My wife, Elizabeth, and our daughter, Elle, and I went back to the Colorado mountains at the end of September for a much delayed and needed vacation. It was unseasonably warm the week leading up to the trip. When we arrived, the fall colors – deep oranges fading into rich crimsons and vibrant yellows of the aspen colonies – had retained their hues longer than usual.
A hallmark of any time I spend in the Snowmass area is a particular hike. In the past I’ve frequently used it as a training effort, depending on how ambitious I set my pace. At 9,000 feet, a casual hike can get the heart rate and breathing up in a snap, depending on the grade of the trail. Fortunately, most of this trail’s grade is manageable, probably somewhere in the 3-7% range. If you want to run it, you actually can feel like your running as opposed to the feeling you get like toiling on a Stair Master when you hit a 10%+ grade on steeper trails. The payoff for your effort at the top is a meadow, “The Meadow,” that looks distantly into the Elk Range to Capitol Peak and Mount Daley. Think Julie Andrews twirling in the Alps type of vista and you’ll get pretty close to this view.
Despite frequently using the trail as a training session, I’ve never measured the distance of the hike. Quantifying it, in effect saddling the trail with metrics, and subsequently measuring performance against it, always seemed like it would taint my experience there. It’s too special of a trail to be burdened by expectation or worse yet, evaluation. The only thing I ever want to expect there is that it will be quiet, peaceful and beautiful.
When I lived in Snowmass for a couple of summer months after graduate school in ’01, this hike served as both workout and meditation session. Solitude in a grove of aspens with nothing but the sound of rocks, dirt and roots under your feet, a breeze tapping the aspen leaves like chimes and the steady rhythm of your breathing in the dry Colorado air is a little piece of heaven. If anything, it’s as pleasantly alone as I can imagine spending any time without company.
And with company, the trail holds particular sentimental significance. After first hiking it more than 15 years ago and summiting to The Meadow, I knew that this was a unique place, a refuge that if shared, should only be shared with personal dignitaries. In March of 2002 I returned to the trail with Elizabeth, then my girlfriend of 6 years. We had hiked the trail dozens of times prior to this trip, but we never had summited in the winter.
For that trip, unbeknownst to her, we had traveled the short drive from our home in Edwards to Snowmass with a stowaway – a diamond ring. Tying skis to our backpacks and carrying food for a meadow lunch (and me carrying two more items of contraband – ring and champagne), we strapped snowshoes to our feet and began our first winter traverse of the trail. I said very little on the way up, self-consumed by the inner-rehearsal of my proposal that was changing with each nervous step I took. ¾ of the way there I heard Elizabeth yelling at me from behind. “Where are you going? Will you slow down?!!?” In my nervousness, I had moved from casual snowshoe walk to a slight jog and had since dropped my soon-to-be fiancé. Sensing my anxiety from the night before and the haste in my present walk, Elizabeth asked what was wrong with me. As calmly as I could, I said everything was fine and we continued moving up the trail.
When we arrived to The Meadow, I again let my nerves manage me. I led (basically threw Elizabeth over my shoulder) her to a fallen tree at a ridgeline and had her sit down. I could see her confusion clearly, as my actions were more out of character than usual. As I dropped to one knee, her bewilderment persisted. I don’t think it was until I actually gracelessly yanked the ring from my jacket that she understood what was really going on. Fortunately, the beauty of The Meadow probably bailed me out that day, as I had butchered any romance out of the hike. After she said yes, we had some champagne, a bit of fried chicken (you can take the boy out of Memphis…), strapped on our skis and headed down the trail. This time, Elizabeth led the way, and I, rubber-legged and exhausted from all of my nervous tension, followed in joyous relief.
When we arrived back to Snowmass for this trip, my number one priority was to take Elizabeth and Elle on the hike. Elle is only 21 months, but she’s a beast, or at least a good sport, so I knew the hike wouldn’t be an issue. Elizabeth and I held hands, let Elle run by herself (“Elle can do it” has recently become her mantra). When she got tired, one of us would throw her on our shoulders, toting her like a royal she thinks she is (and I, too often, treat her). We enjoyed this special place as a family, adding another component to the design of an already extraordinary piece of our lives. That’s the beauty of special places that you are able frequent with some regularity. Each time there is a different experience. Each time there is a different memory. And you don’t have to compare them against each other, as each holds different meaning, and as such, equal importance. Having Elle with us, though, was extra special, extra significant. It felt like after 15 years, I was finally, well, home.
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