Nomadic Rag

Snowshoeing was like walking the beach, except that the ocean churned on mountaintop—made only accessible to those with layers of grit and swollen feet.

Our time living in Colorado was a transformative endeavor. When I first moved to the Centennial state, at age 19, I had done so without ever seeing it beforehand; moreover, it was an impulsive entry into CFS (Colorado Film School). For some reason or another, my heart burdened itself with burning fury—a great manifestation of life without my father perhaps. Such intense burning that I felt I had to prove myself to the rocks on the street. There was nothing anyone could tell me that wouldn’t face disparage. I was brash, in a crude attempt to protect myself from heartache, and I brought that way of thinking into my art. Those formative years could adequately be described as an endurance test of the soul, a cry for notoriety. Fits of desperation drove me away, far away at a sickening speed by way of cannon fire, yet the mountains snatched me from the sky where my wife was, ready with the net.

Beneath the vast and vivid blue we pondered our own personal journeys, the strife that brooded there, and how it always led to greater understanding. Despite hailing from the East Coast, we felt a pathway to our Western ancestors; the true pioneers and outlaws who came before. Their rugged spirit clung to these peaks, and perhaps, that was the origin of their spirit entirely.

Whatever it was remained: the endless awaited adventure comprised of equal parts craft beer and trailheads, the sensitivity surrounding animals, the thinner air which permeated the lungs—it had done something chemically to our brains. Much more, mind you, than any dispensary facilitated, although it had been in rotation from time to time.

One of these highs came from Estes Park—the self-proclaimed gateway to the ‘Rocky Mountains’. It was our second anniversary, back before I slipped the ring on her delicate finger, where Ashley found vacancy for us in a creekside bungalow.

Our sweet Ophelia sat this adventure out. This trip had taken place before we rescued our other dog, Benjamin, from the clutches of the ‘Dumb Friends League’ shelter—a fitting name for its furry inhabitants, yet it was later changed due to popular demand. However, in hindsight, he had been born a couple months prior to our anniversary.

“Benny, what the hell were you doing before we saved you??” Ashley asked as he wagged his tail at her.

“He was abandoned because he has a lot of problems.”

Much like other rescue adopters, it brought us great amusement and wonder to envision our dog being weird elsewhere. Every now and then, we listened to Benny’s adoption voicemail left by Bill, the whimsical warden of ‘Dumb Friends’, back when he was named “Benedict Cumberbark”.

Getting back to Estes, we were reluctant to bring Ophelia as this was meant to be a more “romantic” outing unfit for daughters. Brooke reassured us that she could wrangle Phi Phi back at our apartment flat in Denver, of which we were all on the lease. She was Ashley’s other sister, older than Morgan.

Our window view overlooked the boulevard, adorn with vaulted ceilings and ample natural light. A grand oasis where plants thrived despite the arid climate; where we poked as many holes in our work schedules so that we could make a new discovery someplace. To this day, Ash still dreamt of waking up there with a stack of banana pancakes.

We rode northwest out of the city, stop and go—the typical city slog. Yet our patience wore thin passing ‘Mile High’ stadium, as was the sentiment with most natives during the Russell Wilson era.

I still recounted the ad-campaign with ‘Centura Health’ that locally aired nonstop the moment they signed him. It depicted Russ as the successor to Peyton Manning, who also appeared, in a mockumentary style famously popularized by ‘The Office’. Not only that, but they plastered his face to countless billboards across town, mascarading him like some kind of “savior”. It was far too much pressure; he was sat at greater heights than the 14’er’s themselves (14,000+ft. mountains). The city of Denver failed Russ, not the other way around. Even Miles hopped on the damn bandwagon.

The knot of cars unraveled until we hit Boulder—not “a” boulder, mind you, which was not uncommon to hear; and frankly, if heard again, it would have caused me to seek one out. No, no—the Boulder I brought up was a scenic college town filled with rich people pretending to be poor. ‘Pearl Street Mall’, one of the famous strips there, displayed a lot of this “humility”. Full of great cocktail bars and shopping, sulky street acts drew sympathetic crowds only to return, by bicycle, to their modern-mountain-mansions that overlooked the ‘Flat Irons’. Some of my favorite hiking trails meandered through those diagonal rocks though—what a shame. Everyone was wearing long pants and sandals. Dog of choice, Australian shepherd. Means of living, hedge fund. “New money”, I believe was how Ashley described it.

At last, we descended down the pass to Estes Park, which was equally as affluent but at least they owned it. The town had a beautiful lake nestled safely within a pocket of mountains. The tallest, ‘Long’s Peak’, the only 14’er nearby, sat as the crown jewel to the blustery landscape. Colorado was home to 58 peaks over this revered benchmark, the most of any state in the country.

Light flurries peppered off the glass, but a clearing was in sight. We didn’t see any elk initially as we had in the fall. Autumn in Estes was the best chance to see one as it was the mating period for the bulls; consequently, the town also acted as a refuge from hunters during this time. However, it wasn’t long until we spotted a row of cars peeled off onto the shoulder, cameras trained in one direction.

“Oh my God, no way—no wayyyy!”

“Look at all them.”

