CW: alcohol consumption

The sense of space as I emerge is almost overwhelming, a dramatic backdrop upon which these adventures are quietly lived. Even at the airport, everything feels uncluttered. Driving into town on the interstate, I sink into the countryside unfurled in front of the towering mountains. This is where I want to be. The skyscrapers of LoDo bustle with life, and the great tracts of the tarmac that carry us along revel in the beauty of nature. But even this is cramped in comparison to when you get up into the Rockies themselves.

***

A perfect day ends with a majestic sunset, slowly sinking behind the jagged teeth of the Continental Divide. The valleys below are filled first with an orange fire, and then a blanket of blue dimness as the night settles in. To the south, Pikes Peak is lit in spectacular iridescence, the clouds below giving the appearance of a floating island, a home to the gods. Here in the middle of nowhere, a place with no name, space and time are all but incomprehensible, meaningless, even.

Sunrise at the camp the next morning is a little special too; the peace, pierced intermittently by strange and wondrous bird calls. The low sun creeping above the ridge behind the camp casts impossibly long shadows with such startling clarity and depth. Breathe it all in, the smell of the pine trees, the morning dew, the last tendrils of the fire; breathe it all in and start afresh.

***

The buzz of the crowd washes over me, the sound of contentment, anticipation, camaraderie, expectation. The lush expanse of green grass, punctuated by the immaculate dirt with its perfect curves, stretches out in front of me; here is a stage upon which our heroes and enemies do battle once again, as their heroes and enemies have done so many times before. The mountains rise over left field, straining their long necks. The sunset refracts through the peaks to bathe the crowds in a kaleidoscopic display of lights and colours. Whether it is feeling the warmth on my back in left field or taking in the sweeping view from upon The Rooftop, the vistas are magical wherever you sit.

The bat’s crack as the sweet spot is found rings around the holy temple, drawing gasps of delight and moans of dejection. The roar as the Rockies win, highlighted by yet another dazzling defensive play at hot corner, a sight that will never get old, never cease to amaze. The deflation as the Dodgers hit a grand slam to take the lead in the top of the ninth, made all the more excruciating as the ball deflects off the tip of the glove, agonisingly out of reach. No matter the outcome, we come back tomorrow to start anew: a sea of people, united by the love of the game. This is a place full of happiness and despair, excitement and nervous hand-wringing. This is why I am here, again.

***

We get out at 11,990 feet above sea level. So this is the Loveland Pass, the highest road over the Continental Divide. It is about noon, the sun is shining, and snow is all around; the air is crisp, but the temperature is not so cold that a jacket is needed. We have just passed a resort where people are still skiing, in June! I climb up a little higher and look into the huge basins on either side of the pass, enormous rifts cut out of the rock by millions of years of extreme weather and the inexorable movement of the very earth.

It is incredibly humbling, standing here in the sky. The scene is breathtaking, both metaphorically and literally. I gulp in hurried lungfuls as I slowly commit the scene to memory. Other peaks poke out from frozen sheets, dark forests cut off halfway up, as if pruned by giants. The distances seem incomprehensible to someone from such a small island, as home now appears to be. The dizziness is exhilarating.

***

The sun beats down as I hop from brewery to brewery. Today’s trek is around Lincoln Park, a quiet Monday afternoon allowing me to be one of only a handful of drinkers. I take the opportunity to pester the bar staff with my endless questions about strange fruits and smoking malts with the local BBQ joint. A bowl of proper homemade chilli at stop number two makes for a fine late lunch. I have all the time in the world.

***

I look out of the window on the other side of the bus and gasp in amazement. The land falls away from the highway into a verdant valley, a huge expanse of land that is virtually empty to the naked, speeding, eye. Above, two eagles slowly circle on a hot updraft rising from the grasslands. Hunting, playing, or merely watching us pass by, I cannot tell. A week earlier, travelling further east through the same valley, I saw a lone eagle (maybe one of these two?) being harried by three enormous corvids in a game of aerial acrobatics.

***

"Just start talking," was her opening line. The lure of the accent over here is indeed powerful: a New Yorker now firmly entrenched in Denver, she has thick, dark brown hair and big, beautiful eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses. I have a taster of the brewery’s porter in hand as I step out onto the taproom patio, ready to be introduced to more friends.

It is my final night here, and I am all out of dollars. The plan was to quietly retire back to my borrowed room, maybe have that last beer in the fridge, and play with the cat. She persuades me to stay out a little longer, firstly with a doughnut –– topped with maple syrup and bacon and remarkably delicious –– and then with a beer. My request was for something dark and beery, and she comes back with a rather decadent mint stout. It appears she has worked me out already.

She asks me to keep her company outside as she smokes, before first a drunken friend (innocently), then a very unsettling sleazebag (far less innocently) interrupts our time. Meandering between various favourite haunts further down Colfax, we talk and talk and talk; she asks me about why we Englishmen are so reserved and repressed, and I do a very poor job of explaining.

We end up at another friend’s flat not far from either hers or where I am staying. She plays me some band she is seeing at Red Rocks in a few days, before ordering a taxi home. I offer to walk her the six blocks, but she declines. And with that, she is gone.

***

I am sitting at one of the numerous airport bars, reluctantly waiting for my gate to be called. Images of the last three weeks race through my brain, searing themselves in there. Beautiful places, beautiful people, beautiful beer. I linger on last night as I stare at the mountains crowning the horizon. I don’t want to go home.