I grew up in the mountains west of Boulder. As far as I can tell, my old neighborhood may actually have been evacuated (although trying to find things like that out when I’m safe and sound in Louisville is more complicated that you might expect – informing me isn’t exactly high priority for rescue crews.)
I am not much of a mountain sports girl. I don’t ski or snowboard, I don’t really hike. I only go rock climbing when all of the organization is done by someone else and there are promises of delicious beer at the end of the day.
I love the mountains, though. They’re part of who I grew up to be. People who grew up by the ocean are fond of talking about it’s presence, have you noticed that? They’ll say they ‘miss the ocean’ they way you’d miss your grandma. I feel the same way about my Boulder mountains. Not all mountains, mind you. Most mountains can fend for themselves.
But these are mine. I played in them, I lived in them, I got sticky from sap and yellow from pollen. I lost (and found) my dogs in them. I woke up to a bull in the backyard in them. I took the schoolbus through those mountain roads, I kissed boys under those mountain trees.
Even though I haven’t visited them that much lately, I always know they’re there.
And now they’re on fire. People are losing their homes. My heart goes out to them.
There’s not a lot that we can do, right now. If you’re interested in helping, here’s a list of how you can.
I’m going to get back to coughing and sending my mountains and their residents good thoughts.
