I had seen mountains before. Mostly in pictures and in films, but I had seen them. In my distant memory I had splashed in an icy lake fed by the melting snow in the Swiss Alps. But this was different. I was older now and would remember these mountains for years to come.
The drive from Abilene, Texas to Denver, Colorado was long and flat. The road wound through prairie land, cutting a black strip through the golden grasses. Oil drills pumped monotonously on, pulling the thick liquid from the earth. The first sign that the plains were coming to an end was the silhouette of a volcano, rising in the distance. Soon pronghorn antelope replaced cattle and the road began to rise and fall, slowly at first, then increasing dramatically. I sat up taller as the van sped past the sign on the side of the road. “Welcome to Colorful Colorado.”
The road winds around a sharp turn and, suddenly, mountain peaks were visible. Hazy and yet somehow concrete. I felt the pull, was suddenly thankful for the long road that brought me there. I pressed my face against the window, eyes wide as everything disappeared in the face of the mountain range. I was alone with mountains. They towered majestically, just out of reach. Something sparked within me and my lips parted in awe. For a few moments I was lost, caught in a mountain-induced trance as I passed through Trinidad, a portal into another realm.
But as the van continued to roll on, the mountains faded out of sight. I twisted her head around, watching the mountains disappear from the rear window. Disappointed I watched as the road flattened. The Colorado lowlands lay before me and I was left wondering. Were the mountains even there? Or were they an ethereal gateway, offering a glimpse into heaven? Music drifted from the speaker, the voice of John Denver crooning and I heard him singing about me. She was born in the summer of her eleventh year, coming home to a place she never knew before.
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