Hugged by the Mountains

May 7, 2026

Writer: Isabel Rosenberg

Editor: Emily Cavero

Past the city, the suburbs, the small gas station towns, and down the narrow, windy mountain roads is a camp. The cell phone service fades until it is nonexistent, so you opt to look outside the window.

Instead of the midwestern cornfields and farms that usually fill the road trip landscapes, this view is completely different. It is mountainous, with each rugged slope disrupting the horizon. Driving on an imposing mountain cliff, you notice two opposing concepts: Emptiness and fullness. The rough-edged rocky mountains and the bright blue water of a river far down in the valley. The mountains and river are the only things in sight; there isn’t a house or another car near. Yet, the river is brimming with fish, algae, and the mountains are brimming with plants and animals. Up to the tallest mountain, down to the deepest part of the river, the landscape is fully alive. Like the landscape, during the car ride, you are being pulled between two opposing forces: Excitement and nerves. You admire everything that the vibrant landscape gives, but also feel empty and lonely, already missing the familiarity of home, and the comfort of family and friends. 

The drive continues on. As the car drives further and further into the mountains, you remember to drink from your water bottle to avoid any symptoms of altitude sickness. Your water bottle is new; there aren’t any scratches or dents in it yet, but you know by the end of the summer, it will be covered in stickers, scuffs, paint, and friendship bracelets. You know that when you get home, no matter how many times you wash it, the water bottle will always smell like campfires and bug spray. Those little things you love to hold on to because no matter how hard you try, you will always forget the exact shade of green the mountains looked during sunset, the way the tents smelled, and the carelessness that you felt while backpacking when your hair is in 5-day-old french braids. But luckily, summer comes every year to remind you of the magic that happens in the wilderness again, and again, and again.

Passing the luscious green mountains, you enter a part of the region that looks a bit different. A wildfire, the largest in Colorado’s history, started over 25 years ago, in this exact spot of the wilderness. Only large trees with thick roots lie on the ground, their trunks jutted open. Yet, there are small, colorful wildflowers and little bright green shrubs that continue to grow amongst these fallen giants. Their presence is an act of resistance. Growth happens in this mountain region. You, too, have grown here. With every challenge that camp has presented, whether that be your own internal voice during a particularly steep uphill hike, group dynamics, or sometimes just the unpredictable weather, you have grown into a more resourceful, confident, and capable person. 

Finally, you are close, almost to camp. At first, you can only hear the sounds of music blasting and people shouting and talking. Then, as you roll down the windows, you begin to smell the familiar scent of sunscreen mixed with alpine trees. Stepping out of the car, you see the white canvas tents and the beat-up dirt paths. The valley that houses the camp is surrounded by imposing, but familiar mountains, and is a special pocket in the woods.

The people hug you. The mountains hug you. And finally, you have arrived at camp.