A Midsummer Mountain's Hike

Mia’s street sits on a steep hill at the base of the Flatirons. We briefly toy with the idea of just walking to the trails, but I’m recovering from being sick and we both decide the energy would best be saved for the hike, so we drive up the hill instead in the little rental car I reserved for the trip.

Boulder is a quaint little college town, and as we drive, we pass house after house, each unique in it’s architecture and individual in it’s colors. They’re all set in with ancient trees in their yards, and though they are all well taken care of, they’re all a little weathered, looking seasoned and wise and I wonder what stories they have to tell. It really is something to see. I take it all in, thinking about how this is the kind of place I’d like to spend a few years.

We get to the base of the mountain and find a parking space not far from the trailhead. Mia and I have known each other for 11 years now and have been friends just as long. She is the only friend I’m still close with from our formative high school years, and we have the kind of bond that allows us to pick back up where we left off. Mia is telling me about her choice for sobriety and how it’s been enlightening and difficult all at the same time. She’s not an alcoholic, not in the conventional sense and no more so than any of us, but she recognizes a small vice in it anyway, and has chosen to give it up all together. I look over at her and find myself marveling at her strength and integrity once again. She’s always had a fierceness locked away inside her and she carries it so gracefully.

We continue to walk along, watching for bears (apparently they show up on these trails on occasion) but only coming across a bear-like dog who's broken off from his owner half a mile behind. It’s warmer than we thought, but not unbearable, and there’s a good breeze. My damn sinuses decided to take another day off from their usual job, so the rhythm of our walk is punctuated by the occasional violent sneeze. The corners of my nose are dry from days of allergies, and I can hear my breath in my ears as we climb higher, but none of it detracts from the hike, adding instead a sense of accomplishment to the occasion.

Our conversation turns eventually to the Church and the holes it’s fallen into and the progress it’s made away from those. We talk about God, and relationships, and about her growing conflict with a friend and colleague of hers, who she still loves despite all that. Each new thread of conversation is another link of intimacy, knitting us more firmly together in trust and shared experiences. It really is a gift, this friendship. It can be loud and boisterous, but more often it's strong, steady, and sure.

The trail is beautiful. The trees are all still clinging to their green - autumn’s influence hasn’t yet reached them. The sky is perfectly blue and the rocks are the exact shade of grey to contrast. We pick our way along carefully, climbing make-shift steps carved out by nature and time and admire the shape of this mountain as it unfolds itself in front of us.

We’re both getting winded now, and discuss turning back, but we push just a little further, determined to make it to the crest if we can. A few turns ahead, we look up and find it, a final tall outcropping rising above the trees around it and providing the perfect lookout to see the rest of the Flatirons and the valley we left below. Hiking turns into rock climbing to make those final few feet, and at the top, the sun bends down to congratulate us. There’s a huge juniper bush up here with the most beautiful powder blue berries, and I smile big thinking of my sweet australian shepherd at home with the same name. She may be a dog, but she is always with me anyway. When I got her, I dreamed of taking her hiking with me on trails like this, and though she’s pretty small and probably would have had trouble reaching this peak, I still day dream about it from time to time. Little bits of home will always rise to meet you like that if you keep your eyes open.

We hang out on the peak for a while, taking all the obligatory adventure photos and selfies, and telling each other how to model for the camera and look pensively at the distance. It really is incredible up here. The mountains sprawl in every direction despite how their magnitude and majesty shrinks to fit the camera lens. I stand at the edge of one of the boulders and my heart pounds as adrenaline rushes through my body. One slip would be fatal, but I stand there in defiance of fear, wanting to feel the weight of the scene and the rush of being alive all at the same time.

The sun has entered a game of chicken with us and it soon wins out. We’re both hot and our stomachs have begun to voice their protests, so we begin our climb back down. Mia is in a play about the Manson girls and we soon begin talking about serial killers and true crime and the intrigue of it all. I’m sure other hikers are off-put by our conversation, but we don’t lower our voices. Even as we pass other parties, the mountain chases away all inhibitions and banishes any feeling of restraint. It’s open space here and it feels like we and our fellow hikers are all in agreement on that.

We make it back down safely, no bears and no boogie man, and though my sneezing has turned to a hacking cough we’re both exhilarated and content. In moments like these, it feels like the world shrinks and grows all at the same time. Mia and I feel small, but powerful in our smallness, and I think maybe that’s the lost intrigue of the mountains.

I can’t tell you what you’ll find for yourself if you make the same trek, but the only way to find out is to go and keep your heart open to what you see. In any case, there’s medicine for the soul in the mountain air, and I’ll gladly breathe it in whenever I can.