Colorado’s Autumn Splendor

Tomorrow, my husband and I are flying out of Atlanta, heading to Colorado Springs to pick up a rental car for the three-hour drive to South Fork, Colorado, where we’ll spend a few days with my husband’s newly discovered biological father, Bill, and his wife, Laura. I’m looking forward to the trip—looking forward to being with these new people in our lives and looking forward to experiencing fall there.

Even though we’ve never been to South Fork, we will be returning to a region that holds both beautiful and painful memories for us both. Two decades ago, we took a vacation there, visiting Dinosaur National Monument and hiking along the breathtaking rim of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. The sheer granite walls plunging into darkness below left us speechless— it’s the kind of natural wonder that makes you feel both humbled and invigorated. The mornings were so cold, and we wore parka-like jackets and drank hot chocolate, but the afternoons were warm and sunny, requiring short sleeves and, on a few days, shorts. From Black Canyon, we explored the historic mining town of Silverton, with its small throw-back shops lining the highway—the entire village nestled impossibly high in the San Juan Mountains. From Silverton, we drove south and spent the night in Durango, and along the way, we saw a double rainbow. It’s funny the things that you remember about vacations.

But the most memorable part of our trip occurred on a highway between Dinosaur and Grand Junction, where we learned about Colorado’s wildlife and its gross overpopulation. The deer were everywhere—and I mean everywhere—and they were bone-thin and sickly. They seemed to materialize from the landscape itself, bounding across highways with little regard for speeding automobiles. We’d slow down, hearts racing every time we spotted movement in our peripheral vision. “We’re going to hit a deer,” I said to my husband. “I don’t think we can avoid it. They’re everywhere.”

I was right. Despite our vigilance, it happened on a straight stretch of highway as the late afternoon painted the mountainscapes gray and purple in a gentle rain. The impact was sickening, and we both sat in stunned silence for a moment before getting out of the car. The poor creature hadn’t survived, and we found ourselves dragging its bloody body off the road with a stranger who had stopped to help us. The rental car bore a few scrapes, but we bore something deeper: a profound sadness for the wildness and uncontrolled wildlife that, at that time, defined Western Colorado.

But enough about that. Fall in Colorado offers a different kind of beauty than what we’re accustomed to here in Georgia. In the South, autumn usually begins in October with every shade of green, gold, scarlet and brown imaginable, punctuated by sparkling sunlight and impossibly blue skies.

Colorado’s autumn is altogether different, yet still striking. It begins in September, and we will be there to help usher it in. The landscape boasts evergreens with splotches of golden yellows. And the air itself feels different— thin and dry, making every breath feel clean and sharp in your lungs.

Late tomorrow, we’ll be there, in South Fork. I can’t wait to see Colorado again—the jagged mountaintops and the roaring rivers, and I’m more than a little happy about sharing the experience with family and taking in the moments of the season together. We will weave new family bonds against the backdrop of Colorado’s autumn splendor. Sometimes the most meaningful journeys are the ones that bring us full circle— returning to places we’ve been, but with hearts open to creating entirely new memories.