Today, I have no Internet. We’re going on week two. But I refuse to become the hot-headed Irish girl pre-programmed into my DNA. Nope, not today because it is an extraordinary thing to live on top of a mountain in Northern Colorado at 8,000 feet above sea level closer to Wyoming than Denver with a few horses, a couple of dogs and the occasional mountain lion and/or bear.
The quiet moments up here are, predictably, framed by iconic Colorado things — bouncing deer and lunatic squirrels with these giant ears (they eat my patio furniture) and we had a moose show up a few years ago. Come to think of it, all the creatures up here eat things that seem unnatural: Flowers, furniture, decking, hot tub covers and a towel once. Every inanimate object up here is prey – even the garden hose.
The sunrises up here on Emerald Glade make me want to spike my own coffee with whiskey at 6 am (which I have done a time or two). The sunrises are that insane – pink, orange, blue and sometimes, during tornado season, greenish. But usually, it’s the alpenglow that takes my breath away. Alpenglow is this strange mountain effect that causes the tops of mountains to cast a pink hue because of the sun’s position. It’s magical. I’m not really sure about the science. I would Google it, but I have no Internet.
As an avowed urbanite, editor, art historian and city dweller, I don’t really know how I ended up here on top of a mountain with no Internet, but for the simple fact that I fell in love with a man from Wyoming who fancies himself a cowboy and wanted to live the ranch life.
For a tech CEO, I’d say my husband is giving it a pretty good whirl as a cowboy. He makes his own batteries, wears chaps and has a “re-loader” for making his own bullets. He also has a denim jumpsuit he wears on “hay tossing” days (which is every day). If costume wearing awarded degrees, my husband would have a PhD in cowboy.
But, for all of its denim-ness, my husband’s cowboy jumpsuit doesn’t connect me to the Internet.
Thus, I write this as I stand on top of a mountain wagging my phone at the sky, begging the universe for one thin strand of data, which doesn’t materialize. For a second, I miss the reliability of city life.
And then I see the small buck lounging in my yard with a bird on his head.
Taking the cowboy pledge requires a few sizable concessions for city slicker types. Internet and Monolos are two of the big ones. While I’m learning to embrace Wranglers and Double H boots, I’m having a slightly harder time embracing the concept of no Internet for two weeks.
Tomorrow, the alpenglow will return as l wander upstairs with two coffees to find my husband at his desk in his denim jumpsuit as he leads his daily and remote “all-hand’s” conference call — a call in which cowboy and tech silently collide. I am the only person on earth who sees the irony of this denim jumpsuit CEO. Those on the other end of the call imagine their CEO in skinny jeans and an un-tucked, slightly wrinkled white t-shirt like the CEOs wear in Silicon Valley.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get some Internet. If not, I’ll find something useful to do like stare at the Continental Divide while spiking my own coffee. Or maybe I’ll just hop in my Wranglers, put on my boots and head on down to the Howling Cow café at the dairy — and grab some Internet there. Coffee’s good, too.