postcard 2.0 back to reality

and we're back!

I’m learning to knit. The wooden needles clack against each other in a pleasing, rhythmic way that lets me forget time, at least, until I manage to tie my yarn in a knot and have to contend with a snarl or fibers. I mix spices and scatter it over a pork shoulder, tucking it in the Crockpot on the kitchen counter of our very own apartment, the smells insulating us as they slowly grow. There’s the sweet, comforting serenade of blackbirds in the creek on our daily walks, the soundtrack of my childhood on repeat.

There is more to say, surely, but I’m desperately trying to hold onto the mundane little moments of life that fill me with comfort and joy to remind myself that life is hard and trying and the world might very well be on the brink of ending, but it is also, quite beautiful. And I think, that’s the point to all this.

One day it’s too frigidly cold to even walk the dog so we shed our layers and layers of blankets and leave the warmth of the space heater to drive into the mountains. The snow blankets the Flatirons on our drive to Estes Park, a million diamonds hidden in it's depths, giving us glimpses as the sun hits just right. Inside the convention center there’s a teepee, along with dozens of Indigenous artists selling intricately painted pots and beadwork, weavings and carvings. The smell of fry bread tacos wafts around us as we take our seat on the bleachers at the Estes Park First People's Festival, bringing together Indigenous folks from across the continent. The powwow is set to begin in a few moments, though the MC reminds us that we’re running on Indian time, which means they’ll start five minutes late. Twelve after, the drums begin beating and I watch, a hot feeling welling up in my throat, as the dancing begins, led by four flag bearers, two of which are in park ranger uniforms. I’m reminded of just a few years ago when neither Rocky Mountain National Park nor the Indigenous groups who call the park home would comment on stories about park history. The tables have turned today, in large part thanks to the bearded ranger holding the Colorado flag who let me interview him for a feature last month. The park service even has a booth here, showcasing in big letters whose land we’re on with coloring pages for the kids. There’s the start of healing here. This is, of course, the day before the inauguration. A month later, 5% of the National Park Service, along with 10% of Forest Service employees, have been laid off in the name of efficiency.

We ring in the New Year surrounded by friends. There's a million dogs underfoot and a sticky champagne tower and I’m reminded how good it feels to be surrounded by people we love. There’s coffee dates that bleed into lunch, games played sitting on the floor and pizza and beer shared after they’ve moved half again as many boxes as I thought were hiding in our storage unit up three flights of stairs.

In early January, we try to get into our own place. Topher has a promising interview—his finding a job our last hurdle to signing a lease—and we tour a two bedroom in Arvada that’s in our budget. It feels like it’ll work. After we sign the papers, I scroll around on Google Maps and realize with a start how close to Rocky Flats this place is. It’s the first red flag of many, and I stay up late into the night paging through old hydrology reports, trying to figure out just how much radioactive material made its way through the creek behind our new building. I finally close all the tabs and convince myself to be chill. When Topher goes to pick up the keys, I receive a video call from him. A terrible sign. He walks me through our unit, zooming in on the myriad of ways this place is 100x shittier than the model we were shown. The vanity is crumbling, the counters are warped, the deck is falling apart, the appliances are broken. There’s a draft so strong it’s a breeze blowing into the bedroom. We’ve been duped. Miraculously, after one tense call and an email we’re let out of the lease, everything besides our application fee refunded. It’s a relief, but we’re back to square one. Topher never hears back after the interview.

It’s been a gift to get to spend so much time with family as we get back on our feet. Evenings spent trying new recipes together, wandering Costco and watching movies have been so sweet. But I am very ready to be out of my inlaws’ basement and into our own place. The month-and-a-half that we’d discussed as our very longest timeline passes quietly as the universe screams BE PATIENT at me, a lesson I’ve still not managed to learn since the pandemic days.

One day, after a lovely hike on an unseasonably warm January day, we tour a pretty complex that I’d written off as out of our price range. It’s modern, right on a beautiful trail system along a (non-toxic, I checked) creek and biking distance to Old Town Arvada and our friends’ houses. There’s even a communal pizza oven. We run the numbers again and again and finally decide to sacrifice the second bedroom for location.

It’s the right decision. It’s been a long time, maybe ever, since either of us have been this excited about our actual home. We have no furniture, in my pre-move madness I made the strangest choices. I unbox a full carton of Q-tips and the rusty saw we use only to cut Christmas trees, but did not save a duvet, plates, a vacuum or a cheese grater. Our camp chairs surround a stack of boxes that’s become a makeshift table. On Valentine’s Day we compare fabric samples and order a couch before going out for hipster Chinese food. We cheers out of cocktail glasses shaped like tigers and eat mozzarella sticks battered with Sichuan peppercorns.

We’re just minutes from all of our friends. Marian comes over and we walk to coffee. We carpool to get togethers and have doggy play dates on a whim.

Topher gets a job at the coffee/bike shop next door to my favorite bagel place. We’re both relieved he’s working again, but Hazelnut is pissed her stay-at-home dad is missing. She smacks me at random intervals throughout my work day, like this development is my fault.

