ESSAY
The Mountain that Told Me to Buzz Off
If you can hear them, tread carefully
Mountains do not like people.
I know. I’ve felt it. And I really feel things.
I lived in Boulder, Colorado, a few years ago, doesn’t matter when, because what happened there has been going on for many, many thousands of years.
I should tell you first that the alpine experience didn’t fully agree with me. But never mind that; I wouldn’t trade what I experienced there for anything. Mostly, I’m referring to little-known yet striking oddities that percolate deep within the inner sanctum of the world’s massive peaks.
The Rocky Mountains draw legions of physically fit humans, such as hikers who wear T-shirts bearing the slogan, “Sea level is for Sissies.” Many of these people will claim to have a cozy relationship with the mountains.
But I seriously doubt that. Or else they’d know better than to tromp around all over them in the way that they do, and in some cases, hammer actual metal stakes into the rock’s too-thin — yes, that’s right — flesh.
It’s not their fault. The purely outer-directed cannot by their nature understand the situation, for they are ill-equipped to receive the kinds of messages the mountains send. To such people the Rockies are awe-inspiring locales in which to “sport.” But to those of us who are tuned in to the deeper currents, it’s quite another story — often, a darker, sinister one.
The mountains, if the truth be told, are not innocent. Most of them are narcissistic, haughty, self-absorbed, and vain. A mountain is like an achingly gorgeous person who refuses to give him- or herself to anyone because they know there will always be other options.
And, I can assure you, each and every one of the fifty-five 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado is rude. Once, for example, I sensed Long’s Peak, a devastatingly gorgeous fourteener, telling me to fuck off. And I was not even standing on it!
The problem is, we have been admiring them for too long without question or hesitation. They know this, of course, which is why they take for granted their advantages and don’t seek to understand the way they affect others.
As I said, I lived in the shadow of the peaks.
Boulder, as a town, is ideally suited for two kinds of people: 1) well-to-do young families and their kids, and 2) high performance athletes, including skiers, cyclists, hikers, climbers and runners eager to derive benefits from exerting themselves at altitude, which strengthens the physiology.
On many occasions I have envied this latter type. These seemingly wholesome folks, few people know, spend their exercise-laden days as high as crack addicts, awash in wave after wave of adrenaline and endorphins, while they profess to be mental and physical models of health. Good for them, I guess.
Not fitting into either category, I often wondered what to do with myself in Boulder. So, when a buddy offered to sell me his Suzuki 350 dual sport road and dirt motorcycle, I rushed out and got a license.
I rode the purple and white fun machine for two glorious summers, ascending up into the thin air currents of the canyons and backroads and endless dirt capillaries that snake through the Rockies. I whooshed along the Peak to Peak highway at 9,000 feet, from Nederland to Estes Park, with the sun at my back, jaw-dropping views at every angle, and the wind sandblasting my face, whipping my hair straight up, creating a truly singular visage.
I traveled as many roads and trails as I could find. Bumping or speeding along, forgetting for a spell my life down at 5,430 feet, I let my mind mingle with the terrain. Immersed in a religious fervor, I would pull over and cut the engine and sit or stand in the quietude doing nothing but simply receiving. If I spotted an interesting trail, I’d veer onto it and ride as far as I could, or dared, go.
I drank in the beauty. I lolled in the majesty. And, I listened to their spare exchanges.
But even as I opened myself to the mountains, I always had the feeling that they were lying in wait.
Once, they hit me with a torrential downpour and I rode grimacing through the knife-pelts of rain until the road became a slippery miasma. I pulled over, set the bike down and squatted under a tree with my arms huddled around my knees until I was able to climb back aboard again and ride back down, hyper-focused on not skidding off the road and cracking open any parts of my shivering form.
While I was up there I learned about the consciousness of mountains — barely observable and far different than ours. It operates at a wavelength that is difficult to pick up, like a radio station that isn’t, say, 87.5 or 91.1 but more like 85.223413. But find it I did.
I listened in, understanding full well they didn’t want to be heard, knowing that my presence could carry consequences.
On the Peak to Peak highway, there were many other riders. There is a hand signal bikers give to one another that is in a way like the communications expressed by New Yorkers or Parisians, that says, “Here we are in this, the greatest place on planet Earth. We are so the fortunate ones.” You lower your left hand down and point your index and middle fingers toward the road surface. Very casual.
But you must only do this at motorcycles similar in size to your own. A rider of a smaller 350 cc bike such as mine, for instance, would never commit the faux pas of signaling to a passing Harley.
Personally, I believe the message in the sign is this: the mountain hasn’t gotten me, either.
But, in my case, to experience all this, I had to constantly push through my body’s rebellions. In Boulder and Denver, both a mile high, the air carries 21 percent less oxygen than the sissyfied air at sea level. As it turned out, I wanted that extra bit of O2.
In my fourth year, I decided to head down the mountains and out for good. I packed up my Altima and drove the heavy and listing vehicle west out of Boulder, onto Rt. 93 and onto the Rt. 70 gash that cuts through the Rockies toward Utah and then California.
Listening to the Counting Crows belt out roadworthy tunes, I silently asked the peaks for permission to leave. No, I am not kidding. This is no small matter, nor one to casually shrug off. As I passed Silverthorne and Vail and Glenwood Canyon, I complimented the great rocks on their majesty and splendor. True, indeed.
And I drove very, very carefully.
Rocketing down the western slope, it was clear to me that I’d become jaded. One gorgeous alpine village boringly melted into the next, and the ones after that. Eventually, I took them all for granted.
As the Welcome to Utah sign came into view up ahead, I pulled over onto the highway’s shoulder, stepped out of the car and — yes, I actually did this, because one never knows — thanked the terrain that I was leaving behind.
Then, turning toward the west, I did a little fist pump. Later. Not rubbing it in, mind you; just acknowledging that I’d made it out in one piece.
There exists on this globe myriad varieties of societies, cultures, behaviors and potentials. Maybe the complexities and differences in people dwarf the number of stars in our galaxy. One can be forgiven for wondering if the many types of humans here don’t derive from wholly different inter-dimensional origins.
When I think about those folks pumping their pedals up the canyon passes or crunching ancient gravel under their boots on the trails of the fourteeners, I sense that they are fundamentally different from me.
There is no unease, judgement, nor discomfort in this. It is like considering the difference between oneself and a person from a different culture.
Maybe those differences are what this place is all about. Perhaps we are at the Mos Eisley cantina of Star Wars, imbibing our favorite beverages along with the different types of creatures, discussing philosophies, lamenting woes, and just hanging out. Maybe the point is to enjoy doing just that as best we can. Perhaps nothing else is as important.
I lived among the Coloradans. I mingled with their peaks, foothills, trails, and roads. I am glad of it. I wish them all good things in a place that is at once resplendent and forbidding, home to stoic and at times prickly entities whom I had touched and who touched me in memorable ways, all now a part of me that has vastly expanded the boundaries of my experience.
