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Empty Nest Magazine
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The Things We Do After
Our Kids Leave Home
Rocky Mountain High: Earth Day in Denver by Robin Bonner
An Email of Interest Suddenly I was wide awake. All my life, I’ve been a huge John Denver fan. It’s difficult to explain why. I remember when I first heard “Country Roads.” I was 12, and the time was early summer, probably the last week of school because it was a weekday, it was lunchtime, and I had just gotten home (we always had half-days the last week of grade school). I had made myself a tuna salad sandwich—my favorite—and taken it into my bedroom. I had the room to myself, which was a rare moment, because at the time, I still shared it with my younger brother and sister. I set the plate down on the dresser. A warm, soft breeze ruffled the curtains. My little white transistor radio buzzed and rattled, “Country roads, take me home, to the place, I belong…” With its imagery of mountains and a river in West Virginia, and what it’s like to come home, truly home, I thought it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard. As I grew older, I found I loved all of Denver’s music. Something about his sound and lyrics struck a chord with me, tapping into my love of the outdoors, my need to think positively, and our obligation to take care of one another and the planet. It just plain made me happy to listen to it. Soon, I was singing “Sunshine,” “Leaving on a Jet Plane” (made famous by Peter, Paul, and Mary), “Thank God I’m a Country Boy,” “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” “Annie’s Song,” and others. I was particularly intrigued with “Rocky Mountain High,” and knew that one day I’d visit Colorado. As a teenager in the 1970s, during Denver’s heyday, I was living my most impressionable years in the thick of his popularity. His songs brought happiness, and instinctively I gravitated toward them, learning to play them on my guitar. Once I got into college, I asked to do an independent study about him and his song lyrics. It was the beginning of the environmental movement, and I had already been turned on to the writings of Henry David Thoreau in high school English class. Although not your typical teenaged concert-goer, because I refused to spend the money, through the years I attended John Denver’s concerts whenever he’d perform in the area. I married my environmentalist boyfriend. We danced to “Annie’s Song” at our wedding. Friends gave us JD concert tickets as a wedding gift. We saw Denver at all the Philadelphia area venues of the day: the Spectrum, the Valley Forge Music Fair, and the Mann Music Center. I wasn’t the groupie type—I didn’t want to meet him and didn’t follow his life very closely—but over the years, I continued to collect his CDs (long after RCA dropped him from their label and he started his own), and as I grew older, my soul reverberated with his music. When Denver died in 1997 in a freak plane crash, I cried as if I had lost a close friend. But, as he himself said, “Though the singer is silent, there still is the truth of the song” (he was singing about his father at the time), and his music lives on. Because I never knew him personally anyway, nothing has changed in our relationship. In fact, more than 40 years after first hearing “Country Roads” on my little transistor radio, Denver is still my default “sunny Saturday afternoon driving around doing errands” artist of choice. And he provides my Valentine’s Day music (“Perhaps Love,” from Seasons of the Heart). And my Pentecost music (“The Wings That Fly Us Home,” from Spirit). And my seasonal music (“Spring” and “Summer” from Rocky Mountain High). Each year I “rediscover” his music and all the beauty of the songs that never made the hit charts. (He recorded more than 300 of them, writing about 200 himself.) I know I am blessed to have his music in my life. Clearly, I needed to be in Colorado for the tribute.
Carpe Diem 
Denver International Airport.
Flying to Denver has always thrilled me. I make sure I get a window seat—all the better to enjoy that first impressive glimpse of the Rockies. It always takes my breath away. Denver International Airport is unusual in that the white-domed architectural elements seek to imitate the Rockies’ snow-covered peaks. And the place was built on the site of an Indian burial ground. As you walk through the terminals, you hear piped-in Native American music, and a majestic statue of a wild horse rearing up, electric-red eyes blazing, guards the main entrance to the airport. We arrived at Tammy’s in Franktown on Wednesday night, to whoops and hollers, a bottle of wine, and a dinner of barbeque chicken and grilled veggies. Tammy’s husband, Cliff, was there, as was their son, 18-year-old Joey, soon to graduate from high school. Their older child, Joanna, now a pharmacist, is married and living in Tucson with her Air Force husband and baby, Jack. Wow, how time flies! (Joanna is same age as our older daughter, Amie.) We loaded our gear into the guestroom, just off the family room, where all four walls sport the mounted heads of wild game—elk, black-tailed deer, antelope—prizes from Cliff’s hunting adventures. Even mounted pheasant, grouse, and rainbow trout have their place on the wall. A elk rug graces the floor. (It was Joey’s first, shot when he was 12.) It is a little unnerving, but you get used to it. We really were out in the “wilds” of Colorado! After dinner we hung around for a bit and chatted (and drank more wine), but it was getting late, and tomorrow we had a big day ahead of us. 
