We drove south through the open stretch of northeastern Colorado, skirting the edge of the Pawnee National Grasslands. The land was flat but expressive. Broad strokes of green and beige reached toward a distant horizon. Dotted between the grasses were dozens of oil drilling rigs, steadily pumping away. I hadn’t expected oil in Colorado, but here it was: steel arms rising and falling, a quiet industry humming in the background of these sweeping plains.
We made our way to Fort Collins to visit one of Charlie’s family friends. The town felt open and breathable. More space between things than we were used to, which made driving easy. After, we continued to Loveland for lunch with another set of Charlie’s family friends. They were incredibly warm and welcoming, inviting us into their beautiful house for a nice meal.
As we drove through these towns on the Front Range, I couldn’t help but reflect on the way they’re built. Large, uniform developments of beautiful houses line the road with each home looking just like the one before it. There’s a sameness to it, almost sterile, and yet the setting makes it feel extraordinary. These houses sit on the threshold between prairie and peaks. If the skies hadn’t been cloudy from the afternoon rain, we would have seen the Rockies rising just behind them. Imagine that: folding laundry while staring out your window at the jagged outline of the continent’s backbone. The proximity to those mountains gives even the most suburban cul-de-sac a kind of reverence.
We pulled into a park at a reservoir just outside town to regroup and make a plan. The rain had passed, leaving everything in a sheen. The air was cool and carried that clean Colorado smell: wet earth, pine, something mineral.
Our next stop was Denver, where we were meeting up with Suz– my friend and coworker from when I spent a summer in Glacier National Park back in 2021. We’d arranged to stay overnight in the lot of a restaurant called the Front Range Inn. They were on Harvest Hosts, but they welcomed us even though we weren’t official members, with the understanding that we’d dine in. The place had all the dive bar charm you could ask for. Dim lighting, scratched wooden tables, cluttered walls, but the food was surprisingly good, and everyone we met was kind. It had that comforting, no-frills character that reminds you hospitality doesn’t have to be curated to be real.
After dinner, we Ubered to Western Sky Brewery for karaoke night. Seeing Suz again made my heart leap. It had been three years, but the second I saw her, it felt like no time had passed at all. Her friend Audrey was there too, and the three of us slid easily back into laughter and memory. Suz got up to sing, and she was somehow even better than I remembered. Her voice still strong and open. Listening to her took me back to thinking of sitting around the fire as she sang originals and took requests for covers. I remember she sang Fast Car for me on my last night there as I shed many tears. Trying to hold onto the moment and chapter that was slipping away from me. I remember dancing around Kips as she sang Wagon Wheel up on stage.
We reminisced about Glacier. About that moment in the EDR when I made the Dean’s List and Suz started a slow clap that the whole room joined. About her singing around the campfire and how the sound always felt like it belonged in the mountains. About how special those mountains and the people within them were. About how that summer that changed everything.
She even got a fireweed tattoo. Fireweed, the flower that blooms brightest in burnt soil. It’s always been a symbol for what that place gave us: growth after endings. A feeling of rebirth.
We talked about where life had taken us. She’s doing well in Denver now, happy at her current job, but dreams of returning to seasonal life and where to settle one day. It was one of those conversations where you’re both a little buzzed, a little emotional, and the years collapse between you like folding paper. We got drinks at another brewery. All of ours sparkled, literally, with edible glitter and toasted to the magic of the moment.
Crossing paths again like this feels like a secret the universe kept until just the right time. There’s something so special about reconnecting with someone who remembers not just who you were, but the exact version of you that emerged in a sacred place. Glacier lives in both of us, and being together again pulled it into the present.
It’s wild how some friendships are timeless. They pick up where they left off, like an old song you haven’t heard in years but still know all the words to.
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