Flat Colorado

By Melanie Dale
@melanierdale

The thing they don’t tell you is how Colorado is flat. As a kid from Ohio, I always pictured mountains over yonder. So when my family piled in our silver Ford Taurus station wagon with the burgundy interior for a two-week western road trip, I hunkered in the backseat with my brother, filling a spiral-bound journal with my snarky commentary, ready to see some snowcapped peaks.

Ohio is not generally known as hill country. With the exception of a little strip near the West Virginian border, Ohio is pretty darn flat itself. Like if Ohio is a B-cup, Kansas is more like the training bra you get when you just need to cover your nubs. Mount Everest was an F-cup that you had to special order from JC Penney, and I assumed Colorado was a solid double D.

But the drive through Kansas on the way to Colorado redefined my understanding of flat. The plains stretched out on either side of the road as far as the eye could see. At one point after driving hour after hour after flattened hour, my dad pulled the car over and declared, “I want to beat myself with a stick.” We passed a woman sitting on the porch of her house, staring off into the distance. You could get lost forever in that sky. As we drove through Kansas, Colorado felt like a promise. Just a little further and we’d see a change in the topography, something new for our eyes to settle on.

And then we crossed into Colorado. We’re here, mountains! Where are you? I expected the Rockies to meet me at the border, payment for a monotonous job well done. But we rolled into Colorado with nary a mountain in sight. For hours I strained my eyes into the distance, trying to see the beginnings of the Rockies. But I saw flat and more flat.

I was fourteen and on the lookout for change, desperate for it. New boyfriend, new school, new hips, new anything. Hurry up, life. Gimme changes.

Then finally after a day of driving, at the edge of the horizon, my aching eyes saw them like a mirage. Mountains. There they were, breaking forth out of the flatlands, erupting into the sky. Change was coming. I could see it.

Years later my husband and I talked about doing our own western trip with the kids. “I’d want to fly into Denver and rent a car,” he said. I sucked in my breath, horrified. And miss Kansas? Well, I wouldn’t say I’d miss it. Or would I? Did I actually need Kansas? And is the flat half of Colorado just as important as the mountainous side?

Without Kansas are the mountains even that impressive? How would the kids know the anticipation of those mighty monoliths without the hours peering into the horizon? How would they learn that Colorado is flat and more flat until it isn’t? Can you appreciate the mountains without the flatlands? Or is it the contrast that makes them special? Don’t we have to earn our mountains? We can’t just plop right in the middle of them without doing the work. Can we?

I think about that trip now as we virtually school our kids and the contagion of cancelled events rolls on. We are in the flatlands, with no change in sight. Weeks turn into months, and I strain my eyes to peer ahead, trying to see the change on the horizon. When will this end? When will we have mountains? Will the mountains feel that much sweeter after all these months of flat? Will I savor them more? Will I savor the wildness of their rocky crags and snowcapped peaks after all this time in the plains?

Just a little further. This isn’t forever.

Nothing against Kansas, or the flat half of Colorado. The plains are gorgeous. Some of my very favorite people live there. The point is change. The change is what makes life worth living. If we only ever saw mountains, then we’d want to see the plains. I hail from flat, so I want to see bumpy.

For a family wedding in Aspen a few years ago we ended up flying into Denver and renting a car. We plopped down directly into the mountains, bypassing the plains altogether. Halfway to Aspen, I looked behind me and realized the kids were on their devices not even seeing the mountains around them. In a gentle voice, I sweetly encouraged them to—JUST KIDDING, I totally freaked out on them, terrifying them into setting down their stupid tech and look up, look up, LOOK TO THE MOUNTAINS. They muttered vaguely, “Oh, uh-huh, wow,” before lowering their heads back to their screens. They didn’t care. Because they didn’t have to earn the mountains. The Rockies were given to them free of charge and they took them for granted, not even bothering to look out the window. We yanked the rental car off the road and screeched to a halt. GET OUT AND VIEW THE SCENERY, buckos.

These days, I long for new scenery. We are desperate for change in these monotonous times. And so I tell myself and my kids, just a little further. Keep driving. Keep your eyes on the horizon. The mountains will come. This isn’t forever.