I live in the mountains

I round the corner of my condo complex, donning a Target synthetic sweater, a towel wrapped around my swim suit-clad body and flip flops. I've left the hot tub that, beyond the next building, overlooks the mountains and what has finally turned into a blue sky day.

Walking down the long hallway from the stairs that lead to the hot tub balcony, I pass the ladybug doormat... the simple "WELCOME" doormat outlined in green, and come to the winterish pine cone mat that marks the entrance to my home.

No, it's not mine, but I live here. As I approach the door and grab the handle, I think to myself, "I can't believe I live here. For most people, this is but a dream."

I continue the introspective conversation, "Remember that, Jan. Whenever you think you're taking the mountains for granted, remember that you're living here. You're living the dream."

It's funny, I catch myself taking this setting for granted often. I get frustrated at the distances between places. I wonder why I get stuck behind the City Market truck on Hoosier Pass, slowing to 5 mph on the hairpin curves. But then I see the likes of Quandary Peak rising to my left, and I'm reminded of the majesty of this place: the mountains. The Rockies. The wild parts of the West, still here.

I remember sitting behind two young boys on the Summit Stage during the March Spring Break portion of the ski season. At that point, I was asking myself how long the lift lines would be, if I really had time to make some turns, and was fiddling with my MP3 player to make sure it was working.

Something crept into my thoughts. Those boys and their conversation. They were craning their necks to see the tops of the jagged peaks above Officer's Gulch. In a crowded bus, those brothers (or what seemed to be brothers) were awed at the awesomeness of the Colorado mountains.

I stopped what I was doing. I watched them. I looked at the ridge myself. I took it in for what it is.