“Isn’t this glorious?” Andrew was gazing past me over the top of the Chicago peaks, west towards the divide, as he said it – 2 or 3 times. He had a big smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. Ya know. . . that Berm twinkle. We were cycling up Mount Evans and stopped somewhere near the top to take a few photos with the mountain goats, and more importantly perhaps, to catch our breath and to take in the beauty of the moment. On that day in September, when these pictures were taken, we were the only ones on the mountain. It was a near perfect, blue-bird Colorado kinda day, on what had become, more or less, an annual ride up the mountain.
The days weren’t always this perfect. Other times, we got rained on, snowed on, hailed on once, and then there was the wind – oh, the wind – much more unforgiving on a bike than on foot. Part of the challenge – the fun – was finding the right day to ride. The road from Echo Lake to the summit always closes after the first couple snows of the season. The trick is to get the timing just right – to find a day when enough snow had fallen to make the road impassible for cars, but not too much to require long, post-holing walks across the ribbons of snow that would cover sections of the road.
Beginning in mid-September, Andrew would monitor the road status for the winter closure, and then start geeking-out on meteorological sites to find a sunny day ahead without the prospect of a cold front and wind. We would share our observations about the weather, but at some point, Andrew would simply call and tell me to clear my calendar for the next day and meet him in Idaho Springs at 6 am.
This is how I experienced Berm and how I will remember him: full of anticipation for the challenge and joy in the moment.
Yes, it was glorious Andrew. All of it.
I will miss you my friend.
Grace and peace,
Tom
