Our vacation days are starting to bleed into one another. It takes me a moment to recall the day of the week, and it takes me a few more moments to recall what I did yesterday or the day before. I'd like to say that I've been productive and pursued all my favorite hobbies to their full extent, but my knitting needles lay in their drawer untouched. I've yet to pull out my sewing machine. Even my book has been banished beneath my nightstand.
Instead, I've been cooking. Mushroom Risotto, Tomatillo Salsa, Edamame Salad, Eggplant Parmesan, Veggie Kebabs, Mediterranean Potato Salad... Or, for example, yesterday, I spent three hours carefully browsing through, then selecting, then downloading, then transferring to my computer, and finally uploading to my iPod the trashiest, most wonderful Work Out Mix:
Blow by Kesha
Airplanes by B.O.B
Yeah 3X by Chris Brown
Forever by Drake, Kanye, Eminemem, and Lil Wayne
Club Can't Handle Me by Flo Rida and David Guetta
Do You Remember by Jay Sean
Tik Tok by Kesha
OMG by Usher
Shots by LMFAO and Lil John
Paper Planes by MIA
Raise Your Glass by Pink
Hips Don't Lie by Shakira ft. Wycelf Jean
Dynamite by Taio Cruz
Who Dat Girl ft. Akon by Flo Rida
We R Who We R by Kesha
Break Your Heart by Taio Cruz
Get Low by Flo Rida ft. T-Pain
Your Love is My Drug by Kesha
E.T. by Katy Perry
Should you want a copy, let me know. Clearly, I have plenty of time on my hands :)
We've spent some time with Brian and Brittany (the Devanes). On Cinco de Mayo, we experimented with Mediterranean Take-Out at the Garbanzo ( two out of five stars) and had a picnic at Berkley Lake. Afterward, we set up a badminton net and revealed our serious shortcomings in the sport. There was perhaps a five mile an hour wind, and we blamed all of our short-fallen or mis-fallen or just missed in general shots on the stiff breeze. When we progressed to volleyball, our skills did not improve. We blamed exhaustion and packed up the net.
After retrieving Devanes' grill, we spent the evening eating potato salad, kebabs, and corn on the cob. Joshua made our Margaritas so strong, one just about put me under the table. When the sun went down and it got cold outside, we retreated indoors for some of Joshua's blueberry pie.
On Sunday, the Devanes came over in the afternoon and taught us Speed Scrabble. The game has since swept the Andert household by storm. We've developed a point system, and I've whiled away a few hours in an effort to beat Joshua. I happy to announce that finally, we are evenly matched in a game of wit and speed :)
On Monday, Joshua used our new book, Great Road Rides: Denver by Jay Kenney, to plan an epic urban bike ride. With the sun on our backs, wind in our face, and horizon of mountains, we spent five hours biking up Cherry Creek Trail to Cherry Creek Resevoir. We made our way back through side streets, exploring the area around DU, Washington Park, Cheeseman, and City Park. Then, biking north, we made our way to Sand Creek Trail, onto Platte River Trail, and then onto Little Dry Creek Trail. The last five miles were all uphill and into the wind (naturally) and I got a wicked sunburn on my thighs (complete with an even more wicked bicycle short tan-line), but all in all, it was a great ride. We biked a total of 57 miles, and it was only in the last five that we grew tired of our adventure :)
When we got home, we quickly showered and Joshua poured us each a shot of whiskey for a pre-game drink. At the neighborhood Chipotle, we met the Devanes for dinner and two for one cervezas. I drank half a Corona, but I was already a little giggly and pink from my shot of whiskey. No lunch, the bike ride, and a sunburn had weakened my tolerance :)
Bundling into the Devane's car, we drove down to the Coors Stadium to watch the Rockies play the New York Mets. We bought the cheapest seats possible and spent the evening buffeted by the wind high up in the 'Rock Pile.' In the end, the Rockies conquered the Mets two to one, and after, we drove to Dairy Queen to celebrate.
Now that I'm on the subject of the Devanes, check out some of the photos Brian has taken of our hikes around the Denver area. Visit his photo blog at www.briandevane.com. All the photos are a testament to Brian's mad talent, but my favorite one is of Oscar racing down the trail.
What else? I got a haircut, and the hairdresser blew out my hair into a perfect coif. When I came home, Joshua almost rolled over himself laughing. I looked like a sorority girl. The next day, after a shower, I was back to my slightly frizzy, slightly wavy, mostly unpolished self :)
We watched Black Swan. When I close my eyes, I can still picture the image of her split toe nail, and I convulse with revulsion.
On Sunday night, we babysat for A. and L. while E. and S. went out for Mother's Day. We took A. and L. to the park and played Pirates for a couple of hours. Joshua masterminded a treasure hunt complete with sharks, ships, posionous candy, sabers, and evil pirates. I was the evil pirate, and every time I chased L., she threw up her arms and toddled-ran away, screaming with glee. Back at the house, we got the two wriggly adorables ready for bed, and I spent the next hour reading bed time stories and singing songs to A.'s "just one more!"