Castlewood Canyon State Park. On Thursday, Tammy served up a great breakfast of fruit, bagels, and juice. Cliff had already left for work, and Joey was gone, too—either to school or lacrosse practice. Later that morning, Tammy took Gary and me to Castlewood Canyon State Park to do a short hike. I surely needed to blow off some steam, as excited as I was about the concert that evening. I had no idea what to expect. After all, Denver obviously wouldn’t be performing. So, what else could be of interest? Well, the idea of 6,500 John Denver fans all in once place held its own appeal, and I was going to have to just get there and experience it. But first I needed to get through the day, which was moving in amazingly slow motion. Still, we were able to occupy ourselves. It turned out that Joanna, whose husband was stationed aboad, made last-minute arrangements to come up to Denver, and she would have baby Jack in tow. We added picking them up at the airport to our list of things to do—getting to see them was a welcome distraction. We’d meet Cliff at the Hickory House, where we’d have a "last supper" of barbecue ribs (“the best in Colorado,” evidently) and a few beers before getting on the road to Broomfield.
The Tribute Evidently, this was the Colorado Music Hall of Fame’s inaugural event, and John Denver was the venue’s first inductee (together with the Red Rocks Amphitheatre, go figure). We found our seats as John Denver’s hit songs wafted through the air, piped in as “pre-concert” entertainment. Denver, it seemed, was opening for his own tribute. Soon, art-in-action artist Brian Olsen ran on stage to entertain the crowd while the orchestra warmed up. He quickly painted a portrait of Denver that was projected onto a mammoth-sized screen. It was mesmerizing to watch, even from our seats at the opposite end of the stadium. The crowd showed its approval. The mayor of Denver spoke, introducing other local politicians, including the governor of Colorado. The Boulder Philharmonic Orchestra, with Lee Holdridge conducting, punctuated their spiels with Denver favorites, including “The Eagle and the Hawk,” “Annie’s Song,” and “Country Roads.” 
NASA's Michael T Burke, with Colorado state and local politicians. NASA sent representative Michael T. Burke to project the image “Earth Day in Space” and talk about how Denver promoted space exploration. A national environmental activist reminded everyone that Denver was the first musician to advocate protecting Earth, before it became a fashionable thing to do among celebrities. There was no talk of Denver’s untimely death, or even the events of his personal life. It was all about his music and his work—what he achieved. Singer/actress Olivia Newton-John, a friend of Denver’s who did backup on his hit single “Fly Away” (released on the Windsong album), hosted the second half of the show and introduced the various performers. 
John Oates and Olivia Newton-John: "Fly Away."
Michael Murphey: "Boy From the Country." The Cousteau Society benefitted from some proceeds of the concert that evening, as did the Windstar Foundation and the University of Colorado School of Music. Denver’s second wife, Cassandra, sang “Whispering Jesse” and told the story of Denver composing that song. Lee Ann Womack did the Denver favorite “Sunshine.” Other songs included "Perhaps Love" and “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” with composer and fiddler John Sommers leading.
