Mountains

Having been born and raised in Chicago, and not having traveled outside the state of Illinois until my marriage, for many years mountains were not accessible to me except in pictures. Yet I loved them without having seen them. When I drew or painted my landscapes as a young girl, I often included them in my backgrounds. They seemed to provide an extra dimension that was absent in my Midwestern prairie surroundings.

And so it was with great excitement when we planned a trip to Colorado in the 1960′s, a trip that included our growing family of four always beautiful, always curious, sometimes rambunctious children. All six of us would be viewing the Rockies at extreme elevations and crossing The Continental Divide! As we piled into our new beige station wagon, a Ford Country Squire complete with simulated wood panels, visions of lofty snow capped peaks danced through our heads. 

Driving across Colorado on our way to Denver, however, the boring miles of flat farmland  seemed to go on forever. Farms, crops and telephone poles and more of the same. ”Are we there yet?”"Where are the mountains, Daddy?” “It’s so hot in the car, Mommy!” And I had to admit that it was as hot as the Sahara in that crowded station wagon!  

We were really watching our pennies as our family expanded, and John had decided that air conditioning was a luxury we could do without. When we purchased the wagon, for many people AC wasn’t a necessity. Hard to conceive of today, but it was a different time. However, as the hot, dusty air swooshed and whooshed through the open car windows, it was clear that air conditioning would have been most welcome on this trip!  We had to leave the windows open. The temperature was in the 90′s, and to ride in a closed car with the sun blazing away could have proved fatal. It seemed as though we had found our own “dust bowl”.And, where oh where, were those mountains anyway?

We checked our maps to be sure we had not gone astray. No one had told us there was so much flat land in Colorado! Finally, after we all scanned  the western horizon for what seemed an eternity without success, we spied  some hazy apparitions in the distance. Dared we hope that they might be low hills? It seemed like eons passed before we  actually could be certain. Eventually, however, as we drove closer to them, we concluded that there was no question about it. We were indeed in the foothills of the Rockies! What a thrill for the six tired and rumpled occupants of that cool, “wood paneled” Ford Country Squire of the 60′s!  The real adventure had begun!

I remember finding ourselves in our first mountain canyon, of which there were many, on our way to Trail Ridge Road and the Continental Divide. Numerous fishermen in high boots were intent on catching what I assumed to be mountain trout out of clear, crystalline streams that flowed over pebbles. Our road twisted and turned, revealing one beautiful gorge after another, scenes that might have been lifted from a travel magazine. The sun glistened on the bubbling brooks and danced off the heavily forested canyon walls as we made our way ever upward, dutifully following the signs that promised we were on our way to the Great Divide, that high point that divides waters that will flow into the Atlantic Ocean from those that will flow into the Pacific.

Trail Ridge Road! Its very name suggested adventure! Beautiful scenery at every turn. It was if we were living a dream! However, in time we came to notice that the forest was gradually getting sparcer and sparcer as we made our way upward. Suddenly bright blue skies turned into gray skies, laden with heavy dark gray clouds. The temperature dropped dramatically, so much so that we reached for our sweaters and turned on the car heater. It began to drizzle as we wound our way ever upward. It seemed we were traveling on what looked more like a lunar landscape than anything earthly.

Finally we saw a sign that proclaimed that we were indeed crossing The Divide and farther on we came upon an overlook and a shelter that provided information about the stark tundra landscape and some history about Milner Pass, a famous crossing point of the Rockies. WE DID IT! We had crossed the Continental Divide at an elevation of over 10,000 feet!

Though it was mid-day, it was almost as dark as night; we had to turn our car lights on as we proceeded to make our way back down from Milner Pass. Our lights reflected on the shiny, black topped highway, and I found myself shivering in fear as we drove the curves of highway over what had become a black abyss. ” Silly me,” I thought to myself, “This is a popular and historical site. If it were dangerous, it wouldn’t be open to the public”. Still, I moved away from the window and did not look down.

The car seemed eerily quiet. I turned around to check the kids and saw that they had their eyes closed and were hunkered down away from the windows. Driving up to the Divide had been one thing, but driving down was quite another. With the highway  pavement slick with a mixture of snow and sleet, and no car ahead to light the road, my heart was in my stomach. When I turned around again,I was in for a surprise. It was then I noticed that there was a string of cars following us, and it suddenly dawned on me that my fearless husband, John, was leading a long string of headlights out of the darkness. I felt a swell of pride as I realized that our Country Squire was squiring a caravan of cars behind us. My husband, John ,was our fearless leader descending the Great Divide, a leader undaunted by what driving challenges might lie ahead as we snaked around our mountain! Though I admit my eyes still avoided the windows, I felt much more comfortable. “ After all,” I said to myself as I gazed at my stalworth and handsome husband at the wheel, “  We are all in good hands”.

For more of June's musings, visit http://juneluvisiart.com/