During the itinerant decades between the 1950s and 1980s, employers moved families around the country with thoughtless regularity. Geographic allegiances were pretty much limited to your state of birth or the hometown of the first NFL franchise you watched regularly. Every state was simply a part of America and the Interstate Highway System stitched them together with identical fast food restaurants at its exits. I still recall my family’s first encounter with a McDonald’s. It was selling a hamburger, fries and a shake for 19 cents during a price war in Knoxville, Tennessee, making it possible to feed our entire family for less than a buck. My brother and I attended eight different elementary schools, as my father shuttled among nuclear weapons plants scattered across the high, sage brush deserts of Western states. We finished our schooling outside Washington, D.C.

When I moved my own family to Denver in 1972, I expected the sojourn would last no more than a few years before I was reassigned elsewhere by Ma Bell. Like many temporary immigrants to the Centennial State, I never left. There were a handful of vehicles then sporting “Native” bumper stickers; but in a state with the youngest average age in the nation most of our neighbors had also arrived from somewhere else. Colorado appears to have stumbled into another period of mind bogglingly rapid population growth. We should expect many of these new arrivals to remain. Those native bumper stickers have been replaced with more tasteful “Pioneer” license plates, but their message remains the same – “We got here first and we were smart enough not to leave!”

Recently there’s been a wave of stories about the mental health benefits of spending time in the great outdoors. “Forest bathing” is now a thing. Even 30 minutes a week in a city park can apparently deliver 70% of the stress relief served up by solitude on the Continental Divide. Last week I attended a Denver meeting where we were each asked to introduce ourselves and tell the group what we were planning for our summer vacations. No one was headed for a beach to skim trashy novels and sip piña coladas. Since some participants were on the phone, I can only estimate ages; but one young woman was intent on scaling her final seven 14ers – an indication she has already surmounted nearly 50. Another was headed for 10 days of river rafting in Idaho. There were also mountain bikers destined for Utah’s red rock country. And a close friend who plans to hike 60 miles of the Colorado Trail to celebrate her 60th birthday. She noted, “No wonder so many people who visit Colorado think we’re all a little bit nuts.”

My soon-to-be daughter in law tackled the Muir Trail portion of the Pacific Crest Trail over two weeks the summer before last. I dedicate several weekends each year to cooking meals for trail building crews with Volunteers for Outdoors Colorado, selecting projects that will take me to spectacular places I’ve failed to visit before. Last fall we rebuilt a bluffside trail that connects with dinosaur tracks left alongside the Purgatoire River during the seasonal tarantula migration (bet you haven’t heard about that). Colorado’s wilderness areas are chock full of backcountry hikers adhering to the “leave no trace” ethic by packing out their trash. This may all start to sound like the work week offers a respite from the recreation we seem to choose. The truth is we return from these exertions renewed. The view from the top of a 14er provides a spiritual lift that has no comparison. Watching beavers repair their dams proves a morale booster against tedium.

A friend from Pittsburgh has remarked to me that Colorado is virtually one gigantic national park. He’s not far wrong. I also believe ready access to the soothing rhythms of nature fosters a sense of joint responsibility among Coloradans – an obligation to protect our glorious environment, matched to a respect for one another. When you share a few beers with the campers next to you, it rarely troubles your mind whether they vote blue or red. The tranquility of a backcountry campsite (screaming kids aside) provides a nearly sacramental experience. Whatever your politics, you sense that you share important values. You will return to your personal rat race, whatever or wherever that is, ratcheted down a few notches. Why would we want to live where we couldn’t find this tonic of solitude, immensity and proportion?

Aside from that grumpy contingent perpetually in fear someone, somewhere is having a good time, a quiet communion with nature takes most of us to our happy place. Summer is short. Breathe deep and watch out for me somewhere down the trail.

Miller Hudson is a public affairs consultant and a former state legislator. He can be reached at mnhwriter@msn.com.