The Continental Divide

Lest you think yesterday's post contained any sort of exaggeration, I reveal to you a few shots from our yard taken this morning:

Yesterday’s post and our continuing massive winter storm have had me thinking all day about Colorado, that landscape of my first memories, the cornerstone upon which the rest of my memories rest, the place where I first developed a sense of self.

Our trips to Leadville always required a drive through the Continental Divide. Two or three times a year, my parents would load us into the silver Volkswagen Dasher wagon and head for my Uncle Dennis’ historic house in the mining town two miles into the Rocky Mountains. The turning point in the drive, the point when we seemed closer to Leadville than to home, was when we crossed the Divide. My dad would rouse us from sleep: “J, Quinn, Lissa, we’re crossing the divide.” We’d wipe our eyes and look out the window at the endless line of trees and snow dusted mountainside, seeing up ahead the Eisenhower Tunnel that would take us through the heart of the Divide.

The ultimate barrier, the Continental Divide marks the point on the continent that dictates the direction of a river’s flow. A river on the west side of the Divide flows into the Pacific. On the east, it’ll empty into the Atlantic or the Arctic. In my five year old estimation, John Denver strumming way over the Dasher’s static-ridden speakers, the Continental Divide was what divided home from away; before the Divide, we were our ordinary selves, after, we were on vacation. The Divide meant John Denver would be turned up louder, that even my cool older brother J. would sing along. The Divide meant that my mom would reach into the grocery bag at her feet and issue forth a bag of skittles or a pack of gum “to help us pop our ears.”

The Divide meant that we would hold our breath.

As the tunnel approached, my dad counted to three. My mom rolled her eyes.

“One, two, three, go!” My dad, my brothers and I would suck in an exaggerated breath, our faces puffed so round with air we looked as if we were harboring limes in our cheeks.

The Eisenhower Tunnel was a mile and a half long. None of us were able to hold our breath through that massive continental barrier. Not even my dad, who always lasted the longest. Not even me, who always cheated and breathed in a few times.

But knowing we wouldn’t make it to the end didn’t keep us from trying.

Every single time.

Thirty years from now, I wonder how these guys will remember the storm of 2008?
I can only imagine how many warm and wonderful memories they'll have of this man: