Day two…all about the mountains

There were mountains as I went over Raton Pass, but as it was completely dark, I didn’t see them. I only know they’re not only there but beautiful from return trips when I get to the pass in the afternoon. 🙂 The first year I drove this way, I had no idea what was out there but my eyes were wide open catching for deer or elk bounding onto the highway and even for the curves of the highway itself in the dark.

But day two was all about the mountains. The Rockies from a moving viewpoint (or van-point) north of Denver,

rain over the mountains near Douglas, Wyoming,

a first glimpse of the Bighorns, and finally

the view from near the cabin. By the time I arrived, I felt I’d earned this view after a day of driving, grocery shopping, et al, and the drive up the mountain on a road that requires first or second gear on a rocky road not always quite wide enough for two vehicles, and a top speed of 10-15 mph if you’re in a van rather than a pickup truck or four-wheel drive vehicle. Arrive, unpack, and get away from the heat! Now we can settle in for the visit itself.

Urban canyonlands

I hadn’t been into “the city” (Chicago) for many months, but as the Art Institute was showing the Van Gogh’s Bedrooms exhibit and I had a free pass, I decided to make the trip.  Fortunately, we live in a suburb with a metra train line that goes right to Union Station and my husband, now working mostly from home, could drop me off, as parking near the station is difficult.

I chose to leave early, even though I’d arrive in the city with several hours in hand. If I went later, instead of a half hour trip, I’d be on the milk run train, stopping in every suburb between here and Chicago and consuming one and a half hours.  I’d already scoped out a bakery/coffee shop that sounded good and was more or less along the mile or so walk between station and Art Institute, so I went early, Kindle and camera in my bag.

Walking slowly in the crowd of disembarked commuters, I was brought to internal laughter by the irony of bright, cheerful ads for Colorado.  We were in the semi-gloom of a station in the midst of the third most populated city in the US and there were the pristine mountains and streams of the West.  I filled my soul with numerous looks as everyone trudged for the doorway.

The final irony was this decorated set of stairs leading up and out into the canyonlands of not Colorado, but Chicago.

Dwarfed in the urban canyons.

Today, I’m in the eastern urban canyons of Philadelphia.  Enjoy your weekend!

 

On the cover of the Rollin’ Stone (sort of)

After college, I moved to Steamboat Springs, Colorado to experience the life of, if not true ski bum, at least someone who lived, worked and skied in a ski resort.  I’d always wanted to live in the mountains and this was my chance.

But my first year was rather atypical, at least in terms of snowfall.  By Sunday, December 19, 1976, when ski season is usually in full schuss, complete with the famous champagne powder of Steamboat, there was only limited snow, with many resorts either not open or with only a few runs open.  In ski resorts, to paraphrase, snow is money, and lack of snow translates into no money and people going out of business.

But what does the New York Times have to do with all this and how did I end up on the front page (below the fold)?

In a bar in Evergreen, Colorado

(Finally found my long-ago poetry, from so long ago that the poems are written long-hand or typed, and filled with the emotion of comparative youth.  Perhaps they’ll bring back memories and emotions from your past as well.)