Home is
a magic place
By Julie Carter
All of us are from somewhere; that place that we claim to be the origin of our roots, no matter how far back it goes.
When the word "home" is spoken, it conjures up a medley of memories. I realize now how, in my youth, I so nonchalantly took for granted the splendor of my home in Southern Colorado.
The Wet Mountain Valley and its outer regions offer breathtaking views of a range of 14,000-plus mountain peaks in the Sangre de Cristo that rise sharply from a picturesque valley floor.
It is the same valley that Zebulon Pike came through in 1806, followed by farming and ranching settlers in the 1860s.
With the Sangre de Cristos towering on the west and the Wet Mountains enclosing it on the east, the rich, fertile valley remains a bastion for historic ranches and miles of meadows growing reputation prime hay.
The majesty of those mountains and the peacefulness of the valley create a surreal sense of belonging to anyone that spends any time there.
When I daydream of my youth in that yesteryear, there is always something magical about those years of running free in the mountains like a wild child of the hills. Home had it all.
We, my three brothers and I, rode horses for work and for play. We played hide and seek in the chest-high grass of the hay meadows followed by endless hours of play on the long haystacks in the hay lot.
We fished, hunted, camped, swam, waded, explored and were completely oblivious to any hustle and bustle of an outside world.
Summer ran on endlessly and adventures were only an inspiration away.
Our lives were simple, uncomplicated and revolved around daily chores and the routines of school or work on the ranch.
My dad was the centerpiece hero in our lives and mostly, he just worked.
He was a real cowboy with a heavy load of responsibility at a very young age. He smiled the most when he was fine tuning on a young horse, casting with his fly rod and those evenings when he'd play the guitar and sing a little "T for Texas."
My mother cooked, canned, churned, sewed, gardened, laundered and kept track of her four young outlaws, myself included. She pretended she wasn't worried when we all left the house horseback, headed for the pine-covered hills to play cowboys and Indians.
She was both concerned and amused when we older two tried to lose the younger two.
Maybe she never knew how close she came to having only two children left in her brood. Tough little buggers, those little boys were.
Of course, home doesn't look quite the same today as it did then.
Civilization has been drawn to the valley for all the same reasons it was a high mountain heaven for my generation and those before me.
There is just something about it. Valley natives feel it. Newcomers feel it. I'm not sure anyone can name it.
Some days it calls to me with a powerful wooing in my soul. It is then that I find those sharp, visual memories. I pull them to the forefront of my mind and savor them like a child with a long lost favorite toy.
In those moments, home is still exactly the way it was, and so am I.
All of us are from somewhere; that place that we claim to be the origin of our roots, no matter how far back it goes.
When the word "home" is spoken, it conjures up a medley of memories. I realize now how, in my youth, I so nonchalantly took for granted the splendor of my home in Southern Colorado.
The Wet Mountain Valley and its outer regions offer breathtaking views of a range of 14,000-plus mountain peaks in the Sangre de Cristo that rise sharply from a picturesque valley floor.
It is the same valley that Zebulon Pike came through in 1806, followed by farming and ranching settlers in the 1860s.
With the Sangre de Cristos towering on the west and the Wet Mountains enclosing it on the east, the rich, fertile valley remains a bastion for historic ranches and miles of meadows growing reputation prime hay.
The majesty of those mountains and the peacefulness of the valley create a surreal sense of belonging to anyone that spends any time there.
When I daydream of my youth in that yesteryear, there is always something magical about those years of running free in the mountains like a wild child of the hills. Home had it all.
We, my three brothers and I, rode horses for work and for play. We played hide and seek in the chest-high grass of the hay meadows followed by endless hours of play on the long haystacks in the hay lot.
We fished, hunted, camped, swam, waded, explored and were completely oblivious to any hustle and bustle of an outside world.
Summer ran on endlessly and adventures were only an inspiration away.
Our lives were simple, uncomplicated and revolved around daily chores and the routines of school or work on the ranch.
My dad was the centerpiece hero in our lives and mostly, he just worked.
He was a real cowboy with a heavy load of responsibility at a very young age. He smiled the most when he was fine tuning on a young horse, casting with his fly rod and those evenings when he'd play the guitar and sing a little "T for Texas."
My mother cooked, canned, churned, sewed, gardened, laundered and kept track of her four young outlaws, myself included. She pretended she wasn't worried when we all left the house horseback, headed for the pine-covered hills to play cowboys and Indians.
She was both concerned and amused when we older two tried to lose the younger two.
Maybe she never knew how close she came to having only two children left in her brood. Tough little buggers, those little boys were.
Of course, home doesn't look quite the same today as it did then.
Civilization has been drawn to the valley for all the same reasons it was a high mountain heaven for my generation and those before me.
There is just something about it. Valley natives feel it. Newcomers feel it. I'm not sure anyone can name it.
Some days it calls to me with a powerful wooing in my soul. It is then that I find those sharp, visual memories. I pull them to the forefront of my mind and savor them like a child with a long lost favorite toy.
In those moments, home is still exactly the way it was, and so am I.
Julie can be reached
for comment at jcarternm@gmail.com
We send our thoughts and prayers to Julie over the loss of her brother, Lonnie.
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