Rocky Mountain High

“There’s no… air… gasp…” 

“I think… I’m too dizzy… to drive…” 

“Lucky… we are… parked then…”

We were 11,796 feet up at Alpine Visitors Center on Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, watching a line of people waiting zombie-like to use the outhouses – the water in the real bathrooms already shut off for the season. It was cold. And windy.

“My bladder… is full…”

“Probably… the only thing… keeping you… from being blown… off the mountain…”

The guidebook suggested one way to beat altitude sickness was to stay hydrated. So, we had each slurped our own weight in water two times over. We had also gone through several packs of Trident.

“Is that… your gum popping… or my ears?”

We had started the day in Boulder, Colorado, a mere mile high, and driven “peak-to-peak” over Route 7, stopping each time there was a view or when we felt a bit weak-kneed.

“Pull in… here…”

“I just pulled… out of there…”

The scenery was breathtaking. Valleys full of yellow and bronze aspens, leading up to miles of pristine pine trees, finally turning into the craggy tops of the Rockies. I had taken a photo every time I took a breath, which was about 30 times per minute.

My wife, Pat, finally mustered the courage to head for the head. I went inside the gift store in search of coffee and a souvenir T-shirt.

“AARP?” the woman at the check stand asked.

“Does… it… show?”

“Well, you just handed me your library card. But the reason for asking is that you get a discount on your purchase.”

I gave her an actual credit card. “We live… at sea level… in Santa Barbara,” I said. “Haven’t been… this high… since the 1960s.”

After several cups of coffee and a nutritious snack of Cheetos, we headed back down Trail Ridge Road to Estes Park, where we had a room in a quaint motel that advertised “recent renovation,” which meant we probably had clean sheets and Wi-Fi. We were breathing easier now that we were back at 7,500 feet, so we sat back, opened a bottle of wine, and watched a meadow across the road where the owner had seen some elk only a few days earlier. 

I haven’t been real lucky lately spotting wildlife. In New Hampshire, there were more “Moose Crossing” signs than moose. And every time we go to Yosemite, we are warned to watch for bears. But nary a cub. 

“See anything?” Pat asked, as I scanned the area with my telephoto lens.

“Couple of locals heading for the liquor store.”

“See? That’s wildlife.” She started to take off her shoes. 

“Wait! Let’s go look for elk. Before it gets dark.”

“What’re the odds? Unless we cruise by the local BPOE.”

“Where now?” Pat asked, after driving just a few minutes from the motel.

“Here!” I said, pointing at a sign that stated: “Elk Viewing Area.”

We were skeptical, but we pulled onto the dirt road, drove a short distance and… “There’s one!” 

I jumped out of the car and took a photo of the distant bull elk. Then I began walking up the road, which was bumper-to-bumper with haphazardly parked cars. The buck was trying to gather in a harem of does, but they were confused by all the cars and people, so they held real still. Perfect! I got closer and closer, taking a shot every 10 seconds or so.

And I wasn’t the only one. There were guys there with outfits that gave me major lens envy. Some of them were standing behind women, resting the lenses on their shoulders. Tripod wives even better than trophy wives. I kept easing in. 

Finally, I couldn’t fit the entire bull elk in my viewfinder, so I backed off. 

“Amazing,” someone said.

“I know! I feel like I’m in a National Geographic special – except for the guy in flip-flops and plaid shorts driving the Tesla.”

The light started to fade, so we all jumped into our vehicles and tore out of there at a blistering 1 mph. Back at the room, we put our feet up again and looked at the photos.

“Tomorrow, we should look for Bighorn sheep in the high country,” Pat said.

I poured us more wine. “Might as well start hydrating now.”