Fall in Vail can be both lovely and torturous. The weather can be beautiful or miserable. The town becomes ghost-like and the locals refer to the heart of it as mud season. The following is an email I wrote to my dad at the very start of my first fall in Vail.
Dad:
It’s been in the air for a couple weeks now but today it happened. The seasons clicked. Labor Day might still be a week away but today marked the end of summer, the beginning of fall, and the promise that winter won't be far behind. I felt the colder air before I even got out of bed and it encouraged me to stay snuggled in the blankets long after my alarm went off. When I pushed the curtains aside and peeked out the window I saw the first dusting of snow on the Gore Range. The clouds were thick and low; they were grey and menacing.
The leaves are just starting to turn yellow and the autumnal equinox is still a month away. There will be days in the next few months when the sun shines and Valley residents savor the last flickers of summer. But that crisp feeling in the air today will linger until snow covers everything and it will remind us, like the snow on the Gore does today, that winter is never far behind us or in front of us.
Love, Tracey
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Day at the Beach
I often write letters to people in my journals, letters I’ll never send and the recipient will never read. I recently came across the following letter that I wrote to a friend during a trip back to Michigan after my first summer in Vail. I still remember this day and how I felt when I wrote this.
October 21, 2005
Today, inspired by your creativity and tales of days spent combing the sand for treasures, I spent some time on the beach. I felt drawn to it by the crisp breeze blowing across the lake, by the sound of waves lapping at the shore and the gulls’ distant squawks. I sat in the cool beige sand in a spot surrounded by long dune grass, which sheltered me a bit from the chilly breeze and allowed me to fully reap the benefits of the sun’s warm rays. I watched sea gulls swoop down and spiral up into an endless blue sky and I was jealous of them.
I reviewed the events of our vacation thus far and thought about the summer, I recalled the most defining moments, and realized how I’ve changed and how I’m continuing to change. I thought about us and about possibilities. I daydreamed about the future.
I went for a walk along the water after a nap in the sun. Zebra mussel shells crunched beneath my feet as I walked; there were thousands of them washed up along the water’s edge. I bent down and examined a cluster of them and marveled at how even a pest such as this one is beautiful. It made me think about how there are many things in this world that are both incredibly beautiful and horrible at the same time.
I found a stick on my walk, it was strong and smooth and all the rough edges had been whittled away by water and sand. Wavy lines in different shades of gray ran the length of the stick and its ends were rounded and dull. It seemed to carry with it a story, a journey that I couldn’t completely comprehend.
When I turned around and began making my way back up the beach I saw two women walking toward me, as they neared I noticed one was using a red-tipped white walking cane and was latched onto the arm of the other woman, using her as a guide. I observed them discreetly as they walked. They were talking quietly and seemed to be enjoying the same peaceful moment I was. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be blind on such a walk, to smell the fresh water breeze, to hear the children laughing in the distance and the waves next to you, to feel the soft sand under your feet, but not be able to see the grandness of the scene. I wondered if she had been without sight for her entire life or if it was something she had lost along the way. I closed my eyes for a moment as I walked but I could still see the vivid colors that surrounded me. I wanted to tell the woman, explain to her what it all looked like, how the sun, the sky and the trees around us looked like fall; the trees in their multi-colored grandeur, the sun at an angle that seemed to show everything in a new light, a light that reminds you of how rapidly everything around you is changing. I wondered if she feels lonely at times, even when she has a friend beside her, when all her other senses whisper to her the beauty of a day she cannot see. Goosebumps tickled my arms and a sadness moved through me at the thought of such a loneliness. I realized that a day such as this one could be so beautiful but carry with it such a heavy emotion and how, in a way, it was very much like those pesky zebra mussels.
I also realized, on the beach today, how precious days like this, moments like this, are. I felt like I had walked into an exquisite photograph for a few hours where only I existed. I believe the beach is a magical place, it’s the only place I’ve ever experienced these quiet moments of Zen and it is my deepest wish to carry this day with me for awhile.
October 21, 2005
Today, inspired by your creativity and tales of days spent combing the sand for treasures, I spent some time on the beach. I felt drawn to it by the crisp breeze blowing across the lake, by the sound of waves lapping at the shore and the gulls’ distant squawks. I sat in the cool beige sand in a spot surrounded by long dune grass, which sheltered me a bit from the chilly breeze and allowed me to fully reap the benefits of the sun’s warm rays. I watched sea gulls swoop down and spiral up into an endless blue sky and I was jealous of them.
