Rocky Mountain High

The approach to the Rocky Mountain National Park through Estes Park was surprisingly disappointing. I was all hyped up for a big thrill. I’d heard all John Denver’s PR and was ready to be inspired.


While it did yield an image of the McDonalds with the best backdrop I’ve ever seen, up close the foothills were a bit of a letdown. I drove for a long time, at a low speed limit, around piles of rocks beside a slim stream. It wasn’t nearly as rugged and masculine as I’d imagined. In fact, it was all a bit wussy.


The rocks, as you can see, are pink granite. Somehow I’d never imagined the famous Rocky Mountains being so girly. I was starting to wonder what John Denver had been on about. Then, suddenly, I drove around a corner and I understood.


As I gazed out over the rainstorm that stretched out before me, but not on me, I felt a whole new kinship with John Denver.


I felt the Rocky Mountain High rush to my brain and was instantly addicted. It was love at first sight. I caught myself silently and solemnly promising the mountains that one day I will return. From wherever I am in the world, one day I will come home to them again.