Our suite had a brick fireplace in the bedroom with some wood leftover. I purchased extra upon checking in, the lobby at the resort felt how old records played. Softly at first, antiquated perhaps, but having sat with it long enough the soul hummed a familiar tune. There was a tree of ornate wind chimes for sale, and I suspected that one of the lady clerks fashioned them in her spare time. A few swayed from a blowing heat duct, and light danced in the stained glass designs. Everything had a delicate touch, contrasted overhead to thick rustic beams.

It was nice to get away with Ashley, especially in the mountains. After all, romance was most abundant in such remote areas. What made it particularly attractive arose from the unknown. Partly within the wilderness, and the other part within ourselves. We relied on each other to be honest—a not so easy ideal when faced with the world. For within the world, romance, as we knew it, saw no place. But within the wild, it held infinite.

We climbed a hill of snow behind our suite which lead to another. I tackled her in the valley, only because it felt like the thing to do. We flopped around a bit and threw snowballs that disintegrated mid-air. Our laughter filled the peaceful sky, and I kissed her on the forehead. Eventually, we listened for the sky to laugh back, but it never did.

The sun was getting ready to set so we went back to the room, changed, and drove down into town. By the time we did this, it was dusk and the flurries started up again—which made the ‘Stanley Hotel’ look more formidable than usual.

It was famously depicted as the ‘Overlook Hotel’ in the Stephen King novel, ‘The Shining’, where his wife and him stayed for a night back in 1974. Though not shown in the film adaptation, against popular belief, it served as a means of inspiration to artists and onlookers alike. Ash and I would’ve booked our stay there, but the reviews were sort of muddled.

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” — James Howell, Proverbs (1659)

On the backside of E. Elkhorn Ave., we stumbled into Nepal’s with rosy cheeks. The cold front was pushing in and our stomachs hadn’t anything to keep us warm. It felt like we just made it to safety from an avalanche. Although the restaurant was largely vacant upon our arrival, we were cautiously optimistic on the food’s quality; the staff seemed to be family-operated by true mountain people—the Nepalese.

It had been our first foray into the cuisine, but it resembled much of Indian. Ashley eyed their hot chai, which they all sipped on from freshly brewed pots, so we both ordered some. Our waiter was extremely cute. He enjoyed seeing young people come into what was likely his restaurant, despite the obvious language barrier. Once we tasted the hot silky tea, we knew we were in for something special. It seemed at first that the hot chai was what brought us back to warmth, but it had been the one that served it.

Much to our delight, diners flocked in as we received our appetizers. I ordered a dozen chicken momo and Ash got their vegetable curry. The momo was simply divine. Just like any phenomenal pasta, the wanton wrappers were prepared fresh—packed full of onions, herbs, and turmeric. But what made them truly unforgettable was the rich, comforting sauce to dip.

The curry held layers of flavor that prompted me to order more, but with meat this time. Our waiter grinned once he heard I wanted to try the lamb. It was served with stewed jalapeños, other peppers, and onions. I was sweating through the heat, but the tenderness alone had me shoveling it down. It was so good, in fact, that once I finished I ordered another—the only time I ever consumed two whole entrees in my life, that’s how feral it made me. He refilled our hot chai more times than a Jersey diner; he was beaming from our enjoyment.

“Everything was so delicious, thank you again. We can’t wait ’til next time,” I said.

He responded, almost in a whisper, “Ohhh—very happy you like it.”

Later that night, we cozied up to the crackle of the fire and went to sleep. It was nights like these that hit us even in the moment—how great life was.

I started a couple of logs in the morning soot, which was nature’s best alarm clock. It was a gradual awakening that drew more focus and tending as the fire grew. Once it was fully lit, so too was the lighter. Nothing quite matched the hot burn of fire against the face on a cold day.

We ate a light breakfast and rented our snowshoes from ‘Estes Park Mountain Shop’. The longhaired millennial quickly fitted us and breezed through the paperwork.

“‘Estes Park Mountain Shop’, its owners, employees are not responsible for bodily injury, damages, or losses sustained as a result of using the rented item/property, even if caused by the negligence of ‘Estes Park Mountain Shop’ up to and including death—sign here.”

We looked at each other and smiled, then I said, “Sounds like a sweet deal, how many hours do we get?”

“Oh no, you get them for the whole day—just bring them back before we close.”

Ashley mapped a trail that looped across ‘Bierstadt Lake’, which was a popular summer spot. We were technically inside of ‘Rocky Mountain National Park’, excited to test our rentals on the fresh snow.

The footprints along the way were scarce, so at times we felt aimless. Normally a path of dirt or gravel mindlessly directed the hike, but without it, the hike felt more visceral. We found ourselves questioning junctures to where we even considered turning around. Trails into the unknown were mostly a balancing act; a duality of either pushing forth or prudent retreat. Communication, weather forecasts, and necessary supplies were at the epicenter of what made a successful outing—and these things were always changing.

However, we brushed into some fellow hikers who told us we were nearly there so we kept on. Each step felt like it came with wet concrete. Our spikes had collected and packed thick snow beneath us, but eventually we saw the clearing. The frozen lake was vast and the crosswinds had kicked up. Clouds rolled in over the mountains, ready to erase the foot-traffic of the day. We knew it was time to return our rentals.

The remainder of our trip was spent in and around our suite where there was a hot tub. We soaked off the grueling hike, went downtown and grabbed dinner. E. Elkhorn Ave. was an amazing strip that was fun to brewery hop in the summer. But in the winter, it was best enjoyed around a mug of hot chai.