Rocky Mountain High

It was a vulnerable moment, one I seized ... maybe because I was lightheaded from the elevation? Because I trusted these two forever and three brand new friends? 

The hiker riding shotgun that morning had pulled up Rocky Mountain High on Spotify and all but one of the 50- and 60-somethings in the van contentedly stopped talking to enjoy the iconic song. Even the 15-year-old in our merry band of adventurers loved the crooning. 

I let them have their moment with another song, then cut through the music to reveal, "I don't like John Denver." 

Gasp. Sputter. "What!?"

It's too freaking melancholy, I explained. In Denver's heyday in the '70s and early 80s, I spent an enormous amount of time alone. An only kid with a single working mom, I recognized early on how much time I spent inside my own head. If I turned on the radio, or inserted a cassette, I wanted peppy. Like the Saturday Night Fever or Grease soundtracks. Something to take me out of my head and do the thing I still only do when alone, wild, free, unhurried and unworried - dance in front of a mirror. 

That title, though. Ole John was onto something there. A couple of days earlier, we reached a lake in the still early morning and the first tingling of a Rocky Mountain high pulled me toward the water's edge. What I wanted most was to be alone (strangely ironic, I know) to soak in this incredible view.  

With my left shoulder leaning into a thin, smooth-barked tree, I gazed across a pile of dead logs to a curious configuration of boulders that very nearly looked like they'd been chiseled and purposely placed as a kind of wall. Profound happiness at seeing something that could only be accessed by using my own two feet got me thinking about the more than 12 months I had spent training to get to this spot. 

This actual literal spot on the shore of a subalpine lake. 

The late spring, summer, and fall of 2022 had been dominated by three unplanned trips to California, each with an open-ended return because caring for an ailing parent had no predictable timeline. But training somehow also kept happening, my strength slowly built to a noticeable difference. 

In the midst of my Rocky Mountain high that morning the full picture of what I had endured, and accomplished, last year was reflected in that lovely lake. Then, I cried for only the second time since my dad died on Nov. 1, 2022. 

The tears were brief, cleansing. The thin air filled my lungs and my heart with the deep understanding that because I could face death and climb mountains all in one year, I am always going to be ok.