Annie Denver
Reprise In the end, I decided it was truly a tribute, not really a concert, and was well done at that. It was interesting to think about who found their way onto the stage. Denver, his songs, and his celebrity put Colorado on the map as a tourist attraction—he put the stamp “America’s vacationland” squarely on his chosen city and the nearby Rocky Mountains, which he so loved. The appearance of local and state politicians that evening, therefore, made sense. The celebrities and others who came forward to talk about the good Denver did for the community, for the environment, and for humanity made sense, as well. Denver’s children and ex-wives were obvious inclusions, although I was surprised to see them taking part. The songs (especially “Boy from the Country”), all the favorites—“Sunshine,” “Country Roads,” among others—and, of course, the very final number, “Rocky Mountain High”—were presented wonderfully. During that final number, my spirit joined with the other concert goers’ and I’m sure Denver’s, too, and I was glad that I had come, that I responded the way I did to Tammy’s email the month before. If anyone needed to be at that event, I did. As for my quietness afterward—it was simply that I was dead tired. I had been excited about the concert for weeks and toward the end had been barely able to contain myself. And now it was over. I was, essentially, emptied of emotion. So I dozed off as Cliff drove the carful of quiet people back to Franktown.
Rocky Mountain High: Part Two 
On the way to Estes Park.
Deer Peak (about 10,013 feet) seemed to be our best choice for a moderate hike. We would do about 6 miles in all, up and back, with a change in elevation of about 1,000 feet. Well, it was many years since I had hiked at that altitude, and I immediately felt lightheaded. No matter, we were in this for the long haul, as I was determined to get out into the Rockies, and you can’t do that sitting in your car. Besides, after about 5 miles of driving, we would find Trail Ridge Road closed because of snow, as it was for more than half of each year. 
From a switchback on Deer Mountain. The trail into the woods was only dotted with snow, but as we ascended the side of the mountain via the switchbacks, the snow more evenly covered the trail. We donned our micro-spikes but our boots soon began to sink into the snow-covered trail anyway, sometimes up to our thighs, and I wished we hadn’t left our rented snowshoes in the car. Eventually, I became frustrated with the situation, the biting cold, and my lightheadedness, which became only more annoying as we pushed on. The trail leveled out when we finally reached the top, however, and diverged in several directions. We wandered through a low evergreen forest looking for the “summit,” or at least for a clear view off Deer Mountain. Gary finally found an opening to a rock outcropping. He waved to me, so I trudged in his direction. I stepped out into the clearing. The view of the surrounding clusters of snow-covered peaks glistening in the afternoon sun was nothing if not breathtaking. Extraordinary, really—with the wind whipping around us at 40 mph or more. The force of it pulled Gary’s magnetic sunglasses from his face, and they vanished literally into thin air. We searched for them briefly, but it was hopeless. Pulling out our cameras and snapping several shots, we were careful not to let the cameras themselves be snatched from us. But we had what we had come for: our Rocky Mountain High. Between the concert the night before and the hike that day, we couldn’t ask for more.
From that point forward, I was on a mission to get down that mountain. Having removed my micro-spikes a little too soon, I suffered a few spills on the slippery switchbacks. At one point, grateful for having avoided a broken wrist, if only narrowly, I slowed the pace. Then, when we reached the bottom, with much relief I fell into the car. I was spent. Again.
Robin on Deer Mountain summit.
Saturday proved to be an all-around fun day with the Meier clan. We got to pass little Jack around—a popular pastime, I’m finding, among the still-without-grandchildren crowd. 
Joanna and Jack.
Joey, Tammy, and Cliff.
Robin and Gary. Sunday, though Easter, was a little sad for Gary and me, as we faced the prospect of spending the holiday in airports. First, Mass in Franktown, then Milwaukee and finally Philadelphia beckoned. All I can say is that we came away with some treasures from that Earth Day and Easter weekend—it was truly our own Rocky Mountain High. And, yes, Gary was glad he went. We are, in fact, becoming quite adventurous since our kids left home.
Robin Bonner is editor of Empty Nest. For more about Robin, see About Us. |
Empty Nest: A Magazine for Mature Families
© 2011 Spring Mount Communications
It was Monday, March 14th. Gary and I had just arrived home from a long weekend visiting relatives in NH. Although exhausted, before going to bed I was valiantly trying to work my way through the 100 or so emails that had accumulated while we were gone. Curious, I clicked on the link. The headline read, 
It reminded me of the Wells Fargo Center, back in Philly. But instead of Flyers’ jerseys lining the walls, John Denver memorabilia—jackets, records, photographs, sculptures, and even a guitar—either filled the glass cases affixed to the walls or stood mounted on the floor. We wandered through the exhibit and halls with the crowds, taking it all in. The tribute had begun.