Colorado Weather Quotes

I'll be at your place tonight, seven thirty." "Does seven thirty mean our reservation is at eight?" "Eight fifteen, in case we hit traffic or weather." "Will this mean you'll turn into a pumpkin on the way back, considering we'll probably get home past your bedtime?" Silence then, "Now she gives me smartass and it's still fuckin' cute."

The president had disappeared to a secure location but had responded with the full force of his Twitter account. He posted: “OUR ENEMIES DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY STARTED! PAYBACK IS A BITCH!!! #Denver #Colorado #America!!” The vice president had promised to pray as hard as he could for the survivors and the dead; he pledged to stay on his knees all day and all night long. It was reassuring to know our national leaders were using all the resources at their disposal to help the desperate: social media and Jesus.

Autumns reward western Kansas for the evils that the remaining seasons impose: winter's rough Colorado winds and hip-high, sheep-slaughtering snows; the slushes and the strange land fogs of spring; and summer, when even crows seek the puny shade, and the tawny infinitude of wheatstalks bristle, blaze. At last, after September, another weather arrives, an Indian summer that occasionally endures until Christmas.

It was ideal apple-eating weather; the whitest sunlight descended from the purest sky, and an easterly wind rustled, without ripping loose, the last of the leaves on the Chinese elms. Autumns reward western Kansas for the evils that the remaining seasons impose: winter's rough Colorado winds and hip-high, sheep-slaughtering snows; the slushes and the strange land fogs of spring; and summer, when even crows seek the puny shade, and the tawny infinitude of wheatstalks bristle, blaze

They can’t do that in China?” the principal asked. “They have snow there, don’t they?” “Of course they have snow,” Cyrus said curtly. “However, their resorts aren’t nearly as good as ours yet—so Jessica wants to go to Colorado. Vail, to be specific. They’ve already rented a hotel there and—” “A hotel room,” I corrected. “What?” Cyrus asked. “You said they rented a hotel,” I told him. “Instead of a hotel room.” “That wasn’t a mistake,” Cyrus snapped. “They rented the entire hotel.” “For one family?” I asked, stunned. “Actually,” Alexander said, “Mrs. Shang isn’t coming. We’re not sure why, but we suspect that she’s even more secretive than her husband. Or maybe she just doesn’t like cold weather.

Four years to the day after Fairchild's 1908 gift of the trees to Washington's schools, on March 27, 1912, Mrs. Taft broke dirt during the private ceremony in West Potomac Park near the banks of the Potomac River. The wife of the Japanese ambassador was invited to plant the second tree. Eliza Scidmore and David Fairchild took shovels not long after. The 3,020 trees were more than could fit around the tidal basin. Gardeners planted extras on the White House grounds, in Rock Creek Park, and near the corner of Seventeenth and B streets close to the new headquarters of the American Red Cross. It took only two springs for the trees to become universally adored, at least enough for the American government to feel the itch to reciprocate. No American tree could rival the delicate glamour of the sakura, but officials decided to offer Japan the next best thing, a shipment of flowering dogwoods, native to the United States, with bright white blooms. Meanwhile, the cherry blossoms in Washington would endure over one hundred years, each tree replaced by clones and cuttings every quarter century to keep them spry. As the trees grew, so did a cottage industry around them: an elite group of gardeners, a team to manage their public relations, and weather-monitoring officials to forecast "peak bloom"---an occasion around which tourists would be encouraged to plan their visits. Eventually, cuttings from the original Washington, D.C, trees would also make their way to other American cities with hospitable climates. Denver, Colorado; Birmingham, Alabama; Saint Paul, Minnesota.

Thus begins my only sustained conversation in the Grand Canyon, as the man and I walk the second half of South Kaibab Trail together. I learn he’s on his way to a water treatment plant at the Colorado River. “I treat sewage water and recycle it to use at Phantom Ranch,” he explains. A self-described “Steward of the Grand Canyon,” he’s been doing this work all his life – a job he took over from his uncle and grandfather before him. “No matter the weather I hike to the plant every other week,” he says. “I stay for about a week at a time.” This week he’s on a special mission to train some new “young bucks” in the art of water treatment. “They never last,” he shakes his head. “They think they know what they’re getting into, and then reality hits when it gets cold.” He pauses, staring down the emerald Colorado River snaking below us. Then he swings around, looking me straight in the eyes, “I have given up everything I love for this canyon.” He resumes his speed walk as I trail clumsily behind him, trying to keep up. My bike bounces on my back.

Colorado weather was... weird. They'd had days that were hot out on the rock with the sun blazing down. And then others with the threat of snow and he had to wear a jacket.

The North Rim of Grand Canyon, for example, lies at 8,000-9,000 feet elevation and is part of the huge Colorado Plateau, the world’s second largest and highest plateau after that of Tibet. Plateaus such as these, it is now known, actually create their own weather.

A volcanic eruption in Colorado set all of this in motion thirty-five million years ago. Then some rare combination of wind and weather and streams and sediment created the dunes.

The trail continues west toward the Continental Divide. Cross FS Rd 427 at mile 4.4 (10,161) and Deadman Creek on a bridge at mile 4.5 (10,164). At mile 5.0 (10,180) cross a small stream and continue on the trail as it turns left. Gain a saddle and pass through a Forest Service gate at mile 5.2 (10,262). Cross Jefferson Lake Road at mile 5.9 (10,014) and Jefferson Creek at mile 6.0 (9,975). At mile 6.1 (9,986) there is an intersection. Take a right on the West Jefferson Trail for 0.1 mile, then go left at the fork at mile 6.2 (9,983). From here, the climb to Georgia Pass begins. At mile 7.8 (10,699), the CT intersects the Michigan Creek Trail. Stay to the right. After the trail leaves a subalpine fir forest and emerges above tree line, pass the Jefferson Creek Trail on the right at mile 11.7 (11,667) and cross a jeep road at mile 12.1 (11,838). Be aware of changing weather patterns when above tree line. Reach the top of Georgia Pass and the Continental Divide at mile 12.3 (11,874). Descend in a northerly direction. Reach Glacier Creek Road at mile 12.5 (11,798). This is the point where users first encounter the Continental Divide National Scenic Trail, which comes in from the north. The CT and CDNST are co-located for the next 314 miles (including along the CT Collegiate West) and into Segment 24 where the two trails diverge. Cross the road and descend on single-track as it turns right. After entering the trees, cross an ATV trail at mile 15.4 (11,135). Keep descending, passing a pond,

I fell into climbing, so to speak, a willy-nilly response to a crushing bout of depression that began in my mid-thirties. The disorder reduced my chronic low self-regard to a bottomless pit of despair and misery. I recoiled from myself and my life, and came very close to suicide. Then, salvation. On a family vacation in Colorado, I discovered the rigors and rewards of mountain climbing, and gradually came to see the sport as my avenue of escape. I found that a punishing workout regimen held back the darkness for hours each day. Blessed surcease. I also gained hard muscle and vastly improved my endurance, two novel sources of pride.