Oh, what a day. Windy and wild! You could see and feel the cold air and moisture blowing down from Colorado. A hundred miles away in the direction you’re looking (WNW), the forecast was for one to two feet of wet snow.
I love living at seven thousand feet. There’s something so healthy about it. All my organs are awake! (Well, most of them.)
“Jesus, look how high we are!”
“More hemoglobin! Shit!”
Whenever we come down from the mountains, which is almost never, the first thing I notice is how heavy the air is. I keep expecting people to complain. It’s like the stuff they breathe is crushing them and no one notices, but I do. If it happens to be humid, so much the worse. There’s a palpable lift coming back to high altitude. (Duh.) I feel wired. Could just be the body freaking out at being stuck back in the clouds. No matter, I like it. It fills me with a strange excitement, being closer to the sky.
A little over a year ago, I flew to Maine to see what I’d inherited from my aunt’s house. On my last afternoon there, I drove down to the ocean. It had easily been twenty years since I’d put my feet in the Great Holy Salt Water that covers the Earth. The blue-green surf was mesmerizing. The ocean itself was so big, slowly heaving and sighing with a life all its own, rising and falling and stretching forever. The primal smells. The booming waves. The hissing sand.
Gave me a thrill, it did. Part of me wanted to buy my aunt’s house just to be forty-five minutes away from all that. The only problem was that Maine lay in between, and there were people in it.
Also, the air was heavy as rocks.