The morning started on the cold ground. My shivering and an injured rib did not allow for deep rest. I unzipped my bug net with my left hand, the right arm wasn’t nearly as functional after being thrown from my motorcycle onto some rocks the day prior. It was my fault, I claim responsibility and do not blame the bike, the terrain, or some other factor in an attempt to save face. (But, if you had seen the condition of that road and the size of those rocks, you might take pity on me.)

I retrieved my food from the bear box, rolled up my sleeping bag, mat, net, and packed it all into my saddle bags and pack. This white Harley Davidson was my escape, a chance to throw off the shackles of society and flow with the wind rather than be static and affected by it.

My morning cup of coffee turned into six as I sat in the National Park restaurant, gripping the side of the thick mug trying to warm up. An occasional shudder would emanate from my core and culminate with chattering of teeth. The body tremor made my ribs ache. Out the window and across the lake, my eyes focused on the Grand Tetons.

“Teewinot” or “les trois tétons”, many pinnacles or three teats, regardless what you call them, these mountains are majestic. With warmer hands I finished writing my update about the previous day’s ride through Yellowstone. How I had crashed, parked by an elk, almost hit a bear cub that ran out in front of me from the woods, and managed to convince the campsite administrator to let me sleep behind the check-in shack when there were no available camp spots left.

I walked down to the lake to get a better perspective, took a few photos, and stretched my legs before a day in the saddle. I put my Garmin into it’s mount and plotted the next point. I had no idea where I’d stop, but I knew where I was going.

Coming out of the mountains and onto the western plains, my saving grace was that despite my injury – while riding, arms extended and hands on the bars, it was the only position where I didn’t feel pain. I was meant to do this, here, now. The red rock with colorful striations rose and fell in various shapes and formations along the highway.

I stopped for lunch in the middle of nowhere and enjoyed conversation with another rider. Took fuel, had rest, respecting no time keeper other than the sun. Riding a few more hours, East over the park, then South. I stopped at the guard shack of Rocky Mountain National Park.

Trail Ridge Rd was open and I rode the peaks of mountains. The snow in late July was just inches from the blacktop. There was no guard rail and I quickly stopped imagining free fall so I could focus on the wet, gravelly road conditions. The rainbow I passed seemed massive and I felt closer than I ever have because I was literally in the clouds.

We all have moments in our lives, times that are crystal clear, memories we will never forget. You might think it would be the mountain top experience, but no. As the sun began to set and the air was cooling, I headed for the southern park gate, crossing Little Columbine Creek flanked by tall pines. Never have I ever tasted sweeter air than what was blowing across the water at the base of Mt Shadow. Purple sky with orange streaks of light and my soul refreshed.

I long to go back in time, to stop at that lake, spend the night on the shore and be Rocky Mountain high once again…

OVER.

Psalm 23:1-3 “The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul.”

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Drew OUT!