The Rocky Mountains seemed like another planet.

Having been no further west than Pittsburgh in my first sixteen years, my first time through the majestic Rocky Mountain National Park in 1973 was unlike anything I had ever experienced. That first visit, with my Aunt Bernadette, was brief. So when my Geology field study through Edinboro State University began there ten years later, I looked forward to giving the popular park the attention it deserved this time around.

Our group camped at the Park Service’s Glacier Basin Campground, the first three nights of five weeks I slept on the ground or atop a picnic table. Just north of the campground, a lateral moraine (the rocks left along the sides) of a now-departed glacier marked the edge of the basin. A plethora of the park’s highest and most dramatic peaks, many still snow-capped in mid-summer, were visible in every direction.

A tributary of the Big Thompson River wandered to and fro, producing the classic floodplain features of larger rivers — intertwined meanders and small abandoned oxbow lakes. The stream glistened in the late-day sunlight as we looked upon it from the surrounding mountainsides.

Even nightfall could not diminish the wonder of the mountains. For its isolation, lack of light pollution, and high elevation made for a nighttime sky that was so bright with starlight I had trouble getting to sleep.

The first full day in the park, our class drove up Old Fall River Road, first riding over the gigantic alluvial fan (a dry land delta) created by the failure of the Lawn Lake Dam just the year before. Beyond dumping a massive pile of sediment at the bottom of the mountain, the sediment-filled wall of water roared down Roaring River, washed away another dam and destroyed much of downtown Estes Park, damaging more than 100 homes, and killing three campers.

As we climbed the gravel road, we passed through the pink granite and the unique pink sand eroded from those rocks in Endovalley. Further up the road, following the altitude-induced breakdown of one of our classmate’s campers, we came upon Chasm Falls rushing through a narrow gap in the mountain not far from the road.

After finishing our geology studies, I set off on a 40-mile bicycle ride on Trail Ridge Road. The climb westward was demanding, but the descent back to Glacier Basin was exhilarating. When I was above the treeline, it was easy to see long distances down the road. This allowed me to pass a dozen or more cars, which could not go nearly as fast as the bike, on the serpentine highway.

Our professor (everyone called him Doc Schneider) was fascinated not just by the geology surrounding us, but by massive public works projects like the Alva Adams Water Tunnel. The twelve mile-long passageway (large enough for a small car) was to bring rain and melted snow pack from the western side of the continental divide to the semi-arid farmlands and communities on the western fringe of the Great Plains.

Doc Schneider marveled at the engineering, but another profound lesson arose. The geology and climate of the American West often made water the center of debates over agricultural policy, population growth, economic development, and environmental challenges.

John Frederick (www.johnjfrederick.com) will continue his 1983 trip recollections next time with a hike to Andrews Glacier and the mysterious disappearance of two classmates.