Fresh From The Mountain: No Lie

There's something to be said about tap water that sits out overnight. In the morning, it's funky and tastes slightly of metal and things I'd rather not know. At least, that's how it was in MD.

In Colorado, everything is so fresh. I can drink my bottle of water in the morning without balking at the taste. It's no wonder they advertise mountain water on every water bottle. I've seen it up close and tasted the drops that float on the air after the crush of a waterfall.

 Even in July, the lakes are as cold as the glaciers they're melted from. The water bounces on the surface, and I understand the phrase clear as crystal.

Up into the sky, the droplets go, creating giant clouds that move over the Rockies, their shadows traceable on the mountainsides. Some float down to Earth and I remember we are at 8,000 feet, not as nearly down to earth as I know on the east coast.

Despite the fires and occasional scent of smoke, the air is crispest I've ever taken in. The airways of my nose hurts from the dry weather and I'm surprised I haven't gotten a bleed from it. Colorado is so dry that it smells of nothing, not dirt or trees or smog. Not, at least, until it rains. Then it's a thousand smells of nature that have been missing for weeks. The Ponderosa, the elk and coyote scat, the dirt and the sidewalk all come alive.

I leave my window open so that humidity fills my room. I plug up the door with rags and pillowcases so that I might hold in the sweet, overpowering liquidity for as long as I can.