I reviewed the events of our vacation thus far and thought about the summer, I recalled the most defining moments, and realized how I’ve changed and how I’m continuing to change. I thought about us and about possibilities. I daydreamed about the future.
I went for a walk along the water after a nap in the sun. Zebra mussel shells crunched beneath my feet as I walked; there were thousands of them washed up along the water’s edge. I bent down and examined a cluster of them and marveled at how even a pest such as this one is beautiful. It made me think about how there are many things in this world that are both incredibly beautiful and horrible at the same time.
I found a stick on my walk, it was strong and smooth and all the rough edges had been whittled away by water and sand. Wavy lines in different shades of gray ran the length of the stick and its ends were rounded and dull. It seemed to carry with it a story, a journey that I couldn’t completely comprehend.
When I turned around and began making my way back up the beach I saw two women walking toward me, as they neared I noticed one was using a red-tipped white walking cane and was latched onto the arm of the other woman, using her as a guide. I observed them discreetly as they walked. They were talking quietly and seemed to be enjoying the same peaceful moment I was. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be blind on such a walk, to smell the fresh water breeze, to hear the children laughing in the distance and the waves next to you, to feel the soft sand under your feet, but not be able to see the grandness of the scene. I wondered if she had been without sight for her entire life or if it was something she had lost along the way. I closed my eyes for a moment as I walked but I could still see the vivid colors that surrounded me. I wanted to tell the woman, explain to her what it all looked like, how the sun, the sky and the trees around us looked like fall; the trees in their multi-colored grandeur, the sun at an angle that seemed to show everything in a new light, a light that reminds you of how rapidly everything around you is changing. I wondered if she feels lonely at times, even when she has a friend beside her, when all her other senses whisper to her the beauty of a day she cannot see. Goosebumps tickled my arms and a sadness moved through me at the thought of such a loneliness. I realized that a day such as this one could be so beautiful but carry with it such a heavy emotion and how, in a way, it was very much like those pesky zebra mussels.
I also realized, on the beach today, how precious days like this, moments like this, are. I felt like I had walked into an exquisite photograph for a few hours where only I existed. I believe the beach is a magical place, it’s the only place I’ve ever experienced these quiet moments of Zen and it is my deepest wish to carry this day with me for awhile.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Birthday Weather
The weather forecast printed in the “Vail Daily” for tomorrow, September 21, 2009, is bleak. The predicted temperature high is 53 and the low is 29. “Showers by day, mixing with snow at night” is written under a cartoon of a cloudy, rainy sky. Tomorrow is my 27th birthday and it is an appropriate forecast for the day.
My dad has told me that September 21, 1982 was a cold and rainy day. Fall in Michigan, like fall in Colorado, can be spectacular, with vibrant colors, clear blue skies, and temperatures in the 70s. Fall in Michigan, like fall in Colorado, can also be rather miserable, with cold, cloudy days that lead to that freezing rain and snow combination fondly referred to as sleet. The day I was born was a miserable Michigan fall day. It was the kind of weather my family refers to as Tracey’s Birthday Weather, which makes tomorrow’s forecast so appropriate.
It also feels appropriate because it reflects the way I feel at the moment. My birthday this year comes just days after saying good-bye to someone very special to me and I’m a little heartbroken. I’m also flat broke with no employment lined up for the near future. My first thought this morning was that tomorrow is the first birthday in 27 years that I’m not looking forward to.
But then I saw the forecast in the paper. A miserable Colorado fall day. Perfect. See because even though it reflects the way I feel at the moment I love Tracey’s Birthday Weather. I love an excuse to stay home all day wrapped in a blanket and to put on a sweater for the first time in months. I love that coffee just tastes better with the first hint of snow in the air. I find something familiar and comforting in a miserable fall day. It makes me feel safe. Secure. And I can’t think of a better way to feel tomorrow. Because even if I feel a little down at the moment I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to seeing what the next year holds, that I’m excited to live it and to grow and learn. So tomorrow I will enjoy Tracey’s Birthday Weather and I will feel safe, secure, and hopeful. And that is all worth looking forward to.
My dad has told me that September 21, 1982 was a cold and rainy day. Fall in Michigan, like fall in Colorado, can be spectacular, with vibrant colors, clear blue skies, and temperatures in the 70s. Fall in Michigan, like fall in Colorado, can also be rather miserable, with cold, cloudy days that lead to that freezing rain and snow combination fondly referred to as sleet. The day I was born was a miserable Michigan fall day. It was the kind of weather my family refers to as Tracey’s Birthday Weather, which makes tomorrow’s forecast so appropriate.
