FAILED EXPECTATIONS
** Unfinished **
We meandered through a forest of death and decay. Black fallen trees littered the ground around us for miles, destroying any foliage that may have grown underneath, leaving nothing but rough, dry dirt. My vision was blurred by the layers of ash and dust kicked up by hooves as we walked single file down the thin winding path. The air was hot and dry. My lips cracked and stung as I licked them. Why exactly couldn’t we bring water again? It was hard to breathe, and the clear sky above showed no signs of alleviating my shriveled lungs.
“The mountain pine beetles,” the trail guide said. “See all the squiggly lines on those dark trunks? That’s their doing.”
I looked around at the devastation before me. I saw the markings. They crept along every inch of the fallen trees and those barely left standing, intricate carvings detailing the life of the small, seemingly insignificant insects.
“There’s too many of them now, and they’re killing the trees, causing massive amounts of deforestation like this.”
Beetles? Really? It looked more like a raging fire had ravaged half the mountainside. The bark was a mixture of black and ashen white, reminding me of the remnants of a dying campfire. I strained to hear the sounds of wildlife – birds, crickets, squirrels, anything – but heard nothing except the stamping of hooves and the occasional grunt from our worn-out horses.
“They’ve become a real problem,” she said, smiling. She was a trail guide, so part of her job was to give us all the gruesomely repetitive details while maintaining a friendly, lighthearted atmosphere. She seemed like the type who always smiled anyways: a young brunette, either still in high school or barely graduated, dressed in boots, jeans, flannel, and a cowboy hat to top it all off. She was three horses ahead of me, separating our party of five from the other six riders and lead trail guide.
We arrived as a group of seven – me, my sister, and five others – and settled in a nice vacation rental on the west side of the Rockies, just outside the once-small town of Granby. We were staying in a newly developed community – Granby Ranch – built only a mile or two from downtown. Large multi-story houses stacked up and down the mountainside, each separated by large yards of dry, yellow grass, and featuring wraparound patios with wide open views of faraway mountains, and an assortment of amenities for short-term, seasonal renters, such as hot rubs, grills and fire pits. Of course, we couldn’t use the grill or fire pit, because the state seemed to be in a perpetual drought with high winds.
It was our fourth day in Colorado, and the ideal nature getaway I had built up in my head was slowly disappearing day by day.
Of our entire trip, I was most looking forward to the trail ride. I loved horses, and couldn’t remember the last time I got the chance to ride. But my childish excitement was met with harsh reality. I expected to gallop through lush green fields, to walk through crisp rushing waters, to run alongside majestic mountain peaks dipped in white powder. I expected anything but this barren wasteland.
This was supposed to be beautiful. What the hell did I pay for?
Cloudy, my peppered-white steed, was getting agitated.
"He's got a bit of ADD,” a young stable hand told me when she handed him off to me. “He can't sit still and just wants to charge off. But don't worry, we'll put him near the back of the line and he should be fine."
She was wrong. He kept jerking his head back and forth, trying feebly to free the reins from my grip. He stamped his hooves impatiently any time the procession slowed down to an agonizing crawl.
At one point, I forced him to stop. We stood now in a more open area; a small grassy alcove created for the placement of a cellular tower. My sister, Erin, was right behind me on a dark bay mare named Stormy.
“What’s up?” she asked, confused and mildly irritated.
My abrupt halt had caused a minor collision between her and her boyfriend, Garrett, who was behind her on his chestnut stallion, Chief. (Garrett was an avid equine fan and kept saying the name with a deep, masculine pride in his voice – “Chief.”) Chief had run into Stormy, who wasn’t fond of male horses sneaking up on her. Her ears folded flat against her head, and she chewed more aggressively on her bit. Erin had trouble with her the entire ride: she kept trying to eat anything green we came across, and was grumpy when denied the snack.
“We’re gonna kick it up a notch,” I said. They both liked the sound of that.
We were the last three in the procession and were tired of the slow pace set by those in front of us. We waited a few moments to create enough space between us and the others to build up some speed. Cloudy huffed and puffed anxiously, stamping his hooves in an impatience dance. I felt the tension building in every muscle of his massive frame, and realized my own body was tensing up as well. My hands clutched the reins, my arms stiff in front of me. I straightened my neck and spine, clenching and unclenching my jaw with every impatience breath. I watched the others slowly move forward, silently begging them to move faster, to put just a bit more space between us. I was just as eager as my steed.
Finally, I loosened my grip on the reins. I didn’t have to kick him, didn’t even have to squeeze my thighs against him, all I had to do was stop holding him back, and off he went. He jumped into a steady trot, and I felt my heart rate quicken. But that wasn’t enough. I squeezed my thighs, lightly pressing my knees into his side, and clicked my tongue a couple times, urging him to go faster. He quickly responded. We entered a canter and I felt the breath rush out of my lungs. What a sensation! I took Western riding lessons as a child, but hadn’t even touched a horse since then. I forgot what it felt like! To experience the power of pure, raw muscle beneath you, carrying you as no other beast could. To feel the exerted breath, the inhale and exhale, the expansion of the massive belly. To rock back and forth with the rhythm. Go go go!!
But then we caught up with the others. The sweet, freeing sensation only lasted a few seconds – ten tops. After finally tasting the wind, it felt even more restraining to return to such an agonizing pace.
How disappointing…
* * *
​
The final day of our trip arrived, and it seemed all my hopes rested on our final activity: a scenic drive through the heart of Rocky Mountain National Park.
