Exaggerated Confessions of a Nomadic Colorado Native

I’ll admit it: I had it pretty damn good growing up.

You see, my dad absolutely hates the city. The noise. The pollution. The overabundance of hipsters. As a result, I spent my teenage years growing up in the mountains of Colorado near Divide, a small town about 40 miles west of the Springs.

(Pro Tip: “The Springs” is synonymous with Colorado Springs, but not Manitou Springs, Glenwood Springs, or any other Springs-like city in Colorado because … um … science!)

I spent most weekends hiking through beautiful Aspen groves along the banks of meandering creeks, or rock climbing up the sides of granite cliffs, or just sitting in silent meditation on the top of a grassy hill watching a herd of elk roam through a distant prairie valley — and only once during those hikes was I ever almost mauled by a bear.

Yep. I didn’t realize how good I had it until I left Colorado for the Air Force when I was 18 years old.

Lackland Air Force Base, Texas: My Colorado brain could not accept how hot it could be in March. MARCH! There was f*cking snow on the ground when I left Divide for basic training. And now I was marching under a cruel, merciless sun, dying of heat stroke while being screamed at by an Air Force sergeant that I didn’t have permission to die of heat stroke.

Keesler Air Force Base, Mississippi: The heat only got worse in the Magnolia State. Downright unnatural — like corgis. Even though we would march to tech school before the sun was even up, my shirt would be plastered to my chest like a second layer of skin. You had to physically shoulder your way through the thick humidity.

At least I found comfort eating at Waffle House, so numerous that they are actually used as mile markers along the interstates of Mississippi.

Hill Air Force Base, Utah: Finally. Back to the mountains. But my sense of direction was off for the first three months. For those of us who grew up on the front range, mountains mean west. Hill AFB was surrounded by mountains. My first day there, I drove in circles looking for the base before my car ran out of gas and I had to ride on the bike handlebars of a very nice (and strikingly good-looking) Mormon missionary. He tried to convert me. I tried to get his phone number.

Since I grew up behind Pikes Peak buried in snow every winter, I thoroughly enjoy the lake-effect snow. You know, where it snows a second time after the snowstorm has passed. It was awesome. The squalls were generated by the nearby Great Salt Lake — which, yes, does indeed smell like rotten eggs.

Belmont, California: Finally. Out of the military. But anytime anyone in Denver complains about the traffic, I have to fight from rolling my eyes and responding, “That’s so adorable!” Have you ever tried to drive from Belmont to San Francisco during rush hour? You better bring extra food, bottled water, a sleeping bag, and the false hope of ever reaching your destination. I did get a kick out of the Belmont city limits sign, boasting an elevation of 43 ft. “That’s so adorable!” says the kid who grew up above 9,000 ft.

Hillsboro, Oregon: It’s true: You’re not allowed to pump your own gas in Oregon. Seriously. They will tackle you for that shit. And if you don’t recycle, state officials bust into your house and force you to watch “Portlandia,” Clockwork-Orange style until you’re overcome by madness, broken and forever without a soul. It’s true. Living near the ocean was awesome, but it rains there. A lot. Almost every day. Dreary ashen clouds hanging low over your head. The constant drone of water flicking at the window panes. No sun. No warmth. Some say it’s depressing. Why am I even writing this? What’s the point of anything, really? Why write at all?