It also feels appropriate because it reflects the way I feel at the moment. My birthday this year comes just days after saying good-bye to someone very special to me and I’m a little heartbroken. I’m also flat broke with no employment lined up for the near future. My first thought this morning was that tomorrow is the first birthday in 27 years that I’m not looking forward to.
But then I saw the forecast in the paper. A miserable Colorado fall day. Perfect. See because even though it reflects the way I feel at the moment I love Tracey’s Birthday Weather. I love an excuse to stay home all day wrapped in a blanket and to put on a sweater for the first time in months. I love that coffee just tastes better with the first hint of snow in the air. I find something familiar and comforting in a miserable fall day. It makes me feel safe. Secure. And I can’t think of a better way to feel tomorrow. Because even if I feel a little down at the moment I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to seeing what the next year holds, that I’m excited to live it and to grow and learn. So tomorrow I will enjoy Tracey’s Birthday Weather and I will feel safe, secure, and hopeful. And that is all worth looking forward to.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Journal Entry 02/09/05
This blog is not a personal diary for me. My journal, however, is. I use my journal as a place to rant, to document events, and to help me sort through my thoughts. The entries aren’t always well written and sometimes don’t even make much sense to me when I read them later. Some of the entries are deeply personal and I hope no one will ever read them. And some of them, like the one posted here, I think are worth sharing.
I was reading an old journal the other day, looking for ideas and inspiration and this entry made me smile. It made me think about who I was then and where I was at that point in my life. I wrote it after my first visit to Colorado before I decided to move to Vail.
February 9, 2005
I feel a bit like I’m cheating by writing in this at the moment. See I have another journal going right now that still has blank pages. One entry left of bank pages to be exact. When I fill those pages it will be the last entry in a book that has chronicled the past few years of my life. It’s a book full of rambling notes, stories and thoughts about life. Not much of a page-turner, but it’s my life nonetheless and it deserves a good ending.
It doesn’t feel right to start the next book without finishing the last. It’s tough, though, because my life is in limbo right now. I can see where I’m going and where I’ve been but I’m finding myself somewhere in the middle of it all. I’ve yet to close that last chapter, to experience the ending there, or perhaps I have but I haven’t realized it. In any case I’m not ready to write it.
As for the beginning of this next chapter, I suppose I’m writing it right now. I’m not quite sure why the beginning is easier to write than the ending. Perhaps it’s because the beginning is more exciting than the ending. Perhaps it’s because I’m scared of the ending. Perhaps it’s because I’ve already experienced this chapter’s first adventure. Because I’ve already learned from it, already grown from it and already changed from it. This volume begins after a six-day trip to Colorado with stops in Vail, Glenwood Springs, and Aspen.
I learned on that trip that people who vacation in Vail or Aspen have considerably more money than people who vacation in Florida (most of my vacations until recently were family road trips to Florida). The people I observed vacationing in high-end Colorado resort towns do not seem the type to pack up the minivan, throw on some Bermuda shorts and join the caravan of families trekking down to Orlando or Tampa for spring break. They wear fur coats, shop in stores like Prada, drink expensive wine, and spend vacation days skiing. People who vacation in Florida wear tacky floral shirts, shop in discount souvenir shops, sip brightly colored drinks, and spend vacation days getting sunburned at Sea World. This is not to say that those who spend time in Vail or Aspen do not like to spend a day at Sea World, shop for souvenirs, or wear Bermuda shorts. They just seem to go about it in a more expensive, classier way.
That observation is one of many from my recent trip, more stories to come later. Colorado was definitely different, though. Good different. The trip has left me thinking a lot about that place as a potential new home. We will see what happens in the months to come.
I was reading an old journal the other day, looking for ideas and inspiration and this entry made me smile. It made me think about who I was then and where I was at that point in my life. I wrote it after my first visit to Colorado before I decided to move to Vail.
February 9, 2005
I feel a bit like I’m cheating by writing in this at the moment. See I have another journal going right now that still has blank pages. One entry left of bank pages to be exact. When I fill those pages it will be the last entry in a book that has chronicled the past few years of my life. It’s a book full of rambling notes, stories and thoughts about life. Not much of a page-turner, but it’s my life nonetheless and it deserves a good ending.
It doesn’t feel right to start the next book without finishing the last. It’s tough, though, because my life is in limbo right now. I can see where I’m going and where I’ve been but I’m finding myself somewhere in the middle of it all. I’ve yet to close that last chapter, to experience the ending there, or perhaps I have but I haven’t realized it. In any case I’m not ready to write it.
