Rocky Mountain Babies

One of the things I love about my dad, in addition to his being a Mac and digital Nikon enthusiast happy to pass along the scraps, is his utter contempt of all things hot and humid, which is why you won't see him in Memphis in August. Instead, he and mom chill out in the Keystone pad in Colorado where humidity is banished at the gates, night time temperatures hover in the 40s and bakers with dreams of giant, buttery goodness offer up chocolately, butterscotchey cookies a mere scenic drive away. For the first time in two years, the whole family with babies in tow converged on the house for a week of hiking, eating, fly fishing, hottubbing, Harry Pottering, and generally doing nothing. Except working on my Memphis Magazine fiction contest entry when everyone went to bed, or when there wasn't a Flight of the Conchords episode on, or more cookies that needed to be eaten...

The weeks leading up to the trip found both of us stressed to high heaven, worried about the altitude's potential affect on the bebe. The Keystone house is at 9500 feet - anything above 8000 is considered high altitude. I know I feel like crap the first day or two after getting there, but what about the bebe? Screaming doesn't tell me if her head hurts, if her nose is dry, if she's dehydrated, if her brain is swelling and about to explode... You can pretty much find what you are looking for online, so a few keystrokes informed me that swelling of the brain is indeed a potential threat travelling from sea level to altitude. Several panicked phone calls and emails later, mom informed me that she had polled the Colorado neighbors who swore up and down that their grandbabies had visited when they were brand new - and no, their brains didn't explode.

And neither did Harlow's. Aside from eating every couple of hours around the clock like a newborn, all was well. I have pics to prove it, although it looks like we never even left the living room.