The Wild I Know

"My most memorable hikes can be classified as 'Shortcuts that backfired'."

- Edward Abbey

The first time I visited Colorado, I hated it.

I possessed the firm belief that mountains were fake, anomalies of our vision, plastered against a too-pristine blue sky. Surely, someone, something, had painted the peaks across the canvas of our horizon. They were beautiful. The tiny trees blending into one another, the rivers running off from the frozen tops, the carved-out trails for summer biking and winter skiing... none of it sat right with me. 

Mountains at Winter Park

Driving up 287, or I-25, or whatever endless road wasn't closed off, I thought about my world back in Austin. The closest thing we had to the mountains were the dry cliffs and trails around Lake Travis or maybe the neighborhood canyon teeming with cicadas and cacti and snakes. But at least those were real. I could step through my back fence and stroll through the dying woods, climb an oak tree, spot a deer, and emerge on the opposite end in my friend's cul-de-sac for a midday lunch. 

That first trip was in 2016. Upon some reflection, I probably only hated the mountains because I was fourteen, and fourteen-year-olds hate everything. But I digress.

My family road trips to Colorado at least twice a year now. We have a place in this small mountain town called Winter Park, and it's my favorite place on earth.

During the winter, we spend weeks on end unplugged from the rest of the world. I read plenty of books curled up by the fire, watching the snow drift over the trees around our house. In the mornings, we'll hop on the town bus to the mountain base and ski for hours. Outside of the busy season, you can spot moose across the mountain, and if you weave through the right clusters of trees off the trail, you'll encounter views that steal your breath more than the muscular effort it took to get there.

View from Wild Spur Peak

Of course, skiing is not particularly Abbey's idea of unindustrialized wilderness, but bus systems, cross-country skiing, and minimal on-mountain development (apart from the base) have kept the Winter Park peaks relatively untamed. It's one of the best ways to feel alone with your thoughts. Warm, even in the bitter cold.

While winter in the mountains is stunning, I think the summer season of activities has stronger roots in wildness. Without the threat of ice and snow, creatures roam the woods and trails, spooking tourists and delighting locals. If you know where to look, understand how to be still, and listen, you'll see a world you once believed yourself bigger than, only to feel insignificant in it.

Over the past few years, we've spotted incredibly rare foxes (a 1 in 10,000 genetic mutation even, if you believe my brother's friend) and had a few too many close-ups with moose on trails. ("You look a moose in the eyes ten feet in front of you and tell me you wouldn't shit yourself," my dad reminds us.) Rams dot the highway sides, cows graze the fields, squirrels and chipmunks and birds and fish and mountain lions and wolves add to the animal system. 

You can hike or bike the Fraser Trail, a miles-long path with a gorgeous river and nature fun facts. Plenty of lesser-known trails flow through the forest, ranging in mileage and difficulty, but all contain stunning waterfalls and mountain views.

The actual mountain is covered in paths for walking, hiking, or mountain biking. Like Abbey hoped, there's no place you can drive through. You have to commit your body to the journey. 

I wonder if the mountains only felt fake before I got to know them, intimately and intentionally. Now, I seek solace in their grandeur. I look forward to leaving my responsibilities behind and connecting with myself, my family, and the soft ground beneath my feet. I like how the sunshine slits through the pine trees and the cold smell of the rushing river. I revel in the challenge of exploration, the physical work of biking or rafting or hiking or boarding. The best days are the accident-driven ones. The days when being outside goes beyond the trail maps or signposts and becomes a real adventure. 

There are perks to being part of the painting, if only temporarily. You start to appreciate the artistry that accompanies each stroke.