The view that stopped me cold at 11,200 feet - where the silence heals instead of threatens, and peace becomes something you can breathe. Some moments are too sacred to capture, but this one reminded me that beauty exists without agenda, patient as centuries, waiting for those brave enough to climb high enough to find it.
My watch says I’m at 11,200 feet, but numbers don't capture what this place does to me.
I'm three hours up from the trailhead, lungs working hard in the thin air, when I round a bend and stop dead. Not because I'm winded, though I am, but because the view has just punched me in the chest with something I haven't felt in years.
Pure, unfiltered awe.
The valley spreads out below like a map drawn by God's hand. Aspen groves cluster in perfect golden circles, their leaves catching morning light like scattered coins. A creek winds through it all, silver thread stitching the landscape together. And beyond that, peak after peak rolling toward the horizon, each one a little hazier than the last until they fade into the sky.
For a moment-just a moment-my mind goes completely quiet.
That's when I know something's shifted. For the first time in twenty-something years, I'm not analyzing, calculating, or worrying about what comes next. I'm just... looking. Breathing. Being present in a way I'd forgotten was possible.
The silence up here is different from the silence I knew in Afghanistan. Those mountains held their breath, waiting for violence. These mountains breathe deep and slow, patient as centuries. The only sounds are the wind through pine needles and the distant cry of a hawk riding thermals far below.
I find a flat boulder and sit, pulling out my water bottle. The plastic crinkles loudly in the stillness. Even that sound feels peaceful, rather than dangerous. No one's going to triangulate my position based on that noise. No sniper's going to zero in on the reflection off my water bottle.
Just me and the mountains and this impossible quiet.
A chipmunk appears on a nearby rock, cheeks stuffed with seeds, eyes bright and curious. The sudden movement doesn't startle me the way it might have in the past. Today, I find myself smiling. Smiling, not the tight expression I've worn for so long.
"Hey there, little guy," I whisper, and my voice sounds strange. Soft. Unhurried.
The chipmunk studies me for a moment, decides I'm harmless, and goes about his business. There's something profound in that simple exchange, being seen as just another creature sharing this space.
I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Up here, at this altitude, the light feels closer. Cleaner. Like it hasn't been filtered through the weight of the world below. The air smells of pine and granite and something indefinable...maybe hope.
When I open my eyes again, the view hasn't changed, but I have. Something inside my chest has unclenched for the first time in decades. Not healed...I'm not naive enough to think a mountain view can fix what war broke. But loosened. Given room to breathe.
I think about Mac, how he would have loved this spot. Can almost hear his drawl: "Now that's what I call a million-dollar view, kid." Jimmy would have tried to calculate the exact elevation of each peak and probably would have brought his laptop to verify against topographic maps.
But instead of the usual stab of grief, I feel something gentler. Gratitude. They're part of this moment somehow, their memories caught up in the wind and light. Not haunting me, but sharing this peace.
The hawk cries again, closer now. I spot it circling high above, wings motionless as it reads currents invisible to me. There's a lesson in that...how to navigate by feeling instead of sight, how to trust the air to hold you up.
I pull out my phone to take a picture, then put it away. Some moments are too essential to capture. Too sacred to reduce to pixels and posted memories. This one belongs to me and the mountains and the space between breaths where peace lives.
An hour passes, maybe two. Time moves differently up here. Eventually, I know I'll have to head back down, return to the world of traffic and deadlines and all the small violences of ordinary life. But something will stay with me from this moment. A reminder that peace isn't just the absence of war...it's the presence of something larger than ourselves.
I stand slowly, muscles protesting the cold. The chipmunk has moved on to other adventures. The hawk has found whatever thermal it was seeking. But the mountains remain, patient and eternal, holding their peace like a gift they're always ready to share.
"Thank you," I whisper to the peaks, to the sky, to whatever brought me here.
The trail down is easier on the lungs but harder on the knees. With each step, the world grows louder, more complex. But I carry something new now; the memory of silence that heals instead of threatens, of beauty that exists without agenda.
Above the treeline, I found something I didn't know I was looking for. Not answers, exactly, but the right kind of questions. Not healing, but the possibility of it. Not peace as a destination, but peace as a moment, renewable as sunrise, available whenever I'm brave enough to climb high enough to find it.
The mountains will be here tomorrow. And so will I.