I almost forgot! On Friday and Saturday, we started a revolution in our backyard. On Friday, I took apart our patio, removed all the weeds, and then put it back together again while Joshua tore up the Southwest corner of our yard. When I took my turn at slamming the hoe into the soil and pulling out roots, weeds, plastic, a carpet, and mulch, the neighbor took pity on me and gave me a pick-axe ("dahlin' that's some work! Lemme give yer a pick axe."). The pick-axe had some heft behind it, and it took fewer swings to bring down the roots and weeds.
About seven hours later, we admired our newly weeded and tilled backyard. The patio was much improved, and we went inside to wash the layer of sunscreen, sweat, and dirt from our bodies.
On Saturday, we joined S. and A. on a trip to the Cherry Creek Farmer's Market. While A. sampled the local cider (non-alcoholic, of course) a few times, we selected tomato starts from the famous Ms. Ingrid's stand. Joshua, who has quickly come to think of this project as "his garden," selected the Black Prince, Ildi Cherry, Paul Robeson, Deiner, and Black Cherry varieties. He magnanimously allowed me to select the eggplant. I chose the Black Beauty.
On our way back home, we stopped at a Craft Fair near Berkely Lake. The stalls were womaned by the sort of funky ladies I wannabe. Tattoos and 50s dresses, 70s dinnerware and vintage jewelry stood beside hand-printed stationary, graphic tees, and saliva-inducing accessories. God, I wish I had money :)
Back at home, we planted our starts from the market, plus the starts we had planted from seed a few weeks ago. Our Mesculun Lettuce and Spinach is already coming up like crazy, and our Snow Peas are just emerging. Our radishes our sprouting happily, and so are our Mustard Greens. Our parsley and cilantro was rioting out of their pots and welcomed new growing grounds. Our Basil is recovering from a battering of colder weather, but new shoots suggest survival :)
Meanwhile, our onions, carrots, and Sweet Peas (our one flower variety) refuse to sprout. We planted a few more seeds and crossed our fingers. Joshua watered the tomatoes and whispered sweet nothings into their leaves. In the morning now, I wake up and walk into the backyard. He's sitting there in his lawn chair, reading and keeping the plants company. Last night when it rained and dipped dangerously close to freezing, he stayed up half the night fretting. He's like a new parent.
Hmm... Oh yes. I found a Language Exchange partner on-line and met up with him at Chipotle on Sunday. He's been living in the U.S. for 20 years, and his English was FAR superior to my Spanish. While he wants to discuss philosophy, politics, y emociones, I'm still working my way around the basics. I think I may have to find another way to practice my Spanish.
In other news, we just got our energy bill in the mail. Joshua opened the envelope and nearly passed out. I started hyperventilating in fear. Just to torture me, Joshua made me guess how much we had spent in the past month. Fearing the worst, I predicted 240 dollars.
38 dollars. Can we just take a moment to respect our vigilance in turning off lights and not using the heat?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Home Again
May 2, 2011
Taking advantage of the continental breakfast, we woke up and ate in front of the T.V. in the lobby of the Econolodge. Osama's face is all over the screen, and I think I might be alone in my adversity to celebrating death.
We pack up quickly, and soon, we're heading out of Pagosa Springs. 160 crosses Wolf Creek Pass, and soon we're in another high alpine plain. The mountains are gorgeous, and the blue sky tries to pretend it didn't just crap snow all over us yesterday.
We keep driving, and in Del Norte, we take 112 to 285, heading North. After Saguache (how in the hell do you pronounce that word?), we hit Poncha Springs, and before we know it, we're back on the road we took to Buena Vista. Up above the clouds rush in and out, letting loose rain and then sunshine.
We listen to music and talk about our new state. We agree that, as far as states go, it doesn't get much better than this. We think we might stay for a while. Plus. I'm dead sick of moving. We go through another lesson in Pimsleur, and as we pass Fairplay, I begin to fall asleep.
At Kenosha Pass, Joshua pulls over, and we go for a run up along the ridge. Birch trees line the path, and every once in a while, we get a view of the wide plain below. It's gorgeous.
We run up for half an hour, and then we run straight back down. At the trail head, we realize that we're at 10,000 feet. No wonder we feel so exhausted.
Back in the car, we drive for another hour and a half. Coming out of the mountains, we see Denver sprawled out before us. It's a little smoggy, but hey. The mountains, and all this - Buena Vista, Arkansas Valley, South Park - are less than three hours away. Once we get off the highway, we can't see smog anymore. Instead, we see our neighborhood. It's a nice place, and in front of our house, the tree is blooming. It smells sweet, and Oscar is ecstatic to be home. He runs to the front doorstep and turns around and around, jumping for joy.
Taking advantage of the continental breakfast, we woke up and ate in front of the T.V. in the lobby of the Econolodge. Osama's face is all over the screen, and I think I might be alone in my adversity to celebrating death.