As for the beginning of this next chapter, I suppose I’m writing it right now. I’m not quite sure why the beginning is easier to write than the ending. Perhaps it’s because the beginning is more exciting than the ending. Perhaps it’s because I’m scared of the ending. Perhaps it’s because I’ve already experienced this chapter’s first adventure. Because I’ve already learned from it, already grown from it and already changed from it. This volume begins after a six-day trip to Colorado with stops in Vail, Glenwood Springs, and Aspen.
I learned on that trip that people who vacation in Vail or Aspen have considerably more money than people who vacation in Florida (most of my vacations until recently were family road trips to Florida). The people I observed vacationing in high-end Colorado resort towns do not seem the type to pack up the minivan, throw on some Bermuda shorts and join the caravan of families trekking down to Orlando or Tampa for spring break. They wear fur coats, shop in stores like Prada, drink expensive wine, and spend vacation days skiing. People who vacation in Florida wear tacky floral shirts, shop in discount souvenir shops, sip brightly colored drinks, and spend vacation days getting sunburned at Sea World. This is not to say that those who spend time in Vail or Aspen do not like to spend a day at Sea World, shop for souvenirs, or wear Bermuda shorts. They just seem to go about it in a more expensive, classier way.
That observation is one of many from my recent trip, more stories to come later. Colorado was definitely different, though. Good different. The trip has left me thinking a lot about that place as a potential new home. We will see what happens in the months to come.
Monday, August 10, 2009
RE: Life With Boys, DATE: June 27, 2005
The following is another email I wrote to my dad during my first summer in Vail. I am, and always have been, a girly girl. I was living with three guys at the time and, after growing up in a female-dominated household, it was a bit of a challenge.
Dad:
I’m sitting in an apartment that looks like a college pad inhabited by guys. Why? Because it is an apartment inhabited by guys, three of them to be exact. This is a rare moment when I'm sitting in the living room enjoying (if that's what you call it) the company of both Joe and Dave, two of the guys I'm lucky enough to call my roommates at the moment. Both are currently sloppily enjoying pasta and, in case Aaron (my little brother) hasn't eaten any lately, let me remind you of how guys tend to eat pasta. It's not pretty. Guys don't eat pasta. Nope, they slurp it then belch it, which adds to the foul boy smell that has dug its talons into the furniture and carpet in this place. I spend a good majority of the time holding my breath. The other part of the time I'm passed out from holding my breath for too long in the altitude. I enjoy my living arrangement much more when I'm passed out.
Let me give you a visual. First there's the kitchen. It's sort of a toss up which room grosses me out more: the bathroom or the kitchen. If I clean either they remain in that state only until one of the guys enters the room. The kitchen isn't a large area. The floors are stained and the stove must have a birth date circa 1980. This can all easily be overlooked when the space is clean as, in general, I tend not to spend a great deal of time in any kitchen. On a good day there is only one pasta-crusted pot left on the stove, only two cupboard doors left open and I only have to brush the crumbs from the floor off my feet a couple times. On a bad day I put flip-flops and a face mask on before entering the room.
The living room has two tattered brownish couches and a chair to match. Guy-type magazines are strewn across the coffee table (if ever I leave one of mine there it is quickly re-distributed elsewhere). The room's highlight is the entertainment system, a large TV complete with a DVD player, a VHS player, and a multi-disc CD player. They've got it rigged so the sound for the TV comes through the CD player’s speakers resulting in offensively loud movie watching. Did I mention it smells in here? The walls in the living room are relatively bare, which the guys see as a problem. Their solution, go online and buy a giant Michigan flag, as we all hail from the state. The flag will arrive in the mail at a later date and they plan to hang it dead center above one of the couches. They were pretty proud of themselves on that one.
Should I touch on the bathroom or just leave that one to your imagination? Let's just say that I finally broke down and cleaned it a week ago. I had to buy rubber gloves and Lysol with bleach. It wasn't pretty. It's already dirty again.
I'm allowed to decorate my room to my taste (I say allowed because I put three magnets on the refrigerator at one point and was ridiculed for them so much that I removed them). I'm tempted to put up pink ruffled curtains just to balance out the rest of the apartment, or maybe a vanity in one corner with a pink satin chair and lots of perfume and makeup. I'll sing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" at the top of my lungs while putting curlers in my hair. I have an overwhelming urge to fully embrace every girly part of me right now and not hold back. We're talking singing along to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack while staring dreamily at a poster of Patrick Swayze. We're talking fuchsia nail polish and lots of lace. I'm being pushed over the edge here. I'm not sure I can be held responsible for my actions from this point forward.
