Home
I find refuge in the silence that falls between the gusts of wind and the rustling of the grass. In the way you can hear your heartbeat and the sound of your breath, without interruption. In the way the stars shine ruthlessly after golden hour fades away. I find refuge in the mountains. They say home is where your heart is, and this, up here, is home.
I remember pressing my face up
against the glass window as we wound through roads lined with walls of trees
that touched the sky. I would watch as my breath coated the window’s surface
and trace my fingers in patterns and designs, peeking through the lines at the
world outside. I came to be enthralled with the world around me-
captured by the moon hanging in the night sky, absorbed in the deep blue that
paints the air we breathe, and amazed by the vastness of the universe. Over the years, I came to love it.
My best friends became family to me, and
time after time, we would find ourselves wandering to the mountains. We would
soar through fields of white powder beneath a sky of trees, bike for 6 hours to
gaze upon whimsical sunsets, or even climb to the top of the world to watch the
golden clouds make their rounds. Nevertheless, we would find ourselves snuggled
together when those endless nights would turn to dust, and the lights hanging
in the sky would be dismissed. It was the views, the experiences,
and the company that made me the happiest person in the world. When you're
surrounded by this amazing world, the endless skies, beautiful people and a
mind at peace, there's no reason not to be.
Moments like these have built up over the
years, caught in feelings, friendships, eternal memories and photographs-
because watching the sun kiss the horizon each morning and night from a
mountaintop seems more like a dream than reality. And when dreams come true,
you know you’re in a good place.
I once heard a quote that goes like this:
“Find someone that makes you realize three things: one, that home is not a
place, but a feeling. Two, that time is not measured by a clock but by moments.
And three, that heartbeats are not heard, but felt and shared.” This is what the mountains mean to me. The peaks that serve as an attainable
paradise, nestled in a sea of trees, warmed by the glow of the sun. This is
home.
How do we post these things?
ReplyDeletehttps://vimeo.com/88987094
Braden Waller
Personal Narrative
It seemed like such a great plan to relocate ourselves to the nearby mountains for the final year of our education. After living in Boulder for two years, the tranquility came across as rather endearing to my roommates and I. With an exhausting search, a secluded 70’s style home on James Canyon Road by Jamestown became the final province for us three fifth year senior hippies and our chocolate lab named Spunk. And so for three months we slept soundly to the trickles of the gentle creek that ran beside our house, and we stood proud on our mountain deck immersed in the songs of the hummingbirds. And for three months we grew as shepherds and guardians of the neighboring lands of the national forest. (Well, I didn’t because I had a broken ankle at the time, but my roommates went hiking sometimes.) After a few months, we somehow became partially blinded in our seclusion and unfortunately never concerned ourselves with any of the logistical problems with the property, such as the 200 yd. steep narrow driveway along a canyon wall. We were content. And then it rained a bit.
I awoke on a casual Thursday school morning to find that our pleasant little creek had intriguingly become a 50 foot gaping river. My roommates and I all shared a similar reaction
Not really knowing what to do, and still not fully grasping the gravity of the situation, I decided to shoot some aesthetically pleasing, exceedingly cliché slow motion HD footage of the new flowing water next to my house. One of my roommates informed me to have a look at our driveway, and upon my inspection I found it particularly hazardous towards the middle where the best method of transportation suddenly became a medium most efficiently traveled by boat or canoe. It was then that I understood that we were completely stuck in our dearly beloved mountain home. And then it rained more.
We were marooned for six days without some of the bare essentials, but although clean water seemed scarce, beer was not in short supply. For the days we lingered around the house combating a ruthless enemy; boredom. Nights we remained in isolation listening to the rhythm of the pitter patter on the cool shingles above, while I read Game of Thrones by candlelight. Overall I found the deep seclusion relaxing and a swell chance to catch up on some leisure reading.
Events livened up a bit on the third day when our 500 gallon propane tank collapsed over an eroded cliff edge. The propane spewed out of the valve in a swirling icy mist, a cool steam across the meadow. The gas disgorged such as a witch’s frothy cauldron. The fog hung low in suspended animation. Time stopped in its tracks. A lone wolf howled in the distance. I squired my roommate Hiroki with the umbrella into certain death. Then he shut of the valve.
The close pounding of the chopper blades on the sixth day felt like the end of a glorified war movie, or Jurassic Park. Shortly after, the five-minute helicopter ride into Boulder was gratifying and shocking. I first realized that water damage and Godzilla’s aftermath are remarkably similar. Then came my final realization. I was homeless.