Personal Narrative: Crested Butte, Colorado

One of the fondest, most memorable places from my childhood has to be Crested Butte, Colorado, where my family and I would vacation. From the drive into Colorado, seeing beautiful, white-capped mountains off in the distance, to building snow forts rivaling King Arthur’s castle. Every single time I remember back to that place, I can’t help but smile as I recall all the wonderful memories associated with that magical white paradise.

Everything beings with a prologue. The excited feelings associated with knowing that a very intriguing story is about to unfold before your eyes. The imagination of an eight year-old running completely wild with thoughts of what an enchanting, winter wonderland they would soon experience. I can still recall being
in the backseat of my family Suburban as we drove up through the panhandle. Looking out the window, longing to be out of the desert and ascend into the majestic Rocky Mountains, something I had only seen in geography books. Squinting my eyes and peering off into the distance, I could make out the faint outline of what I swore was a ridgeline. Hysteria took over, bouncing around the car like grasshoppers leaping around fields of tall grass. Only the calming, slightly annoyed, voice of my father informing me when haven’t even made it out of Texas brought me back to reality. Crossing the borders into New Mexico and lastly Colorado, enthusiasm grew as we advanced closer to our destination. Surveying the mountains off in the distance I was astounded at the scale of the Rocky Mountains compared to the hill country here in Central Texas. Like transitioning from two-story houses everywhere to massive sky scrapers which cast a shadow that could swallow you whole. I couldn’t believe that what I was witnessing was real and existed in my small, yet rapidly expanding world.

Snow covering every surface. That pure, clean, untarnished white powder would bury anything that wasn’t constantly in motion. Appearing to have fallen asleep, having a dream where I glided freely through the clouds. To me, the snow had turned a normal city into the world’s largest playground. Being a Texas boy growing up, I could only recall my front yard with a conservative dusting which shut the city down worse than a plague outbreak. Watching the converted snow plow trucks work their way meticulously down the street was like watching the world’s greatest Pac-man player methodically and perfectly clearing the paths necessary to keep things flowing. Their colossal, rusted crimson plows with the flanking thin yellow poles would throw snow up in a way like waves crashing down onto the shore. Craning my neck and twisting completely around in my seat, I continued watching those incredible, white waves crash onto the sidewalks and spill into the alleyways.

At long last we had arrived at our destination.
Similar to the suburban street I grew up on, but in lieu of cookie-cutter houses, there stood wood cabins with yards covered in snow in place of stale Bermuda grass. The reddish-orange light emanating from the towering street lights pierced through that white fog and gently illuminated the area. Exiting the car I was overwhelmed with a flurry of new sensations. The gently falling snow absorbed all of the sounds I was used to hearing in a residential area.The low hum of passing cars, birds singing from the trees, even the sound of blowing wind appeared to be muffled and silenced by the steady falling snow. I felt enveloped in a cool, however familiar blanket. The smell of wood burning was coming from every direction as each house I looked at had a thin, grayish plume gently rising from the chimney signaling warmth and comfort for the many nestled up. Looking down the street towards the way we came in, I noticed how freshly plowed it was. A thin layer of snow and ice, like icing on a cupcake or the glass top on my parent’s nightstand, covered the street while a pile of snow that could have swallowed me alive, sat on the sidewalk. Feeling taunted, I stood there and weighed my options. Chest deep mounds of frozen crystals begged me to dive in and lose myself. Surrendering myself to the temptations before me was only hindered by the fear of the wrath my parents would surely show. But had that ever stopped me before? Ignoring the
threats and warnings from my parents about staying warm and dry, I soared into that snowbank without a second thought to explore it’s dreamy white depths.

After settling into the cabin and changing out of my frozen, damp, snow covered clothes, I found myself inevitably shivering, wrapped in a blanket resembling nothing less than a cocoon just waiting to have a butterfly burst forth from it.
Sipping slowly on a cup of hot chocolate after the sun set, I pondered and planned in my head what my first activity might be when I wake up in the morning. Should I build the impenetrable snow fort that could easily draw comparisons to Minas Tirith, or perhaps amass a pile of snowballs to use for the inevitable war that I would surely start with my sister. Quickly I become distracted by the beautiful, handcrafted wood forming this dwelling. It’s rich orange and brown mixed perfectly to create something so easy on the eyes, I had difficulty comprehending how it came to be. The soft, smooth and flawless texture led me to run a hand over to test for splinters. Perhaps the smell of the wood was hidden among smells from the fireplace, the kitchen and my cup of hot chocolate. All of these sensations coming together to form a feeling of tenderness, akin to a mother’s embrace. I never wanted to return back home. Realizing the discovery of a place so perfect, so inviting and peaceful, I challenged the idea of returning to the familiarity of home. This was only the first day with vastly more to look forward to.

I currently find myself drawing so many comparisons to myself when I was that age. It begs the question of “Does anyone ever truly change?”
I’ve made sure to try and change in the right ways and desperately try to hold onto how I saw the world back then.