As we put the turquoise sea and olive groves and $5 aperol spritzes in the rearview, my biggest consolation was looking forward to a Colorado ski season with my dad. The day after New Year’s we fight epic traffic and ski half a day at Winter Park before my knee hollers as we descend into a mogul run. The grouchiness I’d chalked up to bad squatting form during strength training sessions this fall becomes full on pain and I hobble around for days, unable to extend my leg fully, until I make a doctor’s appointment. I’m told, after an MRI, that I have some missing cartilage, probably a flair up from an old injury I don't remember, and the doctor injects steroids into my knee as I try not to hyperventilate.

The next day, I can straighten my leg again and I’m so stoked we head to the mountain the morning after. Or try, at least. We crawl through a blizzard to the Interstate before turning around as traffic is already backed up and the roads are a mess. We try again the next day.

The shot is not the magic bullet I hoped. I’m unstable and in pain again by the time we do four runs and we dejectedly head home. Topher buys me a knee brace and we try again, this time with my dad. I’m determined that this will work and get a full day in, albeit not as aggressively as usual. Despite everyone’s council to take it easy, I desperately want to be back to slamming moguls. There’s few things that bring me as much joy—or that I feel like I’m as good at—as skiing and I’m beyond frustrated my body isn’t cooperating the way I want it to. Plus, I did spend money on a ski pass.

After work one day we drive up to Steamboat to meet my dad and “cousins” Tyler and Conor for a ski weekend. It’s crowded and icy, but we make do and get a full day of skiing in before the night devolves into debauchery. There are many, many pitchers of margaritas and beers and I wake up in the morning to a sticky floor and a pair of underwear on the fridge. I’m keenly aware of my lack of a Y chromosome, but it’s wild and fun to be back together with them all. Uncle Kurt’s presence is deeply missed, though I know he’s with us. He’d never miss a condo party.

It snowed overnight and the lift lines are the longest I’ve ever seen, anywhere. By the time we get up the gondola, it’s mid morning. My first turn into the powder I realize I’m so screwed. Bailing is the last thing I want to do, but it’s the right call. I insist on skiing all the way down, much to Topher’s dismay, and we spend the drive back to Denver alternating between me crying that I can’t ski the way I want and him lecturing me on taking care of my body. It’s miserable. I call the doctor and schedule a lubricant injection to see if that will help and promise myself to take at least two weeks off. Four weeks later and I’m still off the slopes, trying not to be jealous when I see videos of everyone and their brother skiing on Instagram.

Four paragraphs about my knee seems like overkill, but it’s humming in the background of everything I do. I’m heartbroken I can’t ski, annoyed I can’t workout like usual and feel useless when I can’t even walk the dog when it's slippery or move boxes into my own apartment. Okay, that was five, you get the picture.

We stick to flat snow and strap on snowshoes to trek into the deep powder behind moose tracks with my parents and four dogs. Hazelnut emerges from the woods with porcupine quills in her snout, but seems no worse off once we pluck them out. As the weather tempts us into an early spring, my dad and I chase what little snow is left up an old railroad pass above Boulder. We find no tracks and enough snow to cross-country ski 7 miles. I loved watching Hazelnut paddle around the Adriatic in her yellow life jacket, but there’s no denying that this is her happy place, running around like a wild beast in snowy forests.

The world seems like it’s catapulting along out of tune. I try to avoid the news, but it’s unavoidable, the discordant song too loud to ignore. We drive an hour to find a grocery store that’s not striking so we can fill our empty cabinets without crossing a picket line. Of course, there are no eggs. My sister-in-law tells me she’s boycotting avocados because they’re caught up in cartel violence. Someone else says REI. It feels like I can’t keep up. One morning, in the name of restructuring, our CEO lets 28 people go. Most of them are on the content team, including my boss and her boss, plus most of Outside Magazine’s editors. It changes the fabric of the company and comes just days before the NPS and Forest Service layoffs. The brakes lock up on icy roads and Topher rear ends the person in front of us. Our car is stuck in the shop indefinitely.

At some point, I half expect the strings to snap and the whole chaotic song to come to a screeching halt, but then I look at Hazelnut, asleep upside down on her giant dog bed. We walk to get breakfast burritos and a coworker sends me a podcast breaking down a new fantasy book and we go snowshoeing in perfect, fluffy white snow and I take a deeeeeeep breath.

On March 1, the anniversary of Yellowstone becoming the world’s first national park more than 150 years ago, we make posterboard signs and line the entry into Rocky Mountain National Park. There’s more than 800 people there, with upside down American flags (a signal of dire distress) showing support for the park rangers who were fired . The amount of support from people driving by is overwhelming. [If you, too, care about public lands and are alarmed about their understaffing this summer, use this easy tool to write to your reps!] While it’s not a cure for this overwhelm I feel deep in my bones, it’s a salve. I’m reminded of the importance of community.

I know I am not alone in feeling like these are extremely turbulent times. I liked this piece, recently, by Semi Rad, reminding me of the importance of real things. Touching grass. Talking to people. Being outside. Getting off our screens.

Coming together around things that are important to us whether it’s public lands or gardening or making food. We are stronger together and more alike than we think.

Hang in there friends,

Mikaela