standing at the base of sheer majesty.

courtneyzano
Apr 3, 2025
3 min read

I stare up the steep incline of dirt and sand—a grayish tan pathway going eighty degrees up. The path, maybe three or four feet across, drops off sharply at the sides. There are a few of these near-vertical paths—hiker’s choice—but I stand at the base of the one marked with a trail sign.

Locals call them the “spines” of the Book Cliffs that dominate the landscape of my western Colorado home.

Google tells me they are cliffs of Cretaceous sandstone. My eyes show them collectively as a shelf, the spines of individual books facing out.

My body sees them as a challenge.

My spirit sees them as part of me.

Mount Garfield calls to me.

I’ve always loved traditions. In fact, I’ve spent most of my adult life clinging to the holiday traditions and patterns of my childhood.

In that post I linked above, I wrote, “…because really, the core of traditions is simply the joy of being present with each other.”

Sure, the consistency and reliability of traditions make my chaotic mind feel more peaceful, but deeper than that, they make me feel connected to the people and places that I cherish.

Hours before I stood at the base of one of the spines of Mt. Garfield, I sat in my bed and opened Snapchat to a “During This Week Last Year” memory.

Opening the clip, I realized it was replaying the first time I hiked to Mt. Garfield’s summit since I moved to western Colorado. I watched back my video of the American flag flapping in the wind against the backdrop of town 2,000 feet below. Adam was in the background with his camera.

“We should hike Garfield today,” I say to Adam, half-asleep next to me.

“Instead of snowboarding?” He recounts our plan from the night before.

I nod and smile. “We did it this time last year. Let’s make it a tradition.”

I press my hands into the earth, feeling the dirt and sand crumble around my imprint. As I close my eyes and acknowledge the looming presence of land before me, I can’t stop the flood of emotion.

I love this place. I love this land. I love that I have legs and arms and sensory nerves and sight and smell and balance to experience it.

I love this little life we’ve created here. I love that we’re starting traditions of our own.

I love that there’s one small sweet spot from mid-March to the end of April where the weather is bearable for this hike—anything later or earlier being too hot or too cold.

I love that the seasonality of the world reflects our own seasonality.

I love that the spines start defrosting at the same point in the year that I do, too.

What a gift to stand at the base of sheer history and power. A mere ant.

It’s just a two-mile hike, but it’s an intense one.

I know the hike before me will have my muscles sore for a couple of days, forcing me to work them on inclines that I don’t normally encounter in my daily life. I will fare against dirt and sand blowing consistently in my eyes. I will battle between intense sweating and chills.

I will be reminded that I am part of this ecosystem.

I will be here.

Adam likes to explore new places—favoring adventures where we get out to Colorado spots that we haven’t been before.

I do, too.

But, have I mentioned my affliction for the familiar? For repeating patterns and traditions?

I feel grateful that we can have both.

As we meander up the majestic landscape, I feel the chaos in my head clear, the tension in my spirit release. My to-do list, which is always there, is nowhere to be found.

All that matters is each step, each breath.

My presence right here, right now. Adam’s presence next to me, having a parallel experience.

Nature and traditions have at least one thing in common:

They help us experience something profound together.

Court.