Things aren't all that bad I suppose. After all I’m in Rocky Mountain paradise and it's beautiful. Things have been a little rough, though. I miss my friends and I've had it with being around guys all the time. But I don't want to go home. When things get really tough, which they have, I tell myself I can go home, and ask myself if that's what I really want to do. I don't. I'm not overwhelmingly happy yet, which bothers me sometimes, but I still feel like this is the right move and I trust that in time this place will become home.
Well, Dad, I'm off for now. Write to you later.
Love, Tracey
Dad:
I’m sitting in an apartment that looks like a college pad inhabited by guys. Why? Because it is an apartment inhabited by guys, three of them to be exact. This is a rare moment when I'm sitting in the living room enjoying (if that's what you call it) the company of both Joe and Dave, two of the guys I'm lucky enough to call my roommates at the moment. Both are currently sloppily enjoying pasta and, in case Aaron (my little brother) hasn't eaten any lately, let me remind you of how guys tend to eat pasta. It's not pretty. Guys don't eat pasta. Nope, they slurp it then belch it, which adds to the foul boy smell that has dug its talons into the furniture and carpet in this place. I spend a good majority of the time holding my breath. The other part of the time I'm passed out from holding my breath for too long in the altitude. I enjoy my living arrangement much more when I'm passed out.
Let me give you a visual. First there's the kitchen. It's sort of a toss up which room grosses me out more: the bathroom or the kitchen. If I clean either they remain in that state only until one of the guys enters the room. The kitchen isn't a large area. The floors are stained and the stove must have a birth date circa 1980. This can all easily be overlooked when the space is clean as, in general, I tend not to spend a great deal of time in any kitchen. On a good day there is only one pasta-crusted pot left on the stove, only two cupboard doors left open and I only have to brush the crumbs from the floor off my feet a couple times. On a bad day I put flip-flops and a face mask on before entering the room.
The living room has two tattered brownish couches and a chair to match. Guy-type magazines are strewn across the coffee table (if ever I leave one of mine there it is quickly re-distributed elsewhere). The room's highlight is the entertainment system, a large TV complete with a DVD player, a VHS player, and a multi-disc CD player. They've got it rigged so the sound for the TV comes through the CD player’s speakers resulting in offensively loud movie watching. Did I mention it smells in here? The walls in the living room are relatively bare, which the guys see as a problem. Their solution, go online and buy a giant Michigan flag, as we all hail from the state. The flag will arrive in the mail at a later date and they plan to hang it dead center above one of the couches. They were pretty proud of themselves on that one.
Should I touch on the bathroom or just leave that one to your imagination? Let's just say that I finally broke down and cleaned it a week ago. I had to buy rubber gloves and Lysol with bleach. It wasn't pretty. It's already dirty again.
I'm allowed to decorate my room to my taste (I say allowed because I put three magnets on the refrigerator at one point and was ridiculed for them so much that I removed them). I'm tempted to put up pink ruffled curtains just to balance out the rest of the apartment, or maybe a vanity in one corner with a pink satin chair and lots of perfume and makeup. I'll sing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" at the top of my lungs while putting curlers in my hair. I have an overwhelming urge to fully embrace every girly part of me right now and not hold back. We're talking singing along to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack while staring dreamily at a poster of Patrick Swayze. We're talking fuchsia nail polish and lots of lace. I'm being pushed over the edge here. I'm not sure I can be held responsible for my actions from this point forward.
Things aren't all that bad I suppose. After all I’m in Rocky Mountain paradise and it's beautiful. Things have been a little rough, though. I miss my friends and I've had it with being around guys all the time. But I don't want to go home. When things get really tough, which they have, I tell myself I can go home, and ask myself if that's what I really want to do. I don't. I'm not overwhelmingly happy yet, which bothers me sometimes, but I still feel like this is the right move and I trust that in time this place will become home.
Well, Dad, I'm off for now. Write to you later.
Love, Tracey
Monday, July 27, 2009
Jump
It was during my first summer in Colorado, on one of my first camping trips, that I found myself standing on the edge of a fifty-foot cliff that hovered over the Colorado River prepared to jump. When we first arrived at the spot I feigned excitement when my male companions realized this was the ideal spot for cliff jumping, encouraged them to go for it, and settled into a nearby hot spring.
