the mountain side just to get a better view is futile. While both have their ups and downs, one a bit more literally than the other; they are both meaningful in their own ways. I have not perfected this balance yet nor the formula for achieving it; but I am content knowing that both the tame and the wild have purpose. So now, I go off to a contemporary week woven with beautifully fast paced workaholics determined to progress until I can again return to roam the wilder places. After all, to be feral you must at some point be tame and at another, be wild. Cheers to feral weekends that make it all worth it; and long ones with good friends at that.

Thank you, Matti, for hosting the old crew for a hell of a time!

Post Colorado Suggestions:

• Rocky Mountain National Park: Touristy but necessary. We did the Emerald Lake hike. It is a moderate hike with worthwhile views. We had a snow-covered trail from start to finish in early May.

• Evergreen, CO: A mountain town with a beautiful river fed lake, simple but enjoyable treks, and Cactus Jacks bar. The shops aren’t a bad way to break up a nature filled trip either – Erikah, is it twelve shirts you now own that say Evergreen, Colorado?

• Boulder Mountain Parks: A plethora of easy to moderate hikes with views I will dream of for the coming weeks.

Colorado Recommended Gear:

• Benchmade Mini Boost Knife: For cutting open the mandarin orange bag. This spring assisted folding knife with a clip is perfect for an easily accessible pocket carry while still actively moving about. It can slice an apple in seconds, act as a self defense tool if needed, and is the ideal size for emergency carry in my opinion – rope and small branches are no match for this knife.

• Patagonia Arbor Classic Pack: For convenient and roomy supply carrying. It is comfortable no matter how many snacks and friend’s water bottles are stored in it.

• Good friends: For splitting “totchos” and beer pitchers with (among many other reasons).