Embedded Files
By: Belle McTigue
A quick escape for me is the top of the hill in my backyard. Sometimes I go there by myself and other times following my dog. When I go, there is no specific path to follow; I make my way through the rocks and wild brush; burrs coat the ankles of my socks and the laces of my shoes. My heart rate races as I climb; it's a steep but short walk. Once I gain the ridge, a forest of aspens greets me. I turn, aspens behind me. I feel on top of the world even though taller mountains are in sight. Across the valley, I see Palmyra, a 13,000-foot peak I ski in the winter, and Wilson, a 14,000-foot peak I hike in the summer.
Nostalgia finds me when I think of this spot. My family and I moved to 209 East Serapio in the Aldasoro development in 2015 when I was in 1st grade. To get there, we wind uphill for three miles; the house sits at 9,700 feet above sea level. When we moved in, my sister and I immediately went to the trampoline left in the backyard. Next, we conquered the hill. We were told there was a firepit at the top. I chased my sister up not caring about the burrs clinging to my socks or the small scratches along my shins. We reached the top, and a whole new world was revealed. We found the fire pit, a wood swing, and a whole aspen forest waiting to be explored. We turned and saw the view, amazed at how we were looking down on the airport and Mountain Village. We were on top of the world.
Since that first ascent, the hill became a place to go as a family, with friends, or alone. There are photos of ten tweens scrambling up the hill carrying firewood, marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers. It was my sister's birthday, and I was ahead of them, dressed in my unicorn onesie, eager to be first. Another time a friend came over, and we were bored. As we jumped on the trampoline the hill grabbed our attention. We hiked up, hoping for adventure. The Aspens welcomed me back. It was spring, and the trees were blooming, but we were interested in the fallen ones. We gathered the branches and sticks taller than us. We worked together, stacking the sticks against each other, building our kingdom. We were surprised when my dog Sunny came over the ridge with my dad trailing. We had spent the entire afternoon up there, my dad had come to get us.
However, I am not the only one who holds memories here. In the mid-1950s, Jose Joaquin Aldasaro, a Spanish immigrant, bought 12 homesteads on 1,515 acres surrounding where my house is now. It was a sheep ranch then, and he herded 5,000 sheep. I imagine him standing here looking over his land. As the land aged so did Joaquin. He died suddenly on his ranch, his young adult son Albert J. Aldasaro inherited the land and the work. I would think Albert took moments to appreciate the land but also struggled to maintain the ranch and livestock. Albert had three daughters who he tasked with watching over the sheep. I bet like me they got lost in the freedom and wonder of the land. These three sisters would later develop a part of the ranch to become the Aldasoro subdivision that I grew up in. The street I live on is named after Joaquin's cousin, Serapio. The connecting street is Albert J. and the one below is Joaquin.
This one ranch that once held sheep now holds houses. I sit on the ridge, looking out over the land breathing hard. The sounds of birds chirping and trees swaying fill the silence. There is a time in the day when the sun falls behind the mountains but still glows throughout the valley. That is my favorite time to go up the hill. Although the use of this land has changed, the soul has not. It keeps me humbled just as it did for the people before me.
Page updated
Report abuse