By the end of a long Virginia summer, I get to feeling hemmed in by all the heat and humidity. In November, I'll appreciate the cool nights all the more, because they were earned in July and August.

But in September and early October, I know the nights aren't quite ready to offer autumn's sweet relief.

It's not just the weather that creates this constricted feeling. Summer's landscape is fraying by now. Fall and winter will provide new vistas, but while the calendar says one thing, the trees say I'll continue to wait for a reprieve from summer's worn scenery.

Patience is a noble character trait, but it doesn't always offer the most satisfying of options. This year, escape seemed so much more palatable - an easy cure for the not-quite-fall doldrums. Which is how I found myself standing in a valley at 12,000 feet recently, staring at the reflection of mountains in the surface of a glacier-carved lake and marveling at the power of dislocation for distraction. The vault of blue above was the opposite of constriction.

My wife and I traveled to Denver and Fort Collins, Colo., last week to visit friends, former Richmonders who moved out there partly because experiences like the above burrowed in their brains and wouldn't let go. The timing was perfect. I needed an outlook adjustment just when Colorado had one to offer.

The days were mild and dry, and the nights were cool. The aspens still were green along the mile-high Front Range, but up in the mountains, they raged across hillsides in an inferno of yellow.

Colorado is one of those few places big and varied enough to attract traditional and new-school outdoors enthusiasts in equal numbers.

Hunters flock there from all over the country in search of elk and mule deer. Fly fishermen have lifetimes of mountain trout streams to explore. It's also a haven for mountain bikers, rock climbers and kayakers. And, of course, everyone - old and new - goes there to ski.

On this trip, we stuck to the new-school options. West of Fort Collins, about an hour north of Denver, the plains meet the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The dominant feature in the area is a rock outcropping on a ridge called Horsetooth Rock.

According to local Native American legend, the rock is what's left of the heart of the Great Red Warrior, slain by the Great Black Warrior in a long, fierce battle. Below the rock is Horsetooth Reservoir and miles upon miles of open space.

We drove up into the foothills of the Rockies to do some mountain biking, hoping to avoid the fate that befell Great Red Warrior. That's easier said than done for East Coasters used to air with plenty of oxygen in it.

On one ride up to the base of Horsetooth Rock, we climbed 1,000 feet (5,800 above sea level to 6,800) in just more than 2 miles, but it felt twice as steep and twice as long. Luckily, nearly every switchback offered impossibly majestic views. They practically begged us to stop, rest our lungs and take in the valleys below. So we did. Often.

Later in the week, we stowed away the bikes and laced up the hiking boots for a more alpine adventure. They say it takes at least three months for the body's red blood cells to adjust to the altitude and carry more oxygen, so we knew we weren't exactly ready for this. But when you're in Colorado for just a week, you can't be a slave to the laws of nature. We were willing to risk embarrassing gasping fits for that famous Rocky Mountain high.

Skiers know Breckenridge as one of the state's more popular towns in the winter. In the summer, the surrounding mountains, some already snow flecked, boast endless hiking options. One of the most popular is McCullough Gulch Trail.

We started hiking at just more than 11,000 feet on a wide dirt road. Before the path narrowed, we passed a rough-hewn cabin on a granite bluff overlooking McCullough Creek.

"Trespassers will be shot on sight," a sign on a nearby tree said. Mountainman humor, I guess.

At this altitude, lodgepole pines predominated in the intermittent forest canopy. We crossed rivulets, bogs and boulder fields, stopping frequently to catch our breath. All around us loomed peaks of more than 13,000 feet. It was slow going, but our friend from Denver told us it would soon be worth it.

How right she was.

Can one understate the experience of exiting the tree line in a valley bordered on three sides by snowy peaks, cresting an enormous rock slab and finding yourself alone at 12,000 feet at the edge of a huge glacier lake? I don't think so.

Here where infinite blue sky reflected in acres of crystal snowmelt, our escape was complete. And when we returned to Richmond earlier this week, temperatures had turned, the first leaves were changing - fall was upon us.