Rocky Mountain High

There are a few John Denver songs on my MP3 player, and they sometimes sneak up on me. I only keep a few on hand, not because (as some falsely believe) it is cheesy or irrelevant music, but because it strikes a distinct and occassionally painful chord in me.

I am suddenly struck with an overwhelming sorrow for Colorado. I can smell the trees, the fall air. I can see the blue sky and the bear that jumped on our dumpster until the lid caved in so it could have a snack.

Mancos is a little town, halfway between Durango and Cortez. There is a gas station and not much else, despite a cheerful little sign hopefully boasting "Business District" with an arrow pointing off to the left. Drive straight on 160 past Mancos and go through Cortez, turn right three times and go back through Mancos, Hesperus, D-West, and eventually back to Durango.

The whole loop takes about two hours. Be sure to pack at least one regular coke and a water, a carefully selected assortment of mix tapes, and some cigarettes. The existential angst is the fuel that pushes us over the mountains, and it was packed in the car long before anything else.

There are sheep, cows, the Sleeping Ute in the distance. There is a small ski area, one of the loneliest National Parks in the country, and a place to rent VHS tapes. There is self discovery and experience. There is something there that sets it above most places in the country.

I have no idea what to call it. I just know that I miss it, and want to go back there with a desire that is occasionally so fierce that it hurts. Right now is one of those times, when the opening bars of a John Denver song brings tears to my eyes and I can almost smell the mountains.