Earth Day

It’s not a day on the calendar—it’s just life here in Colorado

words Heather Shoning

The first thing I notice when I head out for a run is the light. BoCo has a way of turning even an ordinary morning into something that feels quietly cinematic. The foothills catch the sun first, long before the rest of town has fully shaken off the night, and the Flatirons shift from charcoal to pink to rust to that warm sandstone glow that still manages to stop me in my tracks, even after years of living here.

Most mornings, I’m not running for speed or distance. I’m running because it’s the easiest way to reconnect. The path winds through neighborhoods that still feel half-asleep, past yards where dogs stretch and watch with mild suspicion, and toward the open space trails where the town gives way to the land that surrounds it. Within minutes, the sounds of traffic fade and the rhythm of shoes on gravel takes over.

It’s a strange thing about living in Colorado. Being outside doesn’t feel like an event. It feels like the baseline. We run before work, hike on weekends, squeeze in a quick trail walk between meetings. It’s so woven into everyday life that we sometimes forget how unusual it is.

That daily closeness to the landscape changes how you see it. You start to notice the subtle shifts that mark the passing seasons. The way the grasses turn honey colored in late summer. The first thin green shoots that push through the dirt in spring. The quiet arrival of frost on a morning that had felt perfectly warm the day before.

When you’re moving through a place on foot, you absorb it differently. I start recognizing the same bends in the trail the way you recognize old friends. There’s a stretch where the cottonwoods lean toward the creek and a curve where the mountains suddenly appear in full view as if someone pulled back a curtain. There’s always a moment when I slow down without thinking, not because I’m tired but because the view deserves a pause.

Colorado has a way of creating that instinct in people. We are, almost by default, participants in the landscape rather than spectators. It’s hard to ignore the environment when it’s the backdrop to everything we do. The mountains shape our weather, our weekends, our conversations, even the routes we choose to drive—or run or bike—home.

That connection shows up in small ways all over town. Runners who move aside so cyclists can pass on narrow paths. Families who pack out trash after a picnic. Skiers who talk about snowpack the way farmers talk about rain. None of it feels particularly dramatic or heroic. It simply feels like common sense when the outdoors is such a constant companion.

Earth Day, for many, is a day on the calendar—a reason to make an event of the environment. A moment to pause and appreciate something Coloradans tend to know instinctively—when the natural world is part of your daily life, caring for it simply feels like common sense.

Running has always been my way of stepping into that relationship with the land. Some mornings, I’m chasing a clear head before a long day of work. Other mornings, I’m just out there because the air is crisp and the mountains are glowing, and staying inside would feel like missing the point.

In a place like this, nature isn’t a distant concept or a weekend destination. It’s part of the rhythm of daily life. You feel it in the air, see it in the light on the mountains, and hear it in the steady crunch of gravel beneath your feet as the trail stretches out ahead.