This summer's weather has been simultaneously welcomed and frustrating. It has been considerably cooler than last year, but has been much wetter. Both lead to far fewer fires, which is a huge plus, but the rain has also made it hard to plan for going outside. I've been playing weekend bike outings by ear rather than setting something on the calendar and holding fast to a date. Last summer I turned around on rides because I was coughing up nearby forest fire smoke, but this year I've been watching the clouds and second guessing because I don't want to get caught in this. When forced to choose between the two I would always pick the latter, but it's been a bit of a bummer in that there's waiting and cancellations involved... and sometimes the clouds build to what looks like a certain downpour and never produce a drop.
Today was another one of those days. I watched the same clouds with falling curtains of rain gather and build throughout the day, between here and the canyons (i.e. cycling climbs) to the west of Boulder city limits, and eventually spill over east onto Niwot, Erie, Longmont, etc. It seemed like cells were aggregating and raining slightly earlier than usual this morning, so I hoped for a clear late afternoon and made plans for an outing with Xavier around 5. At 4:45 it seemed more certain than ever in the day to rain very soon, so I backed out. Instead I went to the grocery store... and it didn't rain. Skunked yet again. With just about an hour of daylight left, not only did it not rain, but the skies cleared up almost completely.
Too late to ride, I changed into running clothes and headed to Chautauqua for a fallback 30 minute run. With 45 minutes of daylight left, I left the Jeep and noticed a prominent double rainbow to the east and bright baby blue cloudless skies to the west over the Flatirons. I began an ascent of the familiar Bluebell "road" the same as many other runs... This time, however, Chautauqua was in very rare form. The light was softer than even other dusk outings. I noticed that late summer had very noticeably taken a step towards fall in the colors of the grass, brush and leaves; purples, greens and blues have morphed to browns, yellows and reds. Temporary signs told me to "expect" bear activity in the area and not just to "be bear aware" like normal, so I paid a bit more attention. A deer ran right in front of me across the trail as I turned left onto the Mesa trail. Once properly in the trees and on the Mesa trail, the trail changes from gravel to dirt and roots, and I've run that stretch of trail dozens of times, but this time the dirt was the darkest red I've ever perceived it; a distinct brick red. I ran past another grazing deer so close I could have petted her. The east faces of Green Mountain and Bear Peak were dark, photosynthesis done for the day, but Bear Peak's north-northwest faces were brightly illuminated by the last minutes of sunlight. It completely changed my perspective on a familiar mountain. I've always thought it was a pretty area, but tonight was off the charts. Almost exactly a year ago that same face was on fire, and that burn scar was on a spotlight, as were the corners of the Flatirons below. I slowed to a walk en route to the steps towards Fern canyon to soak it in. Hundreds of people had likely traveled the same spot as me that day, but hadn't seen it in these few minutes and quite like this. At the steps I turned around and cruised the same trail in reverse until I got to Bluebell, but took an alternate path back to the Jeep to get a few more rollers, roots, and turns through the trees in before dinner.
This outing became one of those unexpected gems when those who are fortunate enough to be there get a rare insight into a setting in its prime. Or maybe even more than prime. It was almost a reassurance that somebody (or Somebody, rather) wants the witnesses to catch a glimpse of a creation perfected, in a time when heightened senses aren't necessary to notice, and you can't help but recognize how special and amazing a place is.
Either by coincidence or maybe because I'm looking for a reason to stay, these moments seem to happen more frequently around times either when I consider leaving Boulder or when somebody suggests I should consider leaving Boulder. Yesterday, for example, I met with a group of friends who are now ex-co-workers. At one point we were talking about areas in between Denver and Boulder that were more affordable which would have a lot to offer me should I ever want to move. It momentarily became a sales pitch, which I've listened to before, and am fine with hearing out. There are plenty of really good arguments to burst through the bubble, but as far as I'm concerned, none of them apply to me or are valid right now. No offense to those that don't live in this People's Republic, but I honestly can't consider leaving right now. Peers have suggested I make the move a few times over the years, and I've mulled it over on my own accord. Earlier this year I thought very hard about applying to jobs not even in Colorado (back to Austin, or further west to Park City or the California coast). I waffled a whole bunch, and eventually had an experience like today where I concluded I would be insane to leave. I know that all good things come to an end (more on that in a future post, I'm sure) and allegedly if you love something you should let it go... but I have repeatedly considered, and just cannot convince myself, to move east of the Boulder greenbelt. At this point Boulder might as well be in my DNA. In short, I love it here. I'm home.
If you have never experienced a moment like I did tonight, I'm rooting for you. Seek it out elsewhere if somewhere calls out to you. A moment might present itself as the one desert sunrise or ocean sunset per year that blows the others out of the water. It could be Paris on a full moon, or the sky from deep in the Outback on a new moon. It might simply be the way your cornfield looks for one day at the peak of summer in a terrific growing year... I can't say for everyone, but what I can say for sure is that when it happens you'll know, and chances are when it does, you're home, whether you live there or not.
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