Other states get red hearts. Colorado gets brown, because that is the official color of everything you love here: trail dust caked into your calves, the dried out lawn you gave up on in July, mud season boots, the questionable water in a creek you swam in anyway, and that beautiful murky pint of something roasty poured by a guy with a beard and strong opinions about hops.
Brown is honest. Brown is the dirt on your tailgate, the gravel road to the trailhead, the green chile that is somehow also brown, and the snow that lasted nine hours before turning into slush in a parking lot. If you have ever shoveled in April and worn shorts in the same afternoon, this is your love language.
Soft as a rest day, built to survive a camp fire, a bike rack, and whatever you spilled at altitude. Breathable enough for sixty degree February, cozy enough when the mountain weather remembers it has a job to do.