So far, everything about the trip had fallen short of my expectations. The trail ride was monotonous, painfully slow and devoid of beauty. The hiking trails were overcrowded with families draped in cameras and faces covered with surgical masks, a phenomenon of the coronavirus scare I’ll never understand. You gotta breathe in that fresh air! It’s hard enough with the dry air and high altitude. The mountain views surrounding us were hot and dry, any remaining patches of snow shrunken to pathetic proportions. The night sky was black and empty. No stars, except those on the ground, artificial specks of light brimming the horizon. No galaxies, no planets, no purple-red clouds of the Milky Way. So far, my vacation lacked the natural beauty that I expected, that I craved. So far, it was so much different than what I remembered as a child.
Growing up, I visited the Rockies almost every summer with my family. We stayed in trailer campsites or rustic cabins near Estes Park, usually near a large YMCA center so Erin and I could remain constantly entertained with hordes of other rambunctious children. We went on hikes and trail rides across massive mountain peaks powdered with snow, even in the hottest of summer days. We swam in crystal clear lakes of the most beautiful turquoise, splashed on the shore and dove as deep as we could. We climbed cliffsides and roamed off the paved path, exploring unseen worlds with awe and amazement in our eyes, living by our motto: “If it’s easy, it ain’t fun.” We lovingly listened to the songs of John Denver over and over, singing along, knowing every single word to our all-time favorite, “Rocky Mountain High.”
What’s happened? Where’s my quiet solitude in the forests and the streams? Where’s the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake?
My memories seemed more like dreams now. Memories painted soft pastel colors, now crushed with harsh reality. The people walking down paths, the sidewalks, lampposts, picnic tables and park benches, roadways, cell towers, parking lots, billboards and buildings stretched out for miles, more people walking in the streets with full arms, shop signs, stoplights, swimming pools, bike shops, and construction zones with equipment, trucks, large machinery, cones, more lights, and even more people. I felt like crying.
What’s happened?
This scenic drive was my last chance to rediscovery the beauty, the natural wonder, of the Rockies.
The park had new restrictions set in place because of the rising coronavirus pandemic, and without a pre-ordered permit, we had to wait until after 5 p.m. to enter the park. Dozens of cars were lined up at the entrance gate, making an already slow procession even slower when someone in each car insisted on asking questions instead of just paying and moving on.
We drove slow, Garrett drumming at the wheel of the rental car. The valley floor was beautiful, lush with greenery and rushing streams amidst a backdrop of rough jagged peaks. We weaved along cliffsides up the mountain range, pulling over to enjoy the rushing cold wind and growingly vast views. Every stop was packed with cars. I wanted to stand in wonderment, staring out at the endless world before me. But I was surrounded by other tourists, talking, yelling, posing for pictures.
“You want a picture?” Erin asked, after photographing everyone else in the group.
“Nah, I’m good,” I said, because I didn’t want to be just another tourist.
Everyone else got back in the car, cold and ready to go, but I stood in the freezing wind for a few seconds more. I breathed in the cool, crisp air. I listened to the rushing wind, drowning out the people around me. I wish I were the only one here. No one else in the world. Just me and nature. But I wasn’t. And I was beginning to realize I may never be. I sighed and got back in the car.
Once we reached the highest peak, we turned around. We didn’t have enough time to make it all the way through the mountain range and back before nightfall, and no one felt comfortable driving along cliffsides in the dark. The drive back was slow and tedious, and I silently begged the cars in front of us to drive just a little faster or move out of our way.
Soon after reaching the valley floor again, the line of back to back traffic came to a standstill. Cars slowly pulled off to the side, not even coming to a complete stop as passengers jumped out, impatient and determined. Maybe there’s some wildlife! There were no easy spots to pull over, so Garrett kept driving. Nature’s drive-thru. We all grabbed our phones and aimed them out the windows, ready to capture anything we might spot.
It was elk. A couple bucks, casually grazing about 50 yards from the road.
I tried to steady my hands, placing my elbows on the open window frame and holding my phone uncomfortably closed to my face. All the pictures I took were fuzzy, too far zoomed in and out of focus. I saw some men and women lying in the grass a few yards from the road. Professionals, I guess. They were dressed in camouflage, head to toe, holding large-lensed cameras to their eyes as they propped up their elbows on soft mud.
I always wanted to be a professional nature photographer, to take pictures for National Geographic or capture footage for DisneyNature. I’d seen the funny pictures online of what it meant to be a nature photographer: to trudge through muddy swamps with an expensive camera held high above your head, to crawl through tall grass, creeping closer to your target, hoping not to disrupt the moment, to be attacked by bald eagles, chased by bears, and examined by meerkats. It looked dangerous, even terrifying at moments, but thrilling! However, in that moment, my dream job shrunk to realistic portions before my eyes. There was no great adventure, no trudging, creeping or running, just lying on the side of the road alongside all the other tourists.
How disappointing…
* * *
​
The next day, I dropped off my friends at the airport. I planned to drive home; thought I’d need a few days to myself after a week cramped together with party goers. We hugged, said our goodbyes, and parted ways.
I weaved in and out of heavy Denver traffic towards my hotel for the night, lost in thought. I didn’t know how to feel about my vacation. I intended for it to be a nature getaway, a way to reconnect with nature, to relive my fondest childhood memories. I wanted to discover what John Denver meant when he sang, “he left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again.”