The Magic of the Mountains! Pain-Free in the High Desert!

Buy Glen a Coffee, or a Beer!

Follow/Join

Hello. My name is Glen, and I’m addicted to altitude, and dry air.

(Crowd says: Hi Glen)

I get reminded of my problem, or preference every trip I take out west.

Somewhere between the crisp air, blue skies, and the first morning I wake up without my hands screaming at me, I realize:

I am hopelessly, pathetically, gloriously addicted to dry air—and some altitude.

The Rockies? Magic. Ethiopia? Probably heaven on earth. Cradle of humanity and non-aching joints.

But back in DC?

My joints riot like unpaid longshoremen the moment the humidity crosses 50%.

(Which in DC is like 364 1/2 days a year)!

It takes about a week to adjust—on either side.

Not to the weather, but to the reality that the pain is gone, or that it is back and isn’t leaving on its own accord. (Depending on which way I am traveling.)

It’s like an uninvited roommate who eats all your snacks, stays up late making a mess, never pays rent, and whispers

“good morning” by setting your spine on fire.

You don’t fight it anymore. You just… live with it. You have to.

Well, live with it and help make the pain-killing pharmaceutical companies richer. (Both options suck)

My back, my hands, even my knees—all of them work fine in the mountains.

Oh! They practically purr. I bounce out of bed like a post-basic training youngster in his prime. Ready to tackle the day and be active all day long.

But as soon as I descend into the sea-level humidity soup, they transform into ancient machinery left out in the rain: creaky, swollen, and dangerously close to swearing out loud in public.

Coming home from this last trip, the humidity at Dulles Airport full-on body-slammed me, slapped me around, and welcomed me home without so much as a kiss.

By the time I drove home, the familiar aching was already starting. The AC wasn't even keeping up with the drain the humidity was having on my joints.

I used to think it was aging.

Then I thought it was aging, and stress.

But after years of pattern recognition worthy of an FBI profiler, I’ve come to one conclusion: My body likes sea-level heat and humidity about as much as I like taxes, root canals, bratty kids in public places, liver and onions, or castor oil.

Which is to say—not at all.

As the trips around the sun increase, so does my body’s rejection of my current living location.

The Science Bit (aka "Why My Body Hates the Air and Pressure Here")

(Barometric pressure, that is.)

(Not just work/traffic/whiny people/extreme cost-of-living pressure.)

Now, I’m not a doctor—but I’ve read enough articles at 2 a.m. while Googling "why does my spine feel like it’s rebelling?" to piece this together:

• Barometric pressure drops in higher altitudes = less pressure on inflamed joints.

  
  

• Dry air = less swelling, less tissue fluid buildup, fewer pain signals screaming at your brain.

  
  

• Humidity and heat = internal swamp, external misery, and me trying to open a peanut butter jar like it’s a medieval siege weapon.

  
  

Basically, my joints prefer to live on a mesa somewhere with no moisture (except for coffee and a nice cold beer now and then), less atmospheric pressure, and preferably no calendar appointments.

🛠️ Coping Tactics, or "Things I’ve Tried Between Whining and Ibuprofen"

• Magnesium spray – Helps a little. Smells like gym socks.

  
  

• Turmeric tea – Great if you want to stain your mug and convince yourself you're doing something healthy.

  
  

• DMSO gel – Works. Smells like garlic. Makes you question your life choices.

  
  

• Anti-inflammatory diet – Helps: but you have to understand also: I like tacos.

  
  

• Just moving to the west someplace – Still under consideration. Pending spousal concurrence, financial restructuring, and at this point divine intervention.

  
  

🧘 Closing Reflections – Peace Isn’t Just a Place; It’s a State of Being

In the end, I’m not chasing a cure. I’m chasing peace. Or a temporary reprieve, anyway.

Some of that peace comes from dry air and altitude.

Some of it comes from laughter, good company, warm food, and stubborn grace.

And some of it—maybe the most of it—comes from finally admitting out loud that this hurts, each and every day, and still choosing to keep moving anyway.

So in lieu of a full-on intervention—with geographic, financial, and spousal consent pending—I’ll keep on keeping on.

Pass the Ibuprofen.

So yes, I’m a Dry-Air-O-Holic.

Barometrically challenged, currently misplaced, and dreaming of mesas, mountain air, and mornings without joint mutiny.

I have to own it.

And with the travel gods' blessings I’ll find it again—as soon as I can.

If you enjoyed this, please follow so you can get notified of new posts.

Share with everyone that would enjoy this.

Read the related posts!

Maybe buy me a coffee to just support the basic costs of running this site.

Or a beer, because I like beer.

Thank you!