As I watched them leap off the edge, splash, and sink into the water once, twice, three times I began to get inspired. They emerged each time laughing and looking alive and refreshed. I wondered how it feels to be floating in air for that split second, to meet the cold quick-moving water with such speed and force. It seemed like one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals, jumping from a cliff in the sparkling Colorado sunshine, landing in the renowned Colorado River. I thought about it to the point where I knew if I didn’t do it I’d regret it. I suggested to the other female camping with us that weekend that we make like the boys and jump. She thought it was a fabulous idea and we decided we’d at least make our way to the top of the cliff and look down.
I became even more inspired when we got to the top. We were at a cliff-lined bend in the river, a Union Pacific train whistled past on a cliff on the other side of the river then disappeared into a tunnel, traveling a path paved long ago. I wondered how long it had taken the river to shape this cliff to make it a good jumping spot. I wondered if this had been the perfect jumping spot back when the Union Pacific railroad tracks were first constructed and if ancient versions of ourselves, donned in dusty bathing costumes, had found this place long before we had.
Looking down, down, down at the water I cleared my mind of cluttered thoughts and concentrated only on summoning the courage to jump. Just thinking about it now, recalling the height, the feel of the warm rocky ground my feet were clinging to, makes my stomach tumble. My companion and I counted to four (because three is just not enough time), took a deep breath, and leapt.
I remember floating in air for a brief moment, my stomach fluttering somewhere in my head. I remember hitting the water. I remember the pain. I jumped with what the guys were quick to point out was “the wrong form” and hit the water hard. The water was cold and swirling and the force with which I hit ripped my eyes open and twisted my bathing suit in an unflattering way. I kicked my way to the surface and grabbed onto the closest, sturdiest rock. I was shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and praying the pain would leave me quickly. The guys told me when I first surfaced the look on my face was that of pure panic. I assured them that the feeling in my gut at that moment was that of pure panic.
Under the stars that night I reflected on the day. I had spent the year after college, before moving to Vail, on the edge of a cliff, waiting and wishing for the courage to jump. I had felt unable to move in any direction, with no motivation to observe or create. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, on the edge of a cliff looking over the beauty and possibility in front of me, knowing it was only a quick leap away. The ground under my feet was sturdy and familiar, comforting. But, I have found, I can only stand on the edge of a cliff for so long before I start to fear falling or being pushed against my will, or worse, before I lose my courage. So because I didn’t want an opportunity to pass, because it was either jump or step away from the cliff, I counted to four and I leapt.
As I watched them leap off the edge, splash, and sink into the water once, twice, three times I began to get inspired. They emerged each time laughing and looking alive and refreshed. I wondered how it feels to be floating in air for that split second, to meet the cold quick-moving water with such speed and force. It seemed like one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals, jumping from a cliff in the sparkling Colorado sunshine, landing in the renowned Colorado River. I thought about it to the point where I knew if I didn’t do it I’d regret it. I suggested to the other female camping with us that weekend that we make like the boys and jump. She thought it was a fabulous idea and we decided we’d at least make our way to the top of the cliff and look down.
I became even more inspired when we got to the top. We were at a cliff-lined bend in the river, a Union Pacific train whistled past on a cliff on the other side of the river then disappeared into a tunnel, traveling a path paved long ago. I wondered how long it had taken the river to shape this cliff to make it a good jumping spot. I wondered if this had been the perfect jumping spot back when the Union Pacific railroad tracks were first constructed and if ancient versions of ourselves, donned in dusty bathing costumes, had found this place long before we had.
Looking down, down, down at the water I cleared my mind of cluttered thoughts and concentrated only on summoning the courage to jump. Just thinking about it now, recalling the height, the feel of the warm rocky ground my feet were clinging to, makes my stomach tumble. My companion and I counted to four (because three is just not enough time), took a deep breath, and leapt.
I remember floating in air for a brief moment, my stomach fluttering somewhere in my head. I remember hitting the water. I remember the pain. I jumped with what the guys were quick to point out was “the wrong form” and hit the water hard. The water was cold and swirling and the force with which I hit ripped my eyes open and twisted my bathing suit in an unflattering way. I kicked my way to the surface and grabbed onto the closest, sturdiest rock. I was shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and praying the pain would leave me quickly. The guys told me when I first surfaced the look on my face was that of pure panic. I assured them that the feeling in my gut at that moment was that of pure panic.
