Into the Rockies
A coworker, Danielle, and I decide we’re overdue for a photography adventure, so we point ourselves toward Lake Dillon — tucked like a glittering sapphire between Dillon and Silverthorne, Colorado. I’m practically vibrating with excitement. This is my first real trip into the mountains since moving to Colorado, and I’m feeling a little like Samwise setting out from the Shire, except with more coffee and significantly less orc-related apprehension.
As we wind our way up into the mountains, I spot those runaway truck ramps — the gravel hills built for big rigs whose brakes have decided they're done with this world. Every time I see one, I get a shiver. It’s equal parts genius and nightmare fuel: “If this goes terribly wrong, aim for the giant dirt ramp!” Comforting and horrifying, all at once. Very mountain-energy.
At the Lake
We arrive and drift through Silverthorne and Dillon, hunting for the perfect place to park near the lake’s edge. We find a spot and head down a path, the air crisp and humming with alpine possibility. Danielle wanders one way, I wander another — two little artists foraging for beauty among the pines and water, cameras at the ready, chasing the light like it owes us money.
I spot a dock and step onto it, because of course I do. Growing up along the Mississippi and near Midwestern lakes, docks are practically childhood furniture to me — but this one? This dock is so still it feels enchanted. It’s as if the lake commanded, “Let’s give her a moment of peace, she looks like she needs it.” The mountains — sharp, proud, and dramatic across the water — stand as witness. Later I’d learn that one of those very pointy peaks is called Swan Mountain, which feels far too elegant for something so point-y and intimidating, but good for her.
Paddle boarders glide along the silvery water like they’re auditioning for some serene nature documentary, and a few boats in the distance putter around, leisurely as a Sunday morning. Then a family arrives with dogs in tow, ready for fishing and joyous chaos. A little girl tosses a stick again and again for her very enthusiastic dog, and he splashes after it with the kind of devotion only dogs and certain romantic poets seem to possess. Animals always seem to know when they’re playing with tiny humans — gentle, goofy, just a touch protective. It gets me every time.
Sadly, around then, Danielle’s film camera decides it's had enough fresh mountain air and refuses to cooperate. A diva moment, truly. We linger another thirty minutes, soaking in the scenery and pretending time doesn’t exist, before reluctantly heading back — hearts full, memory cards fuller, and one camera in desperate need of a pep talk.
