I have mapped out my route, imagined doing all of the things I need to be doing but haven’t done any of them yet. I will need to pack. I am contemplating bringing my bike. It will be a very long drive with nothing but the road ahead, my torturous thoughts of mortality, American corporate sprawl, and then the mountains, looming large and jagged, busy defining beauty. Into the crags and winding roads, amid the Republican lawn signs, I can only hope I have something other than Christian radio to listen to this time when my NPR stops working and I’ve run out of all of my podcasts.
I’m thinking audio books.
Telluride, and all of the Colorado, is so pretty you can’t believe it’s America. It’s one of those places that makes you never want to die. It also kind of makes you want to shuck it all and move to the mountains, have a vegetable garden, date the local sheriff. Make blueberry pies. Or camp inside a tiny log cabin, shut yourself off from civilization, and concoct crazy conspiracy theories from your dark hole.
But I’m going anyway. I will see movies, wake up early for that great coffee shop, I will wait in line, I will ride the gondola up the mountain, I will hopefully see a lot of happy faces. The adventure begins anew.