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| Emerald Lake, Rocky Mountain National Park. |
Somewhere just past Bear Lake, the realization hit me.
My brother wanted to go to Boulder, Colorado. To do the hikes we'd done as kids and eat at the restaurants our mother loved, in what I dubbed our "Farewell Ma Tour."
I let him pick the trails. He chose wisely, starting along the Boulder River behind our parents' old place — where we'd walk to cool off from the inevitable arguments.
"On your left!" the cyclists cried as they blasted by. They train them well here.
Next day, Mount Sanitas: think, a mile on a StairMaster. That afternoon, we took an easy five-mile savannah stroll around the Boulder Reservoir — mostly alone.
Sunday, another five miles across the grasslands around Eldorado Mountain. Sweeping vistas and black cattle — bovine public employees, basically doing weed maintenance for the city of Boulder.
For our final day, the idea was to go out with a bang at Rocky Mountain National Park.
Not so easy anymore. Just showing up and going in is very 2010. You can't do it. The park went to a timed entry system in 2020. All the morning slots were gone. But my brother used his apex predator computer skills to find a secondary cache of available slots for Bear Lake Road.
People must forget beauty. Because even though I'd been to Rocky Mountain National Park many times, the wonder of the place struck me afresh as we slipped in precisely at our 8 a.m. entry time.
The parking lot was full. We had to take the shuttle bus. Crowds are considered the bane of national parks. Everybody complains about them, constantly. Me too.
"Hell is other people," I said, quoting Sartre, as we threaded our way along the trail.
It is a vigorous 256-foot hike from the trailhead to Bear Lake. You can do it in a wheelchair. Parks are designed this way: Put the best views close to the parking lot. The trail was a continuous stream of humanity.
It began to dawn on me: Whether the others are a blight or a benefit depends not so much on them, as on me.
Other folks are usually viewed as an intrusion on precious solitude, a disturbance of the beauty of nature that you've come so far to see. It only takes a little spit to spoil the soup.
Or ... you could consider them part of that selfsame nature.
The moms bearing their children literally on their backs, like possums. The dads giving pep talks to their tired, balky offspring — I tossed them nods of solidarity. The families, sullen teens, their faces set in "I'm not enjoying this, you can't make me" defiance. The world in hiking boots: Indian college students, Mexican families, prim Japanese couples kitted out in their pricey Mont-Bell gear.
My brother wanted to go to Boulder, Colorado. To do the hikes we'd done as kids and eat at the restaurants our mother loved, in what I dubbed our "Farewell Ma Tour."
I let him pick the trails. He chose wisely, starting along the Boulder River behind our parents' old place — where we'd walk to cool off from the inevitable arguments.
"On your left!" the cyclists cried as they blasted by. They train them well here.
Next day, Mount Sanitas: think, a mile on a StairMaster. That afternoon, we took an easy five-mile savannah stroll around the Boulder Reservoir — mostly alone.
Sunday, another five miles across the grasslands around Eldorado Mountain. Sweeping vistas and black cattle — bovine public employees, basically doing weed maintenance for the city of Boulder.
For our final day, the idea was to go out with a bang at Rocky Mountain National Park.
Not so easy anymore. Just showing up and going in is very 2010. You can't do it. The park went to a timed entry system in 2020. All the morning slots were gone. But my brother used his apex predator computer skills to find a secondary cache of available slots for Bear Lake Road.
People must forget beauty. Because even though I'd been to Rocky Mountain National Park many times, the wonder of the place struck me afresh as we slipped in precisely at our 8 a.m. entry time.
The parking lot was full. We had to take the shuttle bus. Crowds are considered the bane of national parks. Everybody complains about them, constantly. Me too.
"Hell is other people," I said, quoting Sartre, as we threaded our way along the trail.
It is a vigorous 256-foot hike from the trailhead to Bear Lake. You can do it in a wheelchair. Parks are designed this way: Put the best views close to the parking lot. The trail was a continuous stream of humanity.
It began to dawn on me: Whether the others are a blight or a benefit depends not so much on them, as on me.
Other folks are usually viewed as an intrusion on precious solitude, a disturbance of the beauty of nature that you've come so far to see. It only takes a little spit to spoil the soup.
Or ... you could consider them part of that selfsame nature.
The moms bearing their children literally on their backs, like possums. The dads giving pep talks to their tired, balky offspring — I tossed them nods of solidarity. The families, sullen teens, their faces set in "I'm not enjoying this, you can't make me" defiance. The world in hiking boots: Indian college students, Mexican families, prim Japanese couples kitted out in their pricey Mont-Bell gear.
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My daughter was camping in RMNP the past week, near Mill Lake. She ended her text with "It was beautiful and it was empty."
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