Highway to Nowhere

Last week I was driving through the Colorado mountains over the Fourth of July weekend.  It was early in the morning when I was going through the San Luis Valley (right), so there was hardly any traffic, and I decided to drive as slowly as I could  in order to enjoy one of my favorite landscapes. The clouds were low over the Sangre de Christos, obscuring my view of these tall and rugged mountains, but the clouds diffused the sunlight, so everything looked precious, this dry high-mountain valley suffused with a glowing light.

 

I was driving 5 miles under the speed limit (of 65), which was fine at first because the roads were nearly empty.  But then gradually more cars started piling up behind me, and by the time I got to Poncha Pass, I had a whole brigade of SUVs breathing down my tail.  I could feel their aggressiveness, even their anger—get out of my way, you’re slowing me down—and I wondered where they were all going so fast.

 

Presumably most of the people on the road this holiday weekend were heading to their favorite mountain destinations: a campground, a lake, jeep roads, or the mountain passes. That is, they wanted to be in the mountains, and yet they barreled through this landscape as if it were the suburbs of Denver or the plains of Kansas, intent only on getting to their destination. When they got to the campground or put their boat in the lake, would they finally relax, pop open a can of beer and look around to see where they are?

 

There was a time when getting there was half the fun. Old postcards from the 1920s and 1930s show a line of Model A’s snaking up dirt roads through canyons or going through snow tunnels in Rocky Mountain National Park. These were billed as sightseeing tours, cars going slowly enough that you had time to notice everything around you: the river in the canyon, deer or bighorn sheep on the hillside, flowers growing along the edge of the road.

 

Driving 285 through Colorado’s central mountains, I felt nostalgic for those days. This road takes you through some of Colorado’s most spectacular scenery: the foothills west of Denver through the lush valley of the South Platte and the huge expanse of South Park to the 14,000-foot range of the Collegiate Peaks. What if we drove as if we wanted to see our surroundings, as if we were sightseeing,  noticing everything: the waving grasses in South Park, the dark purple and black mountains to the west etched with snowfields, the horses standing in grass almost to their bellies, their tails flicking,  the clouds fleeing across the sky.

 

Instead,  we are on a manic highway, flying around the curves and going nowhere fast.

 

Comments

[Julene]

Once again, I feel encouraged reading your posts to try simply being wherever I am. I looked out the window and saw a day I've failed to appreciate until now, because it is so wet and cold. The leaves on the cottonwood flutter and the tall brome grass in the neighbor's pasture, fully seeded out now that its summer, is a-tremble all the way from my house to the mountains. Low clouds conceal the peaks and reveal only misty foothills, pale green and cloaked in pine. I look for and see beauty in all this instead of wishing it were different, thanks to you.

[Laurel Kallenbach]

Just seeing your glorious rainbow photo makes me breathe more deeply and be thankful for the beauty that's ours to appreciate if we just slow down long enough...

[Leland Rucker]

Since I drive 285 for the same reasons as you, I have often felt the anger of drivers wanting me to go faster when I want to watch the peaks, or the sandstorm, or gaze over at the dunes. I used to be those drivers, only wanting to get somewhere else. It's so much nicer watching where you are, where you were and where you are going.