Steep, Jagged Trails

Remember the time it snowed on the 4th of July? High on a mountain pass?

Remember when Mike Hud read The Hobbit aloud to us as we sat around the campfire?

Now, what year was it when the brakes went out on our rented jeep? Weren't we rescued by that man who looked like Grizzly Adams?

We ask each other these questions, and many more, as we sit on our screened-in porch in Middle Tennessee. As we gather around the table in honor of whatever holiday or birthday we happen to be celebrating, the conversation will often turn to stories from a lifetime of vacations at "our spot" in Southwest Colorado.

Wasn't baby Sally so cute in her playpen at the campground?

Remember when Chris brought his guitar and he and Jan serenaded us by firelight?

Remember how that dusty old ghost town looked just like a Hollywood set?

Other than these rolling hills of Tennessee, there is no place on Earth that has so woven itself into the fabric of our family's history. We discovered the Uncompahgre National Forest and Mt. Sneffels in the late '70s. We have been going there ever since. My parents hardly ever miss a year.

Wasn't that a crazy trip when Daddy, Hank and Alan had to jog all the way down the mountain in a thunderstorm? While the trail was washing out from under them and lightning was striking all around?

Remember when I tore my ACL on that same trail?

It is part of us. Our valley in Colorado helped make us who we are. I am confident in the strength of my sisters, my parents and myself because I have seen us brave the wilderness. I have seen us carry heavy backpacks up steep, jagged trails.

How many shooting stars did we count that night when we pulled a blanket out into the clearing?

Remember the year that it rained all week? What a welcome to the family for Sean that was!

Who was with us that year that we hiked all the way to the peak? Was it the same year that we went fishing and had trout for breakfast?

The timeline of my memories is as jumbled as the box where Mama stashes photographs from trips gone by. We are small children in one shot and teenagers in the next. My husband, Mark, is in this shot. In another one I am 12. But the backdrop remains the same. From the jewel-toned wildflowers to the turquoise hued glacier lakes, from the strumming of guitars late into the night to the smell of bacon on a chilly morning: all of these memories blend together and the details become less important.

At the end of this week, Mark and Sydney and I will go as a family for the first time. Sydney was only 3 when she and I went with my parents one summer. All she remembers is being stung by a bee. Mark and I were just newlyweds when we went 12 years ago.

 I can't help feeling the anticipation of making new memories with my little family. I am acutely aware of the beginning of the next generation, the passing of the Colorado baton. Years from now, Sydney and her cousins will rummage through boxes of photographs and try to remember what year was such and such and when did this thing or the other happen. I believe they will share the beauty of "our spot" with their own families.

I believe they will be confident of their strength because they, too, will see themselves brave the wilderness and carry heavy backpacks up steep, jagged trails.