Woozy and Wing-less

So far, my time here in Denver has been chock full of reminders that I am but a mere mortal. Dehydration headaches, shoulder sunburns and dried out eyeballs point out that I'm just a high-functioning hunk of meat loping around, at the mercy of the elements. Surely, angels and goddesses do not deal with such discomforts.

I joined a Boulder-based hiking group and made my debut on Sunday. Met up with a nice bunch of folks, led by HikingBob, and set off for Lost Lake, just outside Nederland, one of the last, great hard-core hippie outposts. Busy waterfalls, aspen groves and gorgeous wildflowers (I now know Columbine, the state flower) greeted us along the way. When we stopped for lunch, I picked a sunny spot on a rock at the lake's edge and looked up at the mountains, spotted and streaked with stark, white snow. Unbelievably stunning. 'Holy cow, I live here,' I thought to myself.

Though the hike wasn't difficult (about three miles round-trip, up to 9,000 feet,) I think I bolted out of the gate too fast in the beginning. My fellow hikers who knew I'd recently moved from sea level, warned me to take it slow. It wasn't until I started to feel dizzy and a tad naseous, that I took them seriously.

All during the post-hike potluck Sunday evening and on into Monday, I felt drunk and lethargic, minus the actual party. I felt like I was moving through mud in some weird dream state. This Sunday, HB will take us to somewhere called "The Loch" - I'll try to use my brain more than my feet this time, until I become that superhuman mountain momma that is my destiny.