My God, I still can remember,
The day I first saw the Rocky Mountains.
We had been driving all day and all night,
And my breath soon became shallow with the sight,
That lay westbound on the horizon.

It looked like a line of clouds,
Bringing an early morning, late Spring shower,
But with each mile that we traveled ever closer,
Driving much faster, of course, than we were supposed to,
The majestic range sought the sky.

Oh the hues that were about us,
And the beautiful scenes that were upon us,
Caused us, who were still so young,
To be filled with a joy yet unknown.

Who is it who can describe
The magic?
And who will recall how it feels?
And tell me, good sir, of these,
Who might be possessed of the skill,
To lend language to a moment so rare?

And so we rose into the foothills,
And we looked for Old Highway Fifty,
And climbed higher as we traveled westward,
And soon came to Canon City.

We followed the Arkansas River,
Toward Salida on the valley floor,
And then over the great Monarch Pass;
For the Western Slopes, it provides the door.

The air is so very crisp,
And the sky has never been so clear,
Wildflowers accent the hillside,
Below savage cliffs so severe.

A herd of elk languish on the road,
They take nearly an hour to pass,
We simply sit and enjoy the visage,
As they stop and enjoy the sweet grass.

Soon we drop down and into Gunnison,
And point northward toward Crested Butte,
I'd like to stop for a couple of years,
Just to enjoy the view.

I cannot, I am afraid,
Lay verse to beauty untold.
I cannot, to be sure,
Describe the hillsides painted greens and gold.
I 'm not skilled enough to tell you,
Of the peace that you'll feel in your heart,
For there are others who will do it better,
But I've tried to do my part.