I hear the calling in the summer weeks, the drive to plunge headfirst into the Rockies and sleep under the stars. By Friday the wind whistling across the tops of peaks sounds just like my name sssssssarahhhhhh and I bound out of work ready to pack my car. I've got camping down to a bit of a science, layering one shelf in my closet with all the things I need so I remember to pull them.
Sleeping bag - Check
Camp pillow - Check ( a must since I've gotten older - rolled up clothing or a bumpy backpack just don't work anymore.)
Food - Check
Tent - double check
Etc.....
The pavement ends just outside of town, transitioning to a dusty service road laden with rock and divots from recently melted snow. I bounce along, camping pans rattling out the beat of a path less traveled. It's times like this I usually cross my fingers and hope nothing is too washed out or un-passable for my clearance, but I've driven this way before and I know I'll be fine. I wave to fellow mountain goers, the town ski bums that camp all summer so they don't have to pay rent. They move from spot to spot during the week while the rest of us work in our offices. Shirtless, washing their socks in a boiling pan of water over a campfire, they wave back with the hand holding a beer and grin. I have no idea who they are, but for one weekend we will be neighbors, and the closest thing to help if such a thing is needed.
I like the idea of it, strangers sharing this moment with me so completely.
The snowpack is melting in the lasting summer light - the solstice being only a few days away at this point- and the river flows at a steady pace, almost loud enough to drown out the throaty roar of the fire. I sit by it long after the mosquitoes have gone to bed, wrapped in the fleece blanket I stole of my Icelandic Air flight two years back.
Sleeping is deep and filled with vivid dreams that ride out the night at the edge of consciousness. I slumber until the heat of the morning finally makes the tent too warm to be comfortable.
It is 7am.
Water boils, coffee is made, and camp cups rest on tree stumps while breakfast is made. I love my camping mugs, as sappy as they might be, because the company plants a tree for every cup that is purchased. I'm sure they simply pay a company that is already placing them, but I like to imagine the employees heading out on the weekend with Aspen shoots, shoveling dirt, hands dirty as they plant the trees themselves.
Trails near the area are thick with snow, making the decision to climb south facing peaks easy. They are the only places passable without winter gear. Still, patches of white cling to slopes, blocking paths with their frozen wetness. The pack is hard and thick, but I know a few more days of direct light and my weight would make me post-hole (pushing me through the crust) with each step. I'm grateful not to sink up to my knees as I walk.
I forget how far I climb, and take accidental selfies as I try to shift my camera out of the makeshift strap I've created to carry the beast at my chest. The road curls its way miles below, a yellow snake amongst the green from the tops of trees. Dark thunder clouds roll past and I debate whether to continue to the top of the mountain or turn around. Lightning is a real danger in Colorado and I decide to be safe rather than sorry, I can always return to play around on a clearer day.
Nights are spent cooking in the dutch oven and reading campfire stories.