Fly-fishing in Rocky Mountain National Park / Erika Zambello

My husband and I went from 0 to 11,000 feet in less than 24 hours.

That was not my intention. We planned a trip from Florida to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado for one of my freelance writing projects, and originally scheduled a day in Denver (at 5,280 feet in elevation) to acclimate. Frontier Airlines had a different idea. I heard alternatively that our plane had a mechanical issue, that weather in the Midwest grounded the flight, and that the crew went on strike. Regardless, the airline cancelled our original flight.

Though we flew out the next day, we went straight to 8,000 feet for the night, then right up to 11,000 feet to hike around the Niwot Ridge Long Term Ecological Site.

The Rockies are unbelievable. We explored the Niwot Ridge tundra plateau, speckled with wildflowers of every shape and color, looked down on the layered blue mountain ranges below, while snow-tipped peaks gazed at us from still-greater heights. I felt the elevation only in the difficulty breathing I experienced when walking from Point A to Point B - but we walked for more than three miles. Otherwise, it was the height itself that pulsed through my veins, truly on top of the world.

Until evening.

Brian and I descended back to ~7,000 feet for dinner in a small-town Indian restaurant in Nederland, Colorado, west of Boulder. By then, both our heads ached like a bad hangover, and my lungs literally burned when I tried to inhale anything but shallow breaths. Add generalized joint pain, and I had a full-blown case of altitude sickness. Given that I am a noted hypochondriac, I expected the worst.

Summer nights are long in Colorado, and after dinner Brian and I still had time for a shoreline walk around the Barker Reservoir, rimmed by mountains and fed by a cool and clear river. I took photos of the baby Canada Geese near shore, a speck of black in the middle of the water that turned out to be a cormorant, a hummingbird settled against a tree branch, while Brian cast a line. But I really didn’t want to move.

Lucky for me, the smart park designers placed a comfortable wooden bench at the exact point where the river met the reservoir in a small, dam-like structure. I could watch swallows and swifts swoop across the rapids, and see if Brian caught any fish, while giving my aching muscles a break.

I don’t sit still particularly well.

Knitting park-inspired projects / Erika Zambello

Since no one relaxed near me, I called my mom to recount the trip, placing her on speaker and putting my phone down next to me. With my hands free, I pulled out two needles and a tiny red knitting project I began on the plane. Ten stitches across, slowly growing into a square, and then a long rectangle.

I don’t remember where I bought the yarn, thin, soft, and (unfortunately), acrylic. In the normal course of knitting, people begin projects with an end in mind: a stuffed teddy bear, an entrelac sweater, a dishcloth. Most of the time I fall into this category too.

But sometimes I put process far ahead of the product, and just start knitting a shape that seems interesting. Brian asked what I planned to make and I shrugged: who knew?

My body still hurt, but moving hands kept my attention from zeroing in on aches and pains. As I talked to my mom, I noticed how many Coloradoans came to the banks of the reservoir to enjoy the evening: walking dogs, jogging, fishing, or, like me, just sitting. I love a community that in turn loves its natural spaces.

The sound of rushing water filled my ears, water that carved a valley down, down, down to the town of Boulder, its surface roughed by a light breeze. I smiled as I watched Brian cast, changed flies, and cast again, grateful that he enjoyed these trips with me across the country and throughout the world. In short: I felt better.

*****

Sleep helped the altitude sickness, and after a full night in one of the research site’s cabins, I felt much revived. Brian fished in the morning and I scrambled up a rocky outcropping with a graduate student studying pikas through their poop (a non-invasive way to analyze stress levels of this small mammal that looks like a cross between a rabbit and a mouse): but our afternoon was free. What to do?

Visit Rocky Mountains National Park, of course! Barely an hour away in our rental car, the park beckoned to us like a holy grail.

In 1803, the United States “owned” the Rocky Mountains National Park area, though it has been inhabited by people for over 10,000 years. The gold rush of the mid-19th century brought settlers to the region, and tourists came after them at the turn of the 20th.

