Rocky Mountain High

I rolled myself out of bed, carefully hobbling towards the family room, pressing my
hand against the wall for support. I tumbled onto the couch and sighed with relief,
propping my head up with several pillows and resting a large ice pack over my torso. I
can’t lie, it felt pretty sad being in a place as beautiful as Steamboat, Colorado and
spending basically the entire trip inside. I think the most adventurous thing I had done
was take a very slow, hunched over, short walk with my mom, or rode the gondola
without even getting off. No timing is good timing to have an emergency surgery, but
the first day of spring break is pretty terrible timing if you ask me.



I was under the impression that the rest of my family— brothers, parents, grandparents,
cousins, and my aunt— were all on the slopes, and that I was alone in the house. But I
realized as I laid there that I could hear a familiar tune drifting through the door.



He was born in the summer of his 27th year, coming home to a place he’d never been
before…



I had very limited mobility, but as I turned my head, I could see my grandpa out of
the corner of my eye. He was standing alone on the porch, staring at the mountains,
playing “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver. I wanted to join him, but I could
hardly stand, and I didn’t want to disturb his peace. I pressed my palms into the leather
couch and propped myself up a bit higher, wincing and holding my breath. The ache
was more than worth the view. 



But the Colorado Rocky Mountain high, I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky, the shadow
from the starlight is softer than a lullaby...Rocky Mountain High...



My family didn’t go to the mountains often. I had only been to Colorado one other 
time, when I was in elementary school, and all I can remember is sore ankles and fighting 
to keep up with my more experienced family members on the ski slopes. I can't say 
I was happy to be practically bed ridden in Colorado, but to look on the bright side, 
it did give me the chance to really take in the views. The mountains in Steamboat 
are unreal. Everywhere you look, there’s a mountain so beautiful and so tall that 
you’re left awestruck by its existence. You don't get a lot of time to take 
everything in and really notice its beauty when you're busy wiping out and 
screaming to your dad that you lost a ski.



The lines of pure white snow breaking through the trees reveal all of the possible
routes for skiers to take. If you look closely enough, you can see tiny figures gliding
down the mountain. I wonder if I’m looking at one of my family members. I wonder how
many deer, moose, wolves, bears, magpies, and other animals are living their hidden
lives in the trees. Many people had complained that the magpies were annoying, but due
to my trip being spent alone in the house, I had begun to leave nuts on the balcony for
the magpies to eat. Turns out they make pretty good company, and I had really learned
to appreciate them, as well as their loud calls interrupting the house’s silence.



Maybe it was the poorly timed emergency surgery that made me appreciate the
mountains. Maybe it was seeing my grandpa, the most passionate skier I know, take a
break to just take in the views, with nothing to accompany him but a song. Or maybe
John Denver just has that effect on people. Probably all three of those things. But
whatever it was, something about “Rocky Mountain High” playing over that stunning
view of Steamboat made me feel incredibly blessed, all things considered.