Denver & Rocky Mountains

During the night, a drunken flatmate of Jordan, my host in Denver, wakes me up several times. The next morning, I’m even more out of it than the night before. Without breakfast, I swing into the car. Jordan said: “The Rocky Mountains take an hour by car. It takes me 2.5 hours just to get to the entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park. The road through the park is 82 miles long and climbs to over 3600 metres.

Apparently all the trails end after a few hundred metres. No real hiking routes anywhere. Americans probably do everything by car. I join the queue and drive up to the highest peaks in 2 hours.
I’ve often been to these heights when snowboarding. But today I get altitude sickness for the first time. Headache, dizziness, nausea at 3700 metres. I should have had one yesterday. Nevertheless, the view is magnificent. The tree line is above 3000 metres, much higher than here in the Alps.

The radio in Colorado is the purest revelation after two days of Nebraska-safe brain puree: “Martini on the Rocks” radio plays cruise-control-flattering swing from the 50s and Dean Martin. “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver comes on at just the right bend at 3,000 metres.

I drive back down into the valley and discover a small old single-lane gravel track that winds its way adventurously up to the highest peak for another 9 miles. Rocks on the right, waterfalls on the left. Only the Americans with their giant jeeps and panic-stricken fear of every 5cm stone are annoying. Worse than the Dutch in the Alps. Superheroism starts at 5mph.

Colorado also has the right music for the return journey on the motorway. In rush hour traffic jams, you simply listen to loud bludgeon rock on KBPI. I lovingly stroke my pump gun in the passenger seat, smile into the sunset and all is well.

In the evening, I take a quick stroll through downtown Denver. Lots of beggars. Then back to Jordan’s, finally working at a real table again. I swap music with one of his flatmates and fall into bed around one o’clock.