The moment I stepped onto the portable metal stairs, the Colorado air slapped me across the face, thin, sharp, and crisp. It smelled clean in a way that made me wonder if we landed on another planet. Notes of pine, wildflowers, and something earthy. My lungs, accustomed to the smog of Los Angeles, momentarily forgot how to function. I clutched the railing as a wave of light-headedness washed over me.
“Is this what oxygen poisoning feels like?” I asked the woman behind me. She made a funny face and frowned.
“Holy sunshine.” I fumbled for my Prada sunglasses, a sample pair for an Instagram reel I’d done when I first started influencing. Even with the tinted lenses, the world was technicolor-bright. The sky above wasn’t just blue, it was aggressively azure, a shade so intense it looked Photoshopped.
Luckily, I didn’t see any moose. No polar bears either.
As I descended the portable stairs, the tiny terminal building appeared to be constructed of rough hewn timber and wishful thinking. It had all the architectural sophistication of a Lincoln Log set.
While my fellow passengers shuffled toward the spot where the crew was unloading luggage, I scanned the nearly empty parking lot for my “luxury transportation.” Marcus promised me that LuxeLife would send a proper car, something sleek and luxurious, with leather seats and a driver.
What I saw instead was the vehicular equivalent of roadkill. Parked at the edge of the lot was a Jeep that looked like it had gone ten rounds with the Rocky Mountains. And lost. The once-red paint had faded to the color of a bad sunburn, with patches that suggested a lifelong battle with ultraviolet radiation and acid rain. The tires were massive, mud-caked monuments, its driver clearly overcompensating for something. And was that ... duct tape holding part of the bumper on?
I pulled out my phone to text Marcus’s assistant. Instead of 5G, a “No Service” message mocked me, the digital equivalent of flicking me the bird.
“Perfect,” I muttered, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Just perfect.”
I dragged my suitcase through what an overhead sign generously called a “concourse.” What the Aster Park Regional Airport lacked in size, it made up for in … let’s call it … “rustic charm.” Vintage ski posters announced events from decades past. Hand-carved wooden bears stood frozen in eternal waves. Ten different scents of potpourri waged olfactory warfare. It was like someone had liquefied a Yankee Candle store and crop-dusted the entire building.
Making my way deeper into the terminal, it looked like a taxidermy museum had a one-night stand with a hunting lodge, then birthed a carnival of the macabre. Every few feet, another dead-eyed woodland creature stared at me from its mountedperch, glass eyes following my progress in anticipation. Anticipating what, I wasn’t sure.
I continued searching for my driver, projecting positivity into the universe.
There’s going to be a sign that says Samantha.
There’s going to be a sign that says Samantha.
There’s going to be a sign that says Samantha.
I didn’t see a sign that said Samantha. Or anyone even close to resembling a chauffeur. In fact, every third person I passed appeared to be auditioning for a lumberjack calendar.
If I had had a small brown terrier with me named Toto, I would have knelt down and whispered, “I have a feeling we’re not in Los Angeles anymore.” Instead, I just adjusted my Prada sunglasses and tried to look like someone who knew what a “switchback” was.
The blessed sight of a coffee shop was like seeing an oasis in the desert. If I had to wait for my chauffeured luxury transportation a little longer, I might as well treat myself to something resembling civilization.
I made my way across the main hallway, narrowly avoiding a family of five, all dressed in matching camouflage. In case of an emergency, they were clearly prepared to disappear into the airport’s wood paneling at a moment’s notice.
Just before the coffee shop, I spotted a newsstand, but instead ofUS WeeklyandVogue, the magazine rack displayed titles likeTrophy Buck MonthlyandWilderness Survival Review. Behind the counter, a man wearing both camouflage and flannel was arranging an abundant supply of reindeer jerky in flavors ranging from “Original” to “Spicy Maple.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what Aster Park’s parents told their children around Christmas. “Sorry, Suzie, Santa can’t make it this year. Uncle Joey turned all Santa’s reindeer into chemically preserved meat sticks.”
Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more grossed out, I spotted a burger joint next to the newsstand called “Moe’s Mountain Eats.” Every menu item seemed to involve a creature that had previously starred in a Disney film. Elk burgers. Bison burgers. And something called a “Mountain Man Special” that promised to include three different animals in one bun. A hand-painted sign featured a cartoon elk giving a thumbs-up to its own consumption.
I began to wonder if maybe, perhaps, somewhere mid-flight, my plane had accidentally flown through a multidimensional wormhole and transported me to a parallel universe where people enthusiastically consumed nothing but cute, fuzzy forest creatures.
Shaking the thought from my head, I made my way to the coffee shop. The chalkboard menu listed the standard coffee shop fare, though each item had been given a mountain-themed name. Avalanche Americano. Lumberjack Latte. Backpacker’s Brew. I was relieved not to see “Moose Milk” or “Elk Cream” among the milk alternatives.
“What can I getcha?” asked the barista, pouring clear liquid into an ice filled glass from a bottle labeled “Mountain Moonshine.” Her braided hair fell to her shoulders, and her outfit suggested she was an L.L. Bean reward club member. Her name tag read “Brie.”
“I’ll have a double shot oat milk cappuccino with three pumps of vanilla and one pump of caramel,” I said, figuring I needed as much caffeine and sugar as possible.
Brie gestured toward an impressive display of liquor bottles behind her. “You want a shot of Kahlua in that?” Her eyes scanned me over, head to toe. “Looks like you’ve had a day.”
“You have no idea.”
Brie gave me a genuine smile, suggesting she did. Shepointed to the glass on the counter. “Got some local moonshine too, if you’re feeling adventurous.”
I checked my watch. It was 4:13pm Mountain Time, which made alcohol both a terrible idea and a brilliant one simultaneously. At least now I knew how people in Aster Park survived living in the middle of nowhere.
