Facing the Divide

Stress hits. It seeps in one thought at a time, gains mass like a snowball rolling down the hill, parks itself smack dab in the middle of my brain, and sets up camp. My mind gnarls, my breathing tightens, and my whole being contracts. From there, fear usually stops by the party, and that’s when the festivities really begin.

Until I intervene.

Often, I step outside. No screens, no distractions. I take in the mountain air, my feet find the earth, and my eyes gaze west toward the Continental Divide, eight miles away. My body usually registers the change before my mind does. The jagged peaks slice the horizon in a way that always stops me. My worries, urgent a moment ago, shrink against the backdrop. The Divide simply stands, immense and unyielding.

At times I speak out loud, my words breaking the silence: “Dude, look at you. You’re stressed. Out here. How can you possibly be stressed out here? Peace and tranquility in every direction. You’re doing this to yourself. Stop.” Saying it plainly brings a kind of release. Often, it makes me laugh, which is medicine in itself.

The mountains become my confessional, accepting every foolish worry without judgment. They answer with scale, showing me I am small, fleeting, and still held within their vastness. Standing before such beauty, words fall short.

Over the years, this has become my ritual. The land puts me back in proportion, back to what feels truer than the stories I tell myself indoors. The Divide reminds me that my troubles are weather, but I am landscape. It’s a practice that takes seconds, yet can reshape the whole day.