106 PSYCHOLOGIES MAGAZINE APRIL 2020
T
he entrance to Eldorado Canyon on the eastern
edge of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains is awesome
in every sense of the word. I slip into the gorge
through a slit in the mountains just wide enough
for the roaring creek and the state park entry
booth. On either side of me are vast towers of red sandstone
forced upwards, folded and cracked by unimaginable force
into characteristic ‘flat iron’ formation. Above, a crisp line
of delimitation, where rosy rock meets the paintbox blue,
cloud-free sky. I had forgotten the magnitude of this scene.
Entering the park in fierce sunlight, I’m occasionally blasted
by particles of sand, whipped up by gusts of wind forcing their
way down the narrow canyon. Familiarity rushed to meet me
with the warmth of fond memories, and I found myself smiling.
In 1998, we lived in Boulder, a few miles from this canyon.
Atherton, my hospital consultant husband, brought us here for
a sabbatical year. Our children, Katherine and Alasdair, were
seven and 10 and we were all excited by our adventure. Boulder
has since been voted the happiest city in the United States and
it was without doubt the best year of our marriage: No on-call
rotas, no weekend working and a break from responsibilities.
We would often head to Eldorado Canyon after work,
clambering over rocks on the north side to one of the huge,
smooth boulders that juts out into the creek. With a picnic,
we’d luxuriate in the last of the day’s sun. At weekends, we’d hike
the trails, the children telling us what they had learned about
animal scat and vegetation at their morning eco summer camp.
That was then. Today, I am here alone. My husband is lost to
early-onset dementia. For seven years, I watched the person I
love, slowly, week by week, disintegrate until he could no longer
be looked after in our house. He now lives in a care home. He
recognises me, but as a familiar face, not his wife.
Poignant passages of time
Crossing the bridge to the sunny north side, I stop to watch
the spring snow melt. Along the rocky trail, when failing to
concentrate on my path, I occasionally trip on some of the steeper
rises. This jolts memories of scrambling here with a rucksack full
of chicken, bread and fruit. Watching my step, it is notable that
these rocks have withstood the passage of 20 years unaltered,
while I certainly show the ravages of time. Then, clambering
o the trail onto one of the giant boulders, I am high above
the frothing water, my eyes drawn upwards to the rock face.
I am mesmerised, as we always were, by the sight of climbers.
Lizard-like in black and neon Lycra, topped by round yellow
helmets, they precariously feel their way up the Bastille – the
infamous 106-metre cli.
‘Bet it’s one helluva view from up there! And you gotta say
they earned it... I admire every step they take!’ shouts a young
man, fully kitted out with a daypack, water bottle and two black
Labradors. There is always friendliness among fellow hikers
on the trails in these mountains, as if everyone wants to share PHOTOGRAPHS: PREVIOUS PAGE, GETTY IMAGES; COURTESY OF DEBORAH GRAY; SHUTTERSTOCK. ALWAYS CHECK FCO ADVICE BEFORE TRAVELLING
“We’d clamber over the rocks on the north side of
the canyon to one of the huge, smooth boulders
that jut out of the creek. With a picnic, we’d
luxuriate in the last of the day’s sun”
