Give me the modestly-hot one

I'm starting to get a little claustrophobic in these mountains. I miss driving in a landscape that will leave you alone and let you think. Driving in Texas was like an out-of-body experience; you suddenly realize you've been going fifteen minutes and you have no idea how you got where you are. My life in general was like that in Dallas, lost in my head most of the time, and I would wonder vaguely whether all those daydreams were worth the inattention. Or the car accidents.

The natural beauty here is crushingly omnipresent, towering overhead, demanding to be noticed. It huffs at your failure to constantly and adequately appreciate it as you pass by on your prosaic errands. And of course it also demands that commuters drive around it instead of through, so every journey becomes a 25 mph scenic cruise. Texas' beauty was like a tasteful perfume, or that girl in the teen movie who is only "ugly" because she wears glasses and overalls. It was Biddy to Colorado's Estella, Betty to her Veronica. Always available, but never obtrusive.

Or I might just be pissed off because I've got allergies. Yesterday I woke up at 4:45 AM (on accident) and climbed up my mountain one-handed, so I could read my scriptures at the top while the sun came up over Denver. It sounded more majestic and profound in my head than it actually turned out to be... the pages kept blowing around, and the sun was rising directly in my eyes (which was sort of the point, I guess), and I was coated with all kinds of plant spawn from the brambles I'd waded through to get there. Naturally my paranoid and xenophobic immune system began forcibly expelling all the tourists from my mucous membranes, resulting in a rather symbolic emergency flight from all that nature to the nearest Wal-Mart (thirty scenic minutes away) for some Claritin.

When American civil order inevitably collapses and bands of roving paramilitaries sack that Wal-Mart, I will no doubt have to trade my dried venison and gasoline for allergy medication.

--Kevin