We arrive in Colorado in concert with fall. A cold front sets the high elevation aspen to yellowing. The bears fatten themselves with the last of summers berries. The prairie dogs steel themselves to the winter sun.
We ride through the Wet Mountians, the Sangre De Cristos and on through sage meadows and aspen forests. We discover an old slab board church still standing on rickety frames and falling down walls but crooked cupola persists along with weathered cross atop. Oh old bygone days of settlers and prospectors and cowboys and only horses for travel across the empty country. God’s country I guess because inspired and holy and heavenly light. And if the only choices are Darwin’s theories or some beatific magic power I go with that. It cannot be mere random chance and selection that set these sleek white aspen to jigging in the wind, that sculpted these perfect hills and holy Spanish peaks. These parks and meadows and juniper speckled visages from horizon to horizon. Nay someone or something inspired and heavenly made these mountain rimmed golden valleys.
Steep spines of ancient rock, narrow and jagged, bisect the land. One side in shadow while the other shines. How to explain such apparitions? What transpired in these mysterious hills to cause such severe rocky scapes?
We roll and wind through a single valley until creating a shallow hill we spill over into the next. Each one as awesome as the next and presiding over all of it the sweet, silent majesty of yonder mountains. Too big to fully comprehend yet we stare and stare again trying to digest the impossible scale of monster mountains. The biggest things on earth these gentle giants. Sitting for eternity, more patient than the Boddhisatva. They create rain and snow and pour water down their endless flanks to the thankful willow streams below.
And trickling stream comes eeking it’s way downward sleucing over smooth stones to rest behind a beaver dam before sliding down once again under tooth shaven sticks on its voyage to the far off sea.