northern pine forest

If perfection does indeed exist, I think I may have found it in the little town of Park City, Utah. After a recent visit there I have clearly been smitten…as in dreamy, dewy-eyed in love.

Similar to Salt Lake City, I found Park City to be incredibly clean. No trash that I could see and overall impeccably groomed as to landscaping and vegetation, yet naturally so, not fussy. It was downright tidy. Not a fern out of place and weed free besides.


We stayed at a resort at the base of a mountain, complete with a ski lift taking folks to the top. Even without snow, it ferried visitors to the peak just for the view. The lift was visible from my bedroom and what was once a breathtaking moving image became taken for granted by weeks’ end. Is that what happens to the locals? They get so used to PC’s beauty they miss its majesty over time, becoming immune to its inherent power?

Known for its voracious ski industry as well as the Sundance Film Festival, there’s another quality about the town that may not be so obvious at first blush. It is warm and inviting, festive almost—easily accessible in every sense—dotted with cute little houses as well as over-priced mansions tastefully tucked out of sight.


But the air! It was so clean, saturated with a fresh, pine smell at times, a freshness so palpable it felt physical. I felt drunk on it! My lungs have never been so stimulated, strengthened by its force—even 7,000 feet up! I actually was conscious of valuing my own life energy in a new way.

Everything seemed storybook perfect. Having said that, watching a short film about the Sundance Film Festival in the museum contaminated the little town’s image a bit for me. After all, slapping on all that tinsel and Hollywood goo to promote the place felt incongruous with Park City’s rugged mining history and the mountains the minerals came from.


In contrast, the day after we arrived we wandered around Main Street during a locals and tourist-clotted Silly Sunday event. It was a day-long artsy-craftsy thing showcasing local artists and their wares. Soaps, candles, paintings, sculptures, clothing and quilts in tented stalls were lined up and down Main Street, like little ambassadors drawing one in. A local band played at the entrance, heart-throbbing, toe-tapping  boogie music that quickened the heart.

But the mountains! They struck a chord in me. What is it about their power, their mere presence that conveys life and spurs the spirit. They seem to exist to inform us there’s something greater than mortals, not diminishing us but somehow fulfilling us, spurring humanity to our own heights. Odd, really, their effect on mankind’s psyche, challenging us to our own potential.


While Park City’s mountains were such a physical thing, an altogether different category of existence, somehow they reminded me of the Mormon choir oddly enough. They seemed to be their own hymn to life, suggesting a power greater than ourselves, of any individual being. And while the mountains didn’t bring me to tears like choir singing, they provided a healing function of spirit nonetheless. They soar skyward, tickling the heavens,  and challenge us to do likewise. They invigorate a life force that can’t be denied.

And so it was that the quintessential revitalization I received from our sisters getaway in Utah was profound! While utterly exhausted from the activities by weeks’s end, I was also invigorated by it—a fusion that touched the harmony of rock and the human heart transported by song and laughter.

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