Sophie and I are currently at Lake John, an unpretentious name for a spectacular State Wildlife Area located on the Western Slope in Northern Colorado.
It’s a special place that’s both all of the Colorado Rockies and none of them at once. It’s located on a high plain between the tail end of a northern segment of the Continental Divide and the beginning of a southern segment. It’s located about 45 minutes northwest of the town of Walden.
From our 9000’ perch here we can see so far both up and down the Western Slope that it feels like the next closest thing to being aboard a low orbit satellite. That’s the “all of Colorado” part.
The “none of Colorado” part is that, aside from the modest sized Lake John where we’re camped we don’t see the Colorado typically seen on posters or magazines.
There are no jagged granite walls flanked by steeps speckled with golden Aspen groves. No glacial lakes carved into stone like so many vestiges of the Earth’s creation that, from space look more like puddles than beautiful geography.
No water wheels churning alongside raging mountain streams driven by snowmelt, no hot springs, no sand dunes, no dinosaur bones, or cliff dwellings. Even the eastern plains’ special charm isn’t visible from where we sit.
But it’s all there, mile after mile of beautiful Colorado, laid out before us as if on a enormous topographical map. It’s like having a peek at something few ever see but, once seen is transformative in ways that can’t immediately be understood. Rather, it reveals its secrets over time, as necessity dictates.
From here all I can do is soak in the beauty and marvel at the smallness of my own being. And that smallness is something we all share, making our successes and failures alike seem like nothing by contrast. None of that matters here.
Any readers of this blog are-or will soon be-well aware of the significance of this time of year. While I generally don’t talk about my NDE on August 10, 2012 it’s imperative that I write about it.
Talk about humility and smallness - this area is the perfect place for me to begin processing my seriously heavy-duty emotions. For me now those emotions are associated with the greatest physical trauma I’ve ever had.
Even now, as flashing thunderbolts criss-cross gray skies and rain pelts my camper windows as thunder booms miles away I feel a cathartic cleansing at work. This gray-skies-and-rain pattern, uncharacteristic for July here, has been going on since we arrived three days ago.
But that’s part of the beauty here. Despite my humility, I still can’t help but think this magical environment is here to help me. It’s where I can feel safely rooted in nature to the point where I have the audacity to think it’s here just for me.
But it is. It’s here for you and for everyone else too, if only we can cut through the noise of the daily grind to feel it. Whether they’re aware at the time or not those largely removed from this grind, like young people may stand to gain the most from this place.
It’s true for me that this special place has divulged its secrets over time. Looking across at the mountains I realize that it was here long before I arrived and will exist long after I’m gone. It’s true for you, too.
Kids, I believe stand to gain the most from seeing what’s visible outside my window right now. While anyone can take away a little of the awesomeness of this place kids, in their open-book minds, will take away the most. In this I am certain for I’m nothing if not a fifty-something kid myself.
Kids can look at those mountains and wonder, some for the first time what their life might be like someday. In reflecting on their lives decades later kids my age will be able to see with more clarity than ever the difference between the two versions: What could be, and what actually is.
And the energy vortex that can only exist between two monolithic upheavals from eons ago is palpable still. The fact that humans are responsible for acknowledging its significance and even for its grand name “The Continental Divide” is remarkably significant beyond words.
In today’s world of hyperbole and superlatives “The Continental Divide” is a refreshing understatement. And I cordially invite anyone to come here for a time to reflect on whether any of the noise inundating Front Range-type existence matters. There is no hyperbole here, no superlatives, no bullshit.
Here the phrase “It is what it is” speak the real truth. Anyone with even a little imagination can see for themselves the Earth from which we each came and what really, truly matters. In this we’re again all alike.
So forget social media for a while and have a look at everyone’s real beginnings. These mountains have been here to witness the joyous victories and the most demoralizing defeats that have ever inspired or demoralized mankind. It’s a story that documents our very survival, right on up to this moment.
In my current state, likely facing manifestations of things gone wrong long-ago I can’t imagine a better place to kick off the summer edition of Trauma Season.
The reopening of a chronic wound and its subsequent need for bandaging is as symbolic as the rain and lightning that just passed through. But for a barely audible trickle, the world here is quiet again.
Nature reasserts itself on the environment from which it just took cover: A pelican glides past my window as if from nowhere while birds I’ve only recently taken to identifying resume their chorus of chirps and whistles. Life goes on as before, the grandest reminder of a survival story we all share- The History of Man.
Though some of us act a little more Neanderthal than others, myself included at times, through these mountains we all share a glimpse into our own past.
Which leads me to the present. Sitting on the roof of Colorado, or at least one of its upper floors, I expected more clear blue skies here than we’ve seen. Being July in a state averaging 320+ days of sunshine annually it seems reasonable.
But, of course I failed to take into consideration one undisputed fact. Though I’m at the whim of things in my Front Range life, here my feelings count for something more.
The insights into myself that I get from my vantage point here are enabling, not disabling. Perhaps elsewhere I’m considered ‘disabled’ but here I’m as enabled as any living thing, even the mosquitoes.
As with my beautiful Sophie, I needn’t hold on to any insecurities or self-doubt. I can just be, and that’s perfectly fine.
On one hand it’s sad to think that I can conceive of no other spot where this is so true. On the other hand, the specialness of this place would not exist if the energy here could be felt elsewhere.
The only regret that I feel is that I’ve at least two more weeks of Trauma Season to survive. In the face of such emotional stress it’s cold comfort to realize that two weeks don’t even merit acknowledgement by the splendor in which I now sit.
Just as the warmth of the alpenglow is even more astounding after an evening storm, the arms of the world here hold me tightly and keep me feeling safe. I, in turn offer safe cover for Sophie, who is terrified of lightning and thunder.
The stability of seeing mankind’s roots laid out before me offers me a poignant reminder that I can, and will embrace the survival that’s sure to come.
Note: Some subconscious references I made while writing this include (but aren’t limited to):
Jacob’s Ladder, performed by Rush, lyrics by Neil Peart
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