As the Rocky Mountains National Park website writes:

            “By 1900, the growing national conservation and preservation movement, led by Theodore Roosevelt, Gifford Pinchot, and John Muir, advocated an appreciation for nature. The Estes Park Protective and Improvement Association fostered local conservation efforts. "Those who pull flowers up by the roots will be condemned by all worthy people," they warned. In 1909, Enos Mills, a naturalist, nature guide, and lodge owner, championed the creation of the nation's tenth national park. He hoped that: "In years to come when I am asleep beneath the pines, thousands of families will find rest and hope in this park." Unleashing his diverse talents and inexhaustible energy, he spent several years lecturing across the nation, writing thousands of letters and articles, and lobbying Congress to create a new national park. Most civic leaders supported the idea, as did the Denver Chamber of Commerce and the Colorado Mountain Club. In general, mining, logging, and agricultural interests opposed it. On January 26, 1915, President Woodrow Wilson signed the Rocky Mountain National Park Act.”

Since then, it has been a magnet for outdoor recreationists, yet neither Brian nor I had ever set foot within its borders. After stocking up on fly fishing supplies, a map, and a passport stamp, we made a bee-line for the Moraine area of the park.

A wide, grassy meadow nestled between dark blue mountains, snow glittering the same silver as the puffy clouds passing across the sky. The temperatures hovered in the 70’s - perfect. The smoke we had seen elsewhere from summer wildfires did not dare haze the air here, an enchanted place.

The only trout we caught in the Moraine area of Rocky Mountain National Park / Erika Zambello

The winding creek that made its way through the center of the meadow was our goal: known for trout that swam beneath the surface, nearly invisible in the thigh-deep grasses unless one followed its curves, as we did. I brought my camera and binoculars, keeping track of my bird list on my phone.

We could easily spot the hand-length trout, but fishing is obviously popular in this spot, and they were both easily spooked and nearly impossible to fool with Brian’s tiny flies. More than once he felt a strike but did not react quickly enough, and the fish spit the imitation out faster than the four-letter word that escaped Brian’s lips.

The sun made us lazy, and after following Brian as he made his way upstream I found a wider expanse of sand and gravel, promptly plopping down on a pair of flip flops I had brought in my backpack as a make-shift seat. After identifying the northern harrier hawk over my head, and the savannas sparrows and red-winged blackbirds perched precariously on reeds across the water, I took out my knitting project. I didn’t have to worry about losing Brian; in the valley I could see for miles in both directions.

An idea formed. My growing strip of red could be just one of many abstract elements of a knitted mini-quilt, each crimson rectangle representing a mountain on what would be a plain white background. Once complete, the square would become a wall-hanging, or perhaps a blanket that reminded me of my travels across the country.

I finished the strip as soon as I arbitrarily decided I liked the length: about six inches. Then I started another.

My mind calm, the knitting absorbed any excess energy and left my senses free to absorb the stunning surroundings. Feeling no need to move, I watched the silhouettes of fish moving upstream, hummingbirds zip over my head, and a northern harrier cruise over the grassland, looking for prey. Months later, I can imagine every detail of that spot on the bank anytime I close my eyes.

Brian eventually caught one small trout in the Moraine creek - success! - and many more in the other rivers that flowed through the park, both that afternoon and the next day. We gazed at fellow monoliths from the top of tundra trails, and spooked a red fox along a riverway. All the time, my small knitting project lay safe and secure in my pack, ready to emerge anytime we sat for more than a few moments.

Putting my Rocky Mountain inspired rectangles away until February, I eventually knitted up the remaining pieces and ironed the whole thing out before I framed the simple square and placed it on my beige wall. Perhaps I needed the chill of winter to remind me of the brisk breeze of that famous mountain range, maybe I briefly tired of sweater and cardigan projects, captivated instead by the simplicity of knit-purl in straight lines.

I’m not the first person who has discovered the joys and meditative serenity of knitting outside.

European shepherds once took projects out with them into the fields, completing hats and mittens and more. Young women took a break from farmwork to do a few rows, sitting or leaning in any convenient location. Knitting remained a way of life, and (without central heat and air conditioning), people spent more time outdoors to begin with.

My favorite images of knitting on Instagram are those of fellow knitters who have also taken to public parks to finish a few rows, to bind off, or maybe begin a new project. Few places, however, are as spectacular as Rocky Mountain National Park.