We pack up quickly, and soon, we're heading out of Pagosa Springs. 160 crosses Wolf Creek Pass, and soon we're in another high alpine plain. The mountains are gorgeous, and the blue sky tries to pretend it didn't just crap snow all over us yesterday.
We keep driving, and in Del Norte, we take 112 to 285, heading North. After Saguache (how in the hell do you pronounce that word?), we hit Poncha Springs, and before we know it, we're back on the road we took to Buena Vista. Up above the clouds rush in and out, letting loose rain and then sunshine.
We listen to music and talk about our new state. We agree that, as far as states go, it doesn't get much better than this. We think we might stay for a while. Plus. I'm dead sick of moving. We go through another lesson in Pimsleur, and as we pass Fairplay, I begin to fall asleep.
At Kenosha Pass, Joshua pulls over, and we go for a run up along the ridge. Birch trees line the path, and every once in a while, we get a view of the wide plain below. It's gorgeous.
We run up for half an hour, and then we run straight back down. At the trail head, we realize that we're at 10,000 feet. No wonder we feel so exhausted.
Back in the car, we drive for another hour and a half. Coming out of the mountains, we see Denver sprawled out before us. It's a little smoggy, but hey. The mountains, and all this - Buena Vista, Arkansas Valley, South Park - are less than three hours away. Once we get off the highway, we can't see smog anymore. Instead, we see our neighborhood. It's a nice place, and in front of our house, the tree is blooming. It smells sweet, and Oscar is ecstatic to be home. He runs to the front doorstep and turns around and around, jumping for joy.
Cliff Dwellers and The Econolodge
Oscar and I whine about the hotel. "It's too expensive!" he says. 
Wuh-oh. The road between Durango and Pagosa Springs.
Dude. It snowed. 
Standing in Balcony House.
Climbing out of Balcony House.
Kivah.
Cliff dwelling at Mesa Verde.
Pretty Mesa.
Joshua pointing out the Ute Mountains from Fire Lookout.
View from the tallest point on Mesa Verde.May Day, 2011
The drive from Durango to Mesa Verde National Park is less than 40 miles, but once inside the park, it's another 20 minute drive to the Far View Visitor Center.
Joshua, my champion husband and driver extraordinaire, steered us easily over the hills into mesa land. Behind us the mountains grow smaller, and in front of us, the horizon spills on and out forever. Joshua jokes that Colorado is the best compromise for the two of us; he loves the high mountain peaks, and I love the desert Southwest. I object, saying I love the mountains just as much as he does.
"Yeah," he says, "but would you rather live in Cortez or Poncha Springs?" Neither city is particularly lovely, and while Cortez sits in dry mesa land, Poncha Springs rests in the Arkansas Valley. Joshua has proved his point. There's something about blue sky, desert, and torquiose jewelry that just gets me.
I've been to Mesa Verde once before when my mom took David and I after my Sophomore year of high school. I wanted to bring Joshua back to this magical place. The sky is blue again this morning, and as we make our way up to the highest point on the mesa, we can see a 360 degree panorama.
Up at Fire Lookout, we point out the mountain ranges dotting the horizon. In the distance, we can see Shiprock. The Anasazi Indian say that this strange rock formation is the remains of a bird. To the East, a smokestack signals the meeting of the Four Corners of Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado. It's a clear day, and we can see for nearly 170 miles.
We drive on to the visitors center, where we purchase tickets to go see the Balcony House. Joshua starts salivating over the history stuff, and for once, we're both interested. Usually, I'm bored to tears by the whoseits and whatsits and whensits, but when it comes to Native American and cultural history, I'm more interested. Plus, they had jewelry on display. I'm such a girl :)
Our tour isn't for another hour, so we drive up and stop to look at pithouses and other cliff dwellings. 1400 years ago, the Anasazi moved in and began living in the alcoves of the mesa walls. Later, they began to build pithouses on the rim. They began growing corn, squash, and beans on the mesa, and their ability to grow and store food allowed them to stay in one place. 700 years ago, they began building these fabulous cliff dwellings, and then, abruptly, they left.
When Anthropologists ask the modern-day Hopi and Pueblan people why their ancestors might have left, they say, "it was time." When they ask how their ancestors might have known it was time, they say, "nature told them."
By the time we gather above the Balcony House, the weather has changed again, and snowflakes are drifting down. We follow our guide down a long flight of stairs and pass through a tunnel into the cliff dwelling. Located in the layer of sandstone, the cliff dwellings are a combination of carved caves, brick masonry, and wooden timbers. We admire kivas, and of course, the famous balcony. The tour guide tells us that the Anasazi would not have relied on ladders or stairways; instead, they used climbing trails, toe and peck holds to climb up vertical walls. I try to imagine old grandmothers and small children climbing up the sheer walls of this mesa wall. I get vertigo just imagining it.
On the other side of the house, we climb up a series of ladders, and I make myself look down into the deