On purple mountain's majesty....

I'm a Colorado girl, through and through. Born and raised in (or around) Denver, I've had some pretty fantastic experiences with this city and those gorgeous mountains out to the West. I can't remember a day of my life that I haven't woken up to see the mountains. It's the beauty of living so close to them. You'd think by now, 30+ years later, I'd be so used to seeing the mountains that I'm bored of them. That's simply not the case. Every morning I drive to work, I glance to my left and am all but blown away by how beautiful the mountains are. It takes quite a bit of will power not to pull my car over and start taking photos. Yes, this happens pretty much every morning. It's a battle of wills...do I stop to take pictures or do I get to work on time?

It's hard to choose a favorite memory involving the mountains. Frankly, there are just too many to choose from. Between camping, hiking, skiing, and day trips, it's too hard to choose just one.

But there is one that stands out and has for quite some time.

Several years ago, I went skiing with my dad. Just him and me, on the hill. It had been years since we'd gone skiing and I was desperate to go so with enough begging, he agreed to come with me. My dad taught me how to ski when I was about three years old, in our back yard, on tiny plastic red skis. When I was big enough, he took me to the mountains, shoved me in a class for the morning, and I fell in love.

My dad is a brilliant skier. Always has been, as far as I'm concerned. And I trust him intrinsically. So when we hit the hills on the last day of the season (yay, Spring Skiing!), I asked him - either bravely or stupidly - to take me down my first double black.

See, I'm kind of a pansy when it comes to skiing. I hate falling (mostly because getting up is a nightmare) and I'd really just rather have fun and be safe than go crazy and get killed. Black runs have never been my thing. I'm the only person I know who feels that way. So asking my dad to take me on this run was a big step forward for me. And I knew, without a doubt, that he'd coach me down the hill without getting frustrated and without me having a panic attack.

But there was another reason I wanted to hit that run. At the very top of the lift, there's a hell of a catwalk (the bain of every skiers existence), but that cat walk runs directly across the Continental Divide. From there, you can see for a million miles. You can see another FOUR ski resorts. You can practically see God from up there. That view alone was (and still is) worth every terrifying moment of skiing down the hill. I mean really...is there anything more exhilarating than being on the very top of a mountain? Even for me, the eternal adrenaline junkie, nothing quite compares to that feeling or that view.

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