Under the stars that night I reflected on the day. I had spent the year after college, before moving to Vail, on the edge of a cliff, waiting and wishing for the courage to jump. I had felt unable to move in any direction, with no motivation to observe or create. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, on the edge of a cliff looking over the beauty and possibility in front of me, knowing it was only a quick leap away. The ground under my feet was sturdy and familiar, comforting. But, I have found, I can only stand on the edge of a cliff for so long before I start to fear falling or being pushed against my will, or worse, before I lose my courage. So because I didn’t want an opportunity to pass, because it was either jump or step away from the cliff, I counted to four and I leapt.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
RE: Lions and Tigers and Bears, DATE: June 25, 2005
My dad has taught me more about writing than any book, class, or professor. We email frequently and I’ve saved many of our messages. The following is an email I wrote him during my first summer in Vail and is one of my favorites.
Dad:
I recently had my first genuine Colorado camping experience. It was more along the lines of mosquitoes and mountain lions and coyotes than lions, tigers, and bears. And to be honest I didn’t see any mountain lions or coyotes, or many mosquitoes for that matter. I’m confident, though, that the mosquitoes were there because I have more bites than I’ve had since sixth grade camp. As for the coyotes, I heard them howling throughout the night and I must say I’m rather happy to not have met one. And I neither saw nor heard a mountain lion, however, while hiking around Rifle Falls I saw a sign instructing parents to keep their children close around dusk and dawn as this is mountain lion country and they are likely to attack around those times.
Printed on the sign was a list of instructions on what to do if a mountain lion does attack. Among other things you should first try to act larger than you are (in an attempt to scare away the larger-than-life predator I assume). If that doesn’t work (which why the heck shouldn’t it? It seems completely logical) you ought to try throwing rocks at it, or, go ahead and fight back if it should come to that because, as the sign reminds visitors, “people can fight off mountain lion attacks.” It made it seem as logical and as common as “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Of course you are not, under any circumstances to run away from a mountain lion. Now I suppose I understand the logic behind that one, we all know mountain lions love moving targets and they are fast, those devils, but I gotta tell you it would take a lot of self-control and clear-mindedness in the heat of the moment to remind myself I shouldn’t run.
I later saw a sign posted on a dumpster warning guests to keep their trash out of the way of bears and I wondered who might win in a fight between a bear and a mountain lion. I tossed the question out to my fellow campers and we all pondered it (one of the deepest deep thoughts of the weekend). We came to no solid conclusion, but my money’s on the mountain lion, unless, of course, the bear has read the “How to Survive a Mountain Lion Attack” sign. I can only imagine what would happen if a bear started chucking rocks at a mountain lion. I hope I never encounter either beast, or a coyote for that matter. It was enough of a thrill for me to just ponder what if.
That was last week’s trip. It definitely took some convincing to get me to go along. This might surprise you but I’m not exactly the camping sort. I don’t get all excited thinking about sleeping on the ground in a tent, taking late-night hikes, and bringing a roll of toilet paper along just in case. But the boys found another girl to join us, a lake we could swim in, and somehow I found myself committed. And while the campsite left something to be desired––it was dusty with little shade––there were outhouses with toilet paper and I found them to be tolerable if I breathed out of my mouth. The ground was rocky and I’m not a fan of tents but the lake was amazing, an oasis in a mountain desert. That combined with the Rocky Mountain backdrop and I easily forgot that I couldn’t take a shower for a couple days.
And I even went along for a midnight hike (ok so I complained the whole way up but at least I went). It was a sacred moment, lying on my back on top of a hill under a star-spangled sky. There were more stars than I’ve ever seen. Andy got out his harmonica and started playing (he’s not at all good, barely knows how to play, but there’s something about the eerie sound of a harmonica that’s almost sweet and it seems you don’t really have to know how to play it to make music with it). Those oddly sweet notes drifted up into the silence, melting with the Milky Way, blending into my thoughts.
Falling stars darted across the sky and I felt so small, so humbled on top of that little mountain, in the midst of much bigger mountains. I felt part of something larger than myself and I started to understand what this summer is about. It’s not about trying to prove I can be one of the guys. It’s not about working and making money. It’s not about making a ton of new friends or even about re-inventing myself. It’s about moments like that one.
The next day, while sitting next to the lake, I decided I like camping. I don’t like sleeping on the ground, eating hot dogs for every meal, or boiling water for drinking, but if camping involves breath-taking views and life-lessons then I enjoy it. I enjoy it enough, in fact, to do it again, which I did but that’s another story for another time. I will tell you, though, that on my second camping trip I didn’t brush my teeth at all and only brushed my hair once, I’m a regular mountain woman now. I even slept under a sky full of bats. Now that’s the stuff adventures are made of.
