A Walk Behind Our House

At the beginning of this month, we moved deeper into what is called the Arapaho National Forest. It is actually Ute and Cheyenne land that we live on, and nothing stands between our house and Mt. Evans — only 18 miles.

The mountain, which sits at 14,271, is something I am in love with. It has been giving me life since we first moved to its wilderness two years ago. It is named for a disgusting man, John Evans, who was the governor of the Colorado territory and the perpetrator of the horrific Sand Creek Massacre against the Cheyenne and Arapaho people in 1864.

I’ve been unable to find a native name for the peak, but Len Necefer, professor and founder of Natives Outdoors, put it best when he responded to my quest by sharing that it is not indigenous tradition to name isolated peaks, but instead to look at the land as a whole, as an integrated family.

Yesterday the land lay under a fresh coat of snow, and we went to explore. We have been duly warned by our neighbors that a den of mountain lions live a mile or two up the hill, and I am terrified. Encountering a mountain lion, which is a reality in my world, is my biggest fear.

The forest is without equal. We wandered for hours, relishing the splendor of the land, and marveling later how incredibly disorienting it is as we struggled to find the right way home. James, Squanto, and I each feel entirely blessed to be able to live in this magnificent corner of the earth.