Home To Colorado
Summer rain glimmered as it fell and puddled around our feet on Friday morning, July 21st, 2017. After ripping a joint in spirited anticipation, we hopped in the car soaking wet laughing at something stupid. My dad drove us to the airport in our beige, third-row bench Suburban, and made us upon entry, laughing, “Damn boys, y’all couldn’t wait,” in his reprimanding tone that let you know he didn’t approve, but he wasn’t necessarily holier than thou. We spent some more time hearing about the increased speeds one becomes intoxicated at elevation and the various ways one could find oneself incarcerated. But my dad laughed, and we laughed too.
I wish I could say that we had grand plans for our trip, a trip we’d never forget, a trip that would open us up to the world and all its possibilities, but that wouldn’t be totally true. We were simply looking forward to partaking in the legalized consumption of copious amounts of marijuana. Like any normal hooligans would be, or ones we considered normal. Me, my stepbrother Taylor, and our two friends, Alan, a stocky guy with a square head, and Dudley, funny, and the size of one of those bears standing in hunting stores, en route to Denver, Colorado. Sunday morning was our return flight, and with bloodshot eyes, staring into space, “Dude, where’s the water?”, we left.
Airports are a physical representation of my least enjoyed life experiences: a line of cars waiting to drop off passengers, a line of people waiting through security, a line of people entering the plane, a line of people exiting the plane, and a crowd of people waiting for their bags. Denver was hotter than I expected. Land stretched far to the horizon of mountains shrouded underneath haunting clouds that stirred up the curious savage in my soul. We picked up a black SUV we rented for the weekend outside an Irish pub open at eleven in the morning with two bartenders and one customer, an older man wearing a blue checkered button up and a Vietnam veterans cap. Tucked in the passenger door handle was a collection of cards rubber banded together. All the personal documents of a man, his ID, his social security card, his debit and credit cards, and random smoothie cards, like someone emptied his wallet and then left it tucked into a door handle. It felt wrong to go through his things, this man whose entire life was here, bound together. Suffice it to say, we got sketched out and left the evidence with the bar, we had plans.
I believe the official count was nineteen. We all fell asleep that afternoon in our drive-up, double queen room, on the first floor of an empty La Quinta Inn. Three hours later we were up, and it fell upon Dudley to prepare the harvest. He rolled nineteen joints with the ounce we bought from the very first dispensary we went to, (the store that you had to be twenty-one with a valid ID to enter, and so I stood outside, my hands firmly in my pockets) with a little bit left for a halfsie. “Now we don’t have to roll anymore.” he smiled while handing out the first round of four.
Given our consumption and the feeble mind, that first night is only available to me in glimpses. Walking down the street chain smoking, visiting a friend's hookah lounge, unremarkable, but his. Floating through neighborhoods, smoking, and wading late into the evening as blue twilight coated the streets, and the parks hummed a different tune. Husks of people dragging their feet, cloth wound tight to their bodies, shadows shaping the light as the wind whistles low through the cold mountain air. All that which brings one a sense of safety, gone, or maybe that was just me.
Years before, my family would frequent Monterrey, Mexico, a city surrounded by mountain ranges with homes rising alongside the terrain until only the trees climbed higher, and rusted spires stood along the peaks, blinking red. When you’re a kid traveling with your parents you look outside a little bit, but then inevitably you get bored and do something else. Fall asleep, listen to music, read a book, or beat your brother at Yu-Gi-Oh. But when you’re an “adult” and you trek out on your own, there is a sense of wonder that intoxicates every sense. Patches of road bloom with life, skinny streams draw on the earth’s surface, and baby blue skies peek through scary clouds. Take note to admire those fleeting images on the fringes of your eyes.
Spiraling up the mountain in Estes Park continued for what seemed like an hour, looping back and forth as we rose, not even close to the top. Our sights climbed higher as we hiked our way further, unable to smoke due to the families and small children all over the place. Give us a little credit; we’re not scumbags. Rocks and water flowed hand-in-hand underneath croacking wooden bridges as the trees waved along with the sky above and I watched the birds race around, chasing each other from tree to tree. Eventually we made it to an overlook that was sparse for people. Dudley and Taylor sprawled across a slab of rock, and we looked towards the next peak, the sun falling behind it. It would have been a different story to have overcome that next height, but we made the decision to end our climb and head back; however not before knocking out some more of those nineteen. As the elder statesman of the group, Alan drove back while all three of us laid passed out snoring like we had just hiked ten thousand feet, the sun almost over the horizon. I opened my eyes to watch the road pass, trees, mountains and clouds rolling further together. The crisp air cutting through the open windows, cooling my face stuck to the headrest. I peeled away and looked at my friend driving and the dummies behind us sleeping, he glanced over at me and we chuckled, winding down the mountain as the moon glowed into the canyon below.
Now to be frank, I’m not sure whether it was our oversight or fault of the airline, but seeing how many others probably made their flight, the blame is somewhat clear. Our flight was at five in the morning, we woke up at four, rushed to drop off our rental with five joints remaining, each taking one, cursing our choices and splitting the last. We stood waiting on an Uber that was available that early in the morning, not many were, made it to the airport later than we intended, rushed through security, ran to our gate, which we found completely empty and the sign reading for a flight to Puerto Rico at eleven, we questioned the agents at the desk and to our dismay were informed we were over two hours late, and the flight had just left; the next flight out to Houston wasn’t until eight o’ clock that evening and we were broke. Our parents were not excited to receive that early phone call, explaining our misunderstanding of the time zones and the cost of our return, “You didn’t notice the time changed?”, but since they were the financiers of our return, we accepted our fate of hearing the ensuing vitriolic commentary.
At the end of our terminal was a wall of windows, stretched one hundred feet across and mostly empty seating placed perfectly in front. Fifteen hours of the changing painted sky, distant mountains silhouetted, planes arriving and departing, people scattered around in various transportive states. Time carries no meaning beyond its purpose in an airport. I sat and watched planes come and go, people shuffle from terminal to terminal, an older man sat at the end of the row, his eyes fixed on the world outside. The sun reigns as the indicator of being, an omnipotent presence that handles the strings of the world. She warms the glass and passes through its cold reflective stare, reaching into the souls of her children and drowning their fears. I stared into her welcome gaze and further into a world I had only grazed as I passed. Coves of secrets I’ll never see, peaks of tales I’ll never hear, hearts of those I’ll never know; but that which I did, to be with me, high away, in Colorado.
Originally published by The Hemlock Journal on May 8th, 2026
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