I’m off to bed now, off to Starbucks again in the morning, I’m just hoping my knowledge of how to deal with a mountain lion attack will come in handy when dealing with the rich and privileged.
Love, Tracey
Dad:
I recently had my first genuine Colorado camping experience. It was more along the lines of mosquitoes and mountain lions and coyotes than lions, tigers, and bears. And to be honest I didn’t see any mountain lions or coyotes, or many mosquitoes for that matter. I’m confident, though, that the mosquitoes were there because I have more bites than I’ve had since sixth grade camp. As for the coyotes, I heard them howling throughout the night and I must say I’m rather happy to not have met one. And I neither saw nor heard a mountain lion, however, while hiking around Rifle Falls I saw a sign instructing parents to keep their children close around dusk and dawn as this is mountain lion country and they are likely to attack around those times.
Printed on the sign was a list of instructions on what to do if a mountain lion does attack. Among other things you should first try to act larger than you are (in an attempt to scare away the larger-than-life predator I assume). If that doesn’t work (which why the heck shouldn’t it? It seems completely logical) you ought to try throwing rocks at it, or, go ahead and fight back if it should come to that because, as the sign reminds visitors, “people can fight off mountain lion attacks.” It made it seem as logical and as common as “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Of course you are not, under any circumstances to run away from a mountain lion. Now I suppose I understand the logic behind that one, we all know mountain lions love moving targets and they are fast, those devils, but I gotta tell you it would take a lot of self-control and clear-mindedness in the heat of the moment to remind myself I shouldn’t run.
I later saw a sign posted on a dumpster warning guests to keep their trash out of the way of bears and I wondered who might win in a fight between a bear and a mountain lion. I tossed the question out to my fellow campers and we all pondered it (one of the deepest deep thoughts of the weekend). We came to no solid conclusion, but my money’s on the mountain lion, unless, of course, the bear has read the “How to Survive a Mountain Lion Attack” sign. I can only imagine what would happen if a bear started chucking rocks at a mountain lion. I hope I never encounter either beast, or a coyote for that matter. It was enough of a thrill for me to just ponder what if.
That was last week’s trip. It definitely took some convincing to get me to go along. This might surprise you but I’m not exactly the camping sort. I don’t get all excited thinking about sleeping on the ground in a tent, taking late-night hikes, and bringing a roll of toilet paper along just in case. But the boys found another girl to join us, a lake we could swim in, and somehow I found myself committed. And while the campsite left something to be desired––it was dusty with little shade––there were outhouses with toilet paper and I found them to be tolerable if I breathed out of my mouth. The ground was rocky and I’m not a fan of tents but the lake was amazing, an oasis in a mountain desert. That combined with the Rocky Mountain backdrop and I easily forgot that I couldn’t take a shower for a couple days.
And I even went along for a midnight hike (ok so I complained the whole way up but at least I went). It was a sacred moment, lying on my back on top of a hill under a star-spangled sky. There were more stars than I’ve ever seen. Andy got out his harmonica and started playing (he’s not at all good, barely knows how to play, but there’s something about the eerie sound of a harmonica that’s almost sweet and it seems you don’t really have to know how to play it to make music with it). Those oddly sweet notes drifted up into the silence, melting with the Milky Way, blending into my thoughts.
Falling stars darted across the sky and I felt so small, so humbled on top of that little mountain, in the midst of much bigger mountains. I felt part of something larger than myself and I started to understand what this summer is about. It’s not about trying to prove I can be one of the guys. It’s not about working and making money. It’s not about making a ton of new friends or even about re-inventing myself. It’s about moments like that one.
The next day, while sitting next to the lake, I decided I like camping. I don’t like sleeping on the ground, eating hot dogs for every meal, or boiling water for drinking, but if camping involves breath-taking views and life-lessons then I enjoy it. I enjoy it enough, in fact, to do it again, which I did but that’s another story for another time. I will tell you, though, that on my second camping trip I didn’t brush my teeth at all and only brushed my hair once, I’m a regular mountain woman now. I even slept under a sky full of bats. Now that’s the stuff adventures are made of.
I’m off to bed now, off to Starbucks again in the morning, I’m just hoping my knowledge of how to deal with a mountain lion attack will come in handy when dealing with the rich and privileged.
Love, Tracey
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