Last December, I arrived in Boulder on a wet and frosted night, the cold a stark contrast to the sedate warmth of Hawaiian winters that I was leaving. My arrival was a sigh, the slow release of pressure built up over several years of constant wandering, and the beginning of a spiritual and emotional convalescence that was a lifetime in the making.
In fifteen months, the farthest I have been from this city is only a handful of hours by highway, a true reversal of my constant motion. I have been moored on dry ground, this landlocked state a haven from life’s fervently rocking seas. Boulder and its kindness were what I needed, and the Flatirons my anchors.
The recent weeks have brought a new buoyancy to my steps, as the morning’s flavors change to those of spring and the stars sit clearer above our heads, and I am drawn in the direction of the wind. Soon I will be on the road counting mile markers rather than days, and my only goal will be the ocean, and every mountain in between. I yearn to taste coastal salt just long enough to renew my love for alpine air, and I will be back again.