Rocky Mountain Oysters and the Bottom of the Ski Slope

Leaving from the University of Kansas after visiting my older brother at school, my parents and I strapped on our seatbelts and prepared for the nine-hour drive back to Fort Collins, Colorado. Across I-70, it takes nearly six hours before arriving at the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign, and another two hours before the vast plains, straying tumbleweeds, and scattered wind turbines turn into a familiar Colorado landscape.

A couple more hours north is the town where I was born, Greeley. Fondly regarded as the armpit of Colorado. My brother, my parents, our dog Targhee, and I lived in Greeley until I was about four years old. It is home to JBS (Monfort Feed Lot) slaughterhouse, dozens of epic Christmas light displays, my hairdresser, Lee, and my grandparents.

Driving through Greeley as a child, my family would joke about the smell of cow manure wafting through the half-cracked car window in our silver suburban. “That’s the smell of money,” my crotchety grandpa (also a cattle-rancher) would explain when my brother and I would hold our thumb and pointer finger over our nose. Though I remember smelling a crisp five-dollar bill and thinking that it didn’t smell at all like my grandpa described.

In a town outside of Greeley, there is a place where you can buy “Rocky Mountain oysters”. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of trying these unique culinary jewels, Rocky Mountain oysters are fried bull testicles, served in a heap on top of red and white parchment paper and a side of dippin’ sauce.

I moved to Fort Collins (northwest of Greeley by about 30 miles, and north of Denver by about 50 miles) just before I started kindergarten. Most of my childhood memories got a lot more colorful after moving here. Maybe due to the fact that I lived in Fort Collins for most of my childhood and throughout all of high school, or maybe because Fort Collins is more colorful and drastically more beautiful than Greeley or any of Eastern Colorado’s landscape.

In fourth grade, we did a “Colorado” play, and I still remember the lyrics to the song, which was uniquely named “Colorado”:

Colorado, Colorado

It’s called the centennial state

Colorado, Colorado

Joined the U.S. as number “Thirty Eight”

My special performing role gave me the opportunity to be a “train conductor” and wear overalls on stage. I was irritated that I had to be a train conductor, and had my mom take me to get special brown colored overalls so I would look different than everyone else. I saw someone wearing striped overalls the other day and thought of my fourth-grade self. Though I’m not sure the best way to differentiate yourself from a crowd is by wearing brown (or striped) overalls.

About halfway through the production, Mrs. Wagner put America the Beautiful in the CD player and blasted the “purple mountain majesty” lyrics. I never understood why the mountains were described as purple. To me, they always seemed grey or blue, aside from the pearly snow-capped peaks. But when you get up close, they’re not even blue or grey – they’re green with pine trees or red, yellow, and red leaves, depending on the season. However, I do remember a specific Crayola crayon named “purple mountain’s majesty.” I recall one time I tried to use it as a mountain color, because Crayola deemed it appropriate, although the result seemed far too forced. My friend, Lauren, wet her pants on stage of our final production, and her soggy denim seemed more purple than the mountains…

The only purple things in Colorado that I can think of is the Columbine flower (but even it is described as “blue”) and the color of the state during election season. Although, I heard the that it is losing its status as a “purple state,” or one that is torn politically between Democrat and Republican, in favor of blue. But Donald Trump did just hold a campaign event in Loveland, a town between my birthplace (Greeley) and my home in Fort Collins.

When most people think about Colorado, they think about snowy peaks, health-conscious individuals, an abundance of outdoor activities, and marijuana.

I can’t say how many times I’ve been assumed to be a skier or a snowboarder, because duh, I grew up in Colorado. But the truth is, the last time I went skiing, I zipped my stuffed animal (a monkey named Emily) up in my coat before cautiously descending down the “green” slope in strictly “pizza” formation. I was ten. I think my lack of ski skills makes me somewhat of an outsider.

I’m not particularly outdoorsy, and the closest I’ve ever been to “getting high” is jumping out of a “Mile-Hi Skydiving” airplane at 17,500 feet and looking at Pikes Peak while my parachute brought me back safely to solid ground. Since I first went skydiving on my eighteenth birthday, I have gone two more times. But I still have never hiked a fourteener or visited a dispensary.

Two of my friends who went to school out of state ended up coming back to Colorado for their sophomore year to finish out college, saying that they missed the mountains, the air, the water, the people, or just the atmosphere.

“I think I had to leave the state to realize how amazing Colorado is” – a text I received last week from a friend who is itching to come home.

But despite being regarded as an excellent place to live by many people, a large portion of Colorado is full of slaughterhouses, tumbleweeds, and desperation. Some parts of Colorado literally stink. But to ignore the awful parts of Colorado is to ignore its uniqueness.

Colorado often gets boiled down to the pretty pictures seen in magazines, pristine ski slopes seen by tourists once a year, and a common name that pops up on “best place to live” lists published each year. It gets defined by people who move here from Wisconsin, people from California, or people who live so far inside their own little bubble that they can’t comprehend that the entire state isn’t Columbines, ski slopes, and marijuana pastures. Like with any overgeneralization, Colorado is not exempt from its own distinct flaws, or its special recipe of Rocky Mountain Oysters.

To wrap things up…

Having lived in Colorado for all of my life, it can be difficult to combine my personal feelings and experiences, public perceptions, and realities.  

When I think about Colorado, I imagine crisp, cool water flowing out of a babbling brook and straight through the faucet. The sound of an elk bugling at the end of September, a skier going down a double black diamond slope in February, and a big horn sheep peering through an alpine meadow mid-April. An idealized image.

But this will never be my only image of Colorado. I picture the house we lived at in Greeley, with the big green door and the sunroom I used to paint in. The pre-kindergarten school that had tricycles and a fake gas pump outside. The house of my childhood best friend who I don’t talk to any more, with the rain chain and the solar panels. My middle school where I had to run the mile inside every Friday for volleyball practice, and the eco-friendly lights that would frequently shut off when you were still inside one of the classrooms in order to save energy. The high school where I sat in Mr. Kisla’s classroom and graded freshman papers and planned our senior field trip to the Colorado State Capitol. The Larimer County Food Bank that I volunteer at with my mom, and where I sit in her office in the upstairs of our house and watch her make jewelry instead of having to say goodbye for her to go to a 9-5 job. The monstrous temple that I have to look at when I drive home from Denver to Fort Collins to visit my family.

I cannot say I always correctly sort my food into the compost, recycle, and trash bins. I may never own a house that is wind powered, use natural lighting, geo-thermal energy transfers, or occupancy lighting sensors. I will never be allowed to see the stained-glass windows, baptism pool, or Swarovski crystal chandeliers of Fort Collins’s Mormon temple. I will probably never own a ski pass, and I may never hike a fourteener. I may never develop a resume as impressive as my mom’s, be as involved in a community, or as good of a mother. To some people from the outside, I may not even truly represent what it means to be a Coloradoan.

It is also home to ski-bums, hikers, and adventurers. It has become a surrogate home for thousands of my college peers, and gets redefined and reshaped by each person who experiences it differently. The current inhabitants of Colorado come from all regions of the United States and all corners of the globe. As a single person living in a state of 5.415 million, I can hardly speak for the whole crowd.  

Colorado is my home. A hotbed of political activity, a model for sustainability, a trendy location to move to and start a family, and a beautiful snapshot to post on the cover of the newest National Geographic. A place filled with my family, my friends, and my memories. A place filled with tumbleweeds, questionably purple mountains, monotone landscapes, towns like Greeley, and smells of wafting manure.