TRUDGE

By Tyler Hansen

In 1988 my dad and I each had our treasured possessions.

For him, it was a 1964 Jeep Willy’s Truck. It wasn’t an immaculately restored shining jewel of a thing. Instead, it had a suspension problem that would cause it to shake uncontrollably somewhere around 20 miles per hour. Anything above or below 20 and you were safe. But at 20 miles an hour, the thing was an absolute menace and I would duck my head down below the windows to avoid being seen by friends.

For me, it was a candy apple red Ross Mt. Jefferson mountain bike. It was my pride and joy with knobby BMX tires and pedals that could have doubled as medieval torture device with the havoc they wreaked on my shins. I rode that beauty up and down Elk Avenue endlessly with the confidence that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, I was the coolest 10-year-old in the world.

That summer, I decided it was time to ride 403. By myself. In a thunderstorm. This being the ’80s my parents encouraged me heartily, going so far as to suggest a helmet might be warranted, but only if I wanted it. These were the same parents who decided I could fly from Singapore to Denver by myself at age 12. Listen, it was different times. What we lacked in digital footprints allowing traceable evidence in the event of child trafficking we made up for with safety measures like cigarette vending machines and Nancy Reagan’s sage wisdom of “just say no.” There was also a PSA that genuinely inquired of parents if they knew where their children were at 10 p.m. It’s a wonder any of us made it to puberty.

So it was that my dad loaded my greatest treasure into the bed of his greatest treasure and drove me to the top of Washington Gulch as thunderheads gathered over Paradise Divide. The road being what it was, most of the drive was right at 20 miles per hour, so by the time we reached the trailhead my brain had been jostled just enough to think that riding an unmaintained trail on a fully rigid bike with 20-inch wheels was a good use of my time. As he unloaded my bike my father, ever safety conscious, looked at the black sky above me and said, “Have fun. It’s funny how your hair is standing on end.”

Off I went, to a grand adventure that would set the tenor of my summers from then onward. After an initial climb the trail wended its way along the side of Mt. Baldy culminating in a rock shelf with majestic views looking down into the Gothic Valley. The storm was holding off and things were looking promising as the trail began its rapid descent to the saddle at the north side of Gothic Mountain. The initial switchbacks were far too much for me at the time (as I age, they’re getting to be a bit too much for me again…the circle of life as Elton John would say) so I walked my bike precariously through the crux of the trail.

The further I made my way down the trail, the more surreal things felt. The imposing dark timber towering over me opening up into meadows with head high skunk cabbage, the quiet of a forest that felt undiscovered, it was a world I had never known opening up to my eyes. I had a flair for the dramatic at that age (I thought it would be a good idea to do an interpretive lip-sync to Phil Collins’ “Another Day in Paradise” for my school talent show) so I think I managed to muster up a tear or two to commemorate what felt like such an important experience. The storm never materialized as I dropped further and further from the high alpine into the valley floor, so once again my parents’ evident lack of concern was proven right. Lucky them. Instead, somewhere along the way the sun burned through the clouds and streamed through the tree boughs like a Disney movie.

Because it can be neatly packaged and sold to us, Hollywood seems to paint a kind of “Behind the Music” framework for life. If you’re familiar with VH1’s series, maybe you’ll know what I’m talking about. The rockstar works hard, gets all the money and fame, but then the music turns ominous, signaling impending tragedy. That’s when the drugs come in, or the bridges are burned, or the bandmate dies in a motorcycle accident. At the height of success comes the lowest moment for our protagonist. But then the music rises and some singular moment changes everything. They meet the love or their life or they write the most important song of their career. For our rockstar, the world is made right again and there’s nothing but promise on the horizon. Roll credits.

For most of us, I dare say life isn’t marked by such singularities. Sure, we all have those rare occasions that scar us or inspire us or drive us to something new. But in reality, life just doesn’t dole out the romantic moments the way VH1 would have us believe. One of my favorite books has the phrase, “trudge the road of happy destiny.” That’s more what it’s like. Is life wonderful and adventurous and magnificent? Beyond a doubt. But sometimes it can feel like we’re plodding our way through all that wonder. Here’s the secret; that’s just fine!

I’d like to think by the time I reached Gothic Road I was somehow forever changed, as though I had emerged from a veritable chrysalis as a wholly new person. But let’s be honest, that’s being more than a little melodramatic. It’s a romantic thought, a kind of poetic reinterpretation of the events of the day. In reality I think more than anything I was hungry and tired. And I was dreading the long ride back home. I was also, inexplicably, afraid of the cows grazing near me. I might have just finished something awesome, but I was still 10 years old with the illogical thoughts of a 10-year-old.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, I was trudging the road of happy destiny. That was one of many small deposits into a bank account that has been getting filled with experiences big and small. This valley is where I rode 403 for the first time, hiked up to the North Face with my dad, swam in Long Lake with my neighborhood friends, and hid from those same friends when my dad’s truck began to jungle boogie. It’s also where I fell in love, got married, had kids, and built this incredible life. Trudge, trudge, trudge.

Whether you live here or you’re just visiting for a few days you have a chance to trudge that road, to add a deposit to your bank account from this valley. It might not be a VH1 experience but, really, does it need to be in order to matter?

Tyler Hansen lives in a hobbit house in the middle of an aspen forest with his wife, two sons, and a dog named after a Will Ferrell character. A graphic designer and musician by trade, he has a fondness for old guitars and linen pants.