It’s Thanksgiving Day. I’m driving my family from Denver, Colorado westbound on I-70 into the mountains. The road tilts upward, meandering its way along a manmade trail, twisting deeper and deeper into the pristine splendor of the high country.
Soon the snow capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains surround me, my breath slows, my shoulders drop, I settle comfortably into the drivers seat, a warm inner-calm envelopes me, my thoughts are clear. I am happy, content and confident.
I love the mountains because I experience this mild from of euphoria every time I visit them.
They are strong, dependable and true. I trust in the knowledge that they will always be there for me. I feel safe in their midst’s.
I glance at my family as I continue my journey and hope they think of me as their Mountain.
Soon the snow capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains surround me, my breath slows, my shoulders drop, I settle comfortably into the drivers seat, a warm inner-calm envelopes me, my thoughts are clear. I am happy, content and confident.
I love the mountains because I experience this mild from of euphoria every time I visit them.
They are strong, dependable and true. I trust in the knowledge that they will always be there for me. I feel safe in their midst’s.
I glance at my family as I continue my journey and hope they think of me as their Mountain.
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