The commute nears its end

Heading down Monument Hill, July 2026

 

Rising over Monument Hill on any dark morning, and the road traverses a stark, beautiful dreamworld. 

On the high plain between Denver and Colorado Springs, a number of mesas and buttes punch through the pre-dawn no matter the skies that frame them. 

Most commute days start in total darkness, when Colorado Springs feels fast asleep. Only in months on either side of the summer solstice do I depart with daylight. 

The highway tells a different story, although traffic ebbs and flows, usually moving at the speed limit or faster. There are trucks, but not an abundance. 

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, RVs and trailers grow thick as tourists descend upon the Front Range. In May, the volume noticeably creeps higher, as the occasional RV grows into several dozen between South Metro and Colorado Springs. 

But crossing the pass atop County Line Road is the moment when I feel like a western commute. Nothing can rival that sight. Monument Hill is one of Colorado’s lowest passes, but it is a magnet for the worst weather on I-25, so I tend to stay home on bad weather days. 

Headed up the hill

North of the pass, the road traverses southern Douglas County, which is largely undeveloped with a few small towns, county parks, and large farms/ranches. Snow coats these hills far longer than anything in Colorado Springs or Castle Rock. Several ponds in the Greenland area host numerous water fowl. One morning I counted six heron dipping their beaks in search of breakfast.  

The ponds could draw some larger visitors in the future. The state built a wildlife overpass around Greenland. Several elk and deer have already been spotted on trail cameras. 

The highway is an engineering marvel, crossing foothills and craggy land before straightening near Larkspur. Sometimes I take the toll lanes coming home; I have learned where the traffic bogs down for no reason, and $2 for 10-plus miles is worth not dealing with that foolishness. 

Nature has one last flourish to deliver.  Every commute, I look for ripples from the beaver pond on the west flank of one mesa. The lodge is unmistakable, and the surface freezes solid in winter. But I have yet to see evidence of the lodge’s builder in that quaint pond. 

The mesas run up to Castle Rock – the town’s namesake is one of them. The Rockies become more visible here. Civilization creeps in at Castle Rock, a booming suburb with endless rows of apartment buildings designed to be as architecturally uninteresting as possible. 

Centennial office site, 1950s (Source unknown)

 With construction of a new exit south of Castle Rock, the industry runs thick. In the zone sit numerous flatbeds with steel beams waiting for installation during the night closures I just miss. The road comes with two main challenges – getting to work before sunrise, when the blinding rays enter the morning, and traffic, which gets thick around 7:30. 

Traffic backs up for 470, Denver’s outer loop, and I have to tolerate it; the County Line Road exit lies just off a few hundred feet north. Inattentive drivers always sit in the “exit only” lanes for County Line till the last second. 

Apocalyptic IKEA view, August 2023

I park with the blue bulk of IKEA's south Denver store across the parking lot. I have walked for breakfast regularly, and inevitably left with handfuls of household items I didn't know I needed.  Consider what an ordeal most people face just to visit IKEA, I felt lucky to have it so close. 

I try to paint the drive with minimal strokes for people at work so no one realizes I actually enjoy it under the right circumstances. It’s an album-length drive that can move swiftly at those hours. 

Fifty-five miles is no quick distance, and often the worst of American driving is on full display. But pieces of the commute present beauty every time. 

Three years later, the end of the commute looms. Work situations have changed – my division is getting sold off, and I’m the only employee of that division in Denver. 

Springtime office visit view, 2025

Wintertime office view, 2024

 By the end of 2026, I will bid goodbye to the commute. One last drive south with a box of personal items from my Denver desk. When I travel north, I will remember the commute, but it won’t be a routine anymore, just muscle memory. 

Maybe I will find another job in South Metro Denver. Maybe I’ll move to Denver for job further up. But the latter means the commute of soft morning light on the mesas won’t resume. 

Homeward bound, June 2023