its power, for instance, to seize upon a physical image like that of a woman
planting bulbs, and transmute it into a symbol of the resurrection of the
dead; its capacity for turning fact into truth and brown earth into
beauty; for remoulding the broken syllables of human speech into sheer
music; for lifting the mind, bowed down by wearying thought and haunting
fear, into a brooding ecstasy wherein weeping is changed into laughter and
autumnal premonitions of death into assurance of life, and the narrow
paths of individual experience are widened into those illimitable spaces
where the imagination rules. Poetry does all this, assuredly.

I had driven close to 5000 miles in the past week and a half. I decided that it was time to land somewhere for a couple of days.

It had been a fun adventure driving a friend to Spokane, Washington as we stopped and saw the sights along the way, yet it was this part of the trip I had been looking forward to. No GPS blinking at me on the dashboard announcing the miles and telling me where and when to turn. That stayed behind in Spokane. I could stop and take pictures whenever my muse inspired me. It was absolutely a grand adventure and I loved every minute of it. I’d taken back roads that curled around mountains, often turning to gravel as I drove. I went down roads with no guard rails and nothing but an abyss off the passenger side. It scared me silly, but I did it, even if my knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

I was proud and caught myself grinning in the rear view mirror. I pulled off the road at a scenic overlook. Relaxing back against the seat, I once again looked in the mirror. Eyes that turned mossy green when I was happy sparkled back. Very green eyes. My short hair was a mass of curls jammed under my hat. I smiled, thinking I didn’t look all that bad for someone who’d passed the half century mark. Must be the ‘road trip!’ glow, I mused. There certainly was something about the freedom, glorious weather and open roads that called to my soul. My camera, laptop and notebook lay on the front seat. I grabbed the camera and notebook and got out of the car.

Spread out in front of me were three sharp, craggy mountains. Snow shone white against a crystal sky. A lenticular cloud surrounded the heights of the tallest one. I’d seen pictures of such clouds before, but never imagined I would actually see one. There are no mountains in Michigan. Dipping below the mountains, a sapphire lake complete with picture-perfect sailboat skimming across it, sparkled in the autumn sun. I reached for my notebook only to open it and remember I’d filled the very last page the last time I’d stopped. Mental note, I need another notebook.

Half an hour and perhaps thirty pictures later, I was back on the road and aiming for Denver. Denver wasn’t too far from Pike’s Peak, and as I was so close to it, all things being considered, how could I not go see it. It was heading towards late afternoon as I turned off the highway leading south of Denver and drove into Manitau Springs. A quick stop at a service station for coffee and gas, also gave me local comments about where to stay and what I shouldn’t miss.

Missing the turn I needed, I took my next left and spiraled down into town. I could feel my eyes widen appreciatively as I realized that Manitou Springs was a quaint village clinging to the side of the mountain. Old two and three story buildings were crammed together, like crooked, hunched over men braving the cold. Odd shaped windows and decorated porches were brightened by strings and swags of twinkling white lights. The road was cobble-stoned and twisted along the mountain’s edge. High, pointed roofs reminded me of witches hats. Birch-branch benches were scattered every so often. It was so intriguing that I couldn’t wait to get settled and go explore.