It’s our last day in Colorado. We included a little free time before our flight to take in one of the most visited mountains in the continental US.

I’m standing on top of Pike’s Peak in July. The temperature is around 48°. People from the deep south are bundled in thermal jackets and wool hats, holding cups of coffee. People from Chicago and Cleveland are walking around in shorts and T shirts.

They are speaking in foreign tongues and saying things like, “Man, it feels good up here.”

The air is thin enough that my chest feels it. I’m concentrating on breathing, which is something I don’t usually need to do. But, at 14,511 feet you think about counting and maintaining a rhythm.

In, two, three. Out, two, three. In, two, three. Out, two, three.

Inside the visitor’s center, they actually sell bottled oxygen. Just in case.

I am a low-lander by heritage. I have always lived where the grass grows and where trees are the tallest object in any direction. In order to get a view longer than a couple football fields, we had to climb the water tower on Woodlawn Avenue in Hampton. On a good day, you could see the Atlanta Motor Speedway about a mile away.

From up here I can see Arizona, New Mexico, and the lunar landing module on the moon.

Montana lays claim to calling itself “Big Sky” territory, and I want to see that someday. But there ain’t no flies on the view from one of Colorado’s highest peaks. It was from this perch above the rest of the “purple mountain majesties,” looking out across “the fruited plains” of Kansas through a “spacious sky” big enough to inspire the very soul, that Katherine Bates penned the words to America the Beautiful.

She wasn’t wrong. Not then. Not now.

When you ride the train up, they only give you 40 minutes and three long whistles to get your personal seat cushion back in it’s assigned seat. You miss the last whistle and you become what they call “a hiker.”

So, this is the beginning of our homeward journey. The ride down the mountain on the Cog Railway signals the end of our time in Colorado. Our next goal is to return the compact cargo van to the rental lot and call Uber to get us to the airport.

We say a prayer together. Then we had pizza first before hitting the interstate.

Brenden is on the front lot to greet us when we pull in.

“I see you made it back. Hope the van worked out okay for you?”

“You have no idea. We catered fried chicken and tater salad, cold drinks and platters of cookies out of the back of this thing.”

He looks confused. Marion explains how the whole thing was a God-wink. He seems to accept that.

Our bags are leaning against a brick column. There are no mountains in view. From here, Colorado seems like any other urban concrete rodeo with a warehouse parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence.

“When’s Uber gonna be here?” I’m asking Marion because she is now the uber-guru.

“He’s ahead of schedule.”

She shows me a map on her phone with the icon of a little car coming down the road a block from where we’re standing.

“Roger will be here in two minutes. He’s driving a white Toyota Four Runner.”

She smiles like she’s just won the 5th grade spelling bee. I feel old and become sarcastic.

“Oh yeah! Well, tell me miss smarty pants, what does he like for breakfast and how many kids does he have?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll ask him.”

Roger is a young father from Uganda who came to America a couple years ago on a student visa. He finished his degree in Information Technology from Colorado State, and he’s filling the employment gap by driving strangers all over Denver.

By the sound of it, he may stick with the driving gig. He drives for several different companies other than Uber. And he belongs to a private network that rents cars person-to-person. If you’re ever in Denver, look him up on Turro. If this Four Runner is any indication, you’ll be glad you bypassed the big lot by the airport.

Roger gets us through the maze and right up to the drop-off curb. We’ve got plenty of time. Denver International is like kindergarten compared to Atlanta. But we are directionally confused and ask an official looking person the best way to the TSA check point.

I’m not sure what kind of test you have to pass in order to become a TSA agent but having some basic skills in “sour puss” must be required. I have my laptop out to put in the tray.

“We don’t do that anymore. Put your laptop back in your bag.”

This was said in the same tone that Miss Mary Welch used when she taught us heathens in 5th grade.

Then I forgot my phone in my back pocket and had to step out of line. That almost created WWIII.

There are two scanner lines. Marion gets directed to the left one. I remain straight ahead.

Bertha Bouncer is in charge of the left side.

“What part of ‘get everything out of your pockets’ do you people not understand?”

She is shouting above the murmur of the crowd. Her scowl reminds me of the look on Kirby Smart’s face when the DAWGS are making stupid mistakes.

She pulls Marion off to the side for a more personal interview. I can see from my spot in the right line that there is groping and handling going on not suitable to describe in a family-friendly story.

“I think she liked that way too much,” Marion says as we put our shoes back on.

The gate attendant announces that the storm out in Texas is playing havoc with the schedule. The plane currently at the gate for Orlando cannot leave, which means our plane will dock at another gate. A herd of phone watching, peanut eating passengers moves slowly down the concourse.

Once in my seat I switch my watch back to Georgia time. It’s 10pm. This is nuts, but I remind you that I am a cheap traveler. The cheap seats go late at night.

Several things happen when you land in Atlanta after 1am. The trains don’t work. We walked to the terminal like underground moles from Concourse C. Some of the escalators are shut down, which meant we had to find another way down to the parking deck.

Airport signs do not work well in the wee morning hours. The words and arrows look like gibberish to my eyes. We finally get to the north parking deck only to discover that the color code is red.

“We’re in the blue lot,” I point out.

We make our way back through the terminal to the blue side, and I’m pushing the alarm button on the key fob. My legs are mush. My brain is on the verge of shutting down.

I did, however, discover something worth noting. I-85 southbound is an easy drive at 2am.

Welcome back home.