I’d been on the road for three days, sardined in a Honda Civic with two cats and half the bare essentials of a fresh start. The eternity of seamless skyline had been broken only by occasional billboards and fence-pinned plastic bags, flapping like birds in a harsh wind.

I was starved for a change of scenery.

Somewhere east of Limon, I called my Colorado Springs friend to alert him of my impending arrival — and to ask when the heck Colorado stops looking like Kansas.

“Just wait for it,” he said.

I then called my dad, driving in the car behind me with my dog and the other half of my stuff, to share the experience when “it” finally occurred.

Nothing, nothing, nothing … then BOOM!

“Wow-de-dow-dow,” said my father, who only applied that phrase in the most sublime of circumstances.

Thirteen years later, and more than a decade after buying a house on the city’s west side, that view of Pikes Peak still inspires and amazes. I just wish I didn’t have to sit in a lawn chair by the alley to enjoy it in my jammies.

You’d think when you live in the shadow of a 14,115-foot mountain, there wouldn’t be a bad seat in the house. To be fair, even the obstructed views are likely only a few steps from the breathtaking ones — from the city’s abundant parks and open spaces, and even its sidewalks. But there’s no denying the hand-stack game of a growing metro has arrived, with vigor, at the base of America’s Mountain.

As the city gobbles up the forever plains to the east and swells skyward downtown, it’s important to remember that we’ve been jockeying and one-upping our neighbors for desirable sight lines for longer than you’ve been alive.

For generations, the residents of my 1924 home needn’t even venture outdoors to gaze on the glory of their surroundings.

On a lazy summer weekend before the pandemic, a former occupant and her daughter were on a nostalgic stroll through the neighborhood when they saw my car in the driveway and decided to stop. The brief tour and conversation that ensued left me feeling more connected to history and to my home, and also with a lingering sense of loss for a thing that had never been mine.

As one of the women explained, the big western-facing window in the living room once boasted a postcard-worthy panorama of Pikes Peak. There was a desk in front where her father would work. How glorious!

These days, all you can see is the siding of my neighbor’s house.

Installing a picture window doesn’t mean you get to own the eye candy. But you can capitalize on the peepholes within the property purview, right?

Enter Brandon Frontino, of Colorado Shed Crafters, a man with a dynamic perspective on, well, perspectives.

After more than 12 years in the business, he’s seen the lengths to which people will go to showcase their slivers of a vista in a structure the world used to consider a utilitarian addition.

“Windows, tons of windows — that’s always really huge with customers,” Frontino said. “You know, 8-foot walls and picture windows or sliders, to maximize their view as much as humanly possible.”

I asked if he’d ever built a double-decker shed, and Frontino pointed out that a two-story shed of less than 200 square feet would look kind of like a silo. Any bigger, and you’re in Accessory Dwelling Unit territory, and that requires a permit.

“You can build a deck off it, though,” he said.

(Note to self: Check city code re: installation of a widow’s walk)

I chose the southeast edge of the property, one of the few spots that still boast a mostly clean bead on the mountain, looking west down the alley. A few weeks later, Frontino and his team arrived. Within days, I had a new shed, with a sliding glass door opening to Pikes Peak.

It’s my she-shed, and my see-shed.

I don’t think I’m blocking anyone else’s mountainscape, but if so, sorry about that. I’m sure some new element — a future neighbor or possibly a tree — will show up to balance the karma.

Until then, I’m going to enjoy my room with a view, and hope the scenery and horizon stay exactly the same.