Divides are one of those quiet geographical facts that most people never think about, but I’ve always found them fascinating. A divide is simply the place where water decides which way it’s going to go — toward one ocean or another, toward one watershed or another. The United States has four major ones. The most famous, of course, is the Continental Divide, which separates the waters flowing to the Pacific from those heading to the Atlantic.
But there’s also an eastern divide, where rivers choose between flowing directly to the Atlantic or joining the Mississippi and eventually spilling into the Gulf of Mexico. And then, in Montana, there’s the one that captures my imagination the most: the Triple Divide. At that single point, water can flow in three directions — to the Pacific, the Atlantic, or the Arctic. Someday I’d like to stand on that exact spot, just to feel the strangeness of it. For now, I settle for noticing when I cross any divide at all, because they almost always come with remarkable views.
On this journey, I crossed the Continental Divide somewhere between New Mexico and Colorado. As expected, the scenery didn’t disappoint — wide, sweeping, high‑country vistas that make you feel like you’re driving across the spine of the continent.
After the divide, I worked my way up through rural southern Colorado until I finally connected with I‑25. My destination for the night was Cheyenne Mountain State Park, tucked right at the base of the famous Cheyenne Mountain. The mountain is known for something most people only hear about in movies: NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command. Deep inside the mountain is a nearly impenetrable bunker built during the Cold War — a command center designed to survive almost anything. It’s the kind of place that feels half real, half legend, even when you’re staring right at the mountain that holds it.
Interesting Factoid: For everyone who follows Santa’s journey on Christmas Eve, the broadcast comes from NORAD — and the tradition started completely by accident. In 1955, a Sears store in Colorado Springs printed a phone number in a newspaper ad so children could “call Santa.” The number was wrong, and the calls were routed to CONAD, the Continental Air Defense Command.
When the first child asked where Santa was, Colonel Harry Shoup didn’t shut it down — he played along. His staff joined in, giving updates based on their radar screens. When NORAD replaced CONAD a few years later, they kept the tradition alive. And that’s how a misprinted phone number became one of the most beloved Christmas Eve traditions in the world.
Cheyenne Mountain is also home to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, one of the most unique zoos in the country. A few years ago, I visited with the Alliance family and watched the kids feed the giraffes — long purple tongues reaching out for lettuce leaves, the kids squealing and laughing. This time, I wasn’t there for the zoo. I was just stopping for the night, enjoying the quiet beauty of the state park, and planning a return visit to Garden of the Gods.
Garden of the Gods is one of those places that feels like it shouldn’t exist — towering red rock formations rising out of the earth like the bones of some ancient creature. One of its most beloved formations, Kissing Camels, has been a symbol of the park for generations. I had photographed it years ago when the two camels were still clearly visible, their shapes unmistakable against the sky. But time and erosion have their own plans. A portion of the formation recently crumbled, softening the outline until the “kissing” shape is almost impossible to see now. Knowing I had both versions — the old, recognizable silhouette and the new, altered one — made the moment feel a little bittersweet. The land changes whether we’re watching or not, and sometimes the only way to honor that is to bear witness.
My campsite that night was perfect — easy in, easy out, with a clear view up the mountain. The air was cool, the sky wide, and the sense of being tucked against something massive and storied was impossible to ignore. In the morning, I’d continue north toward Fort Collins, but for that night, Cheyenne Mountain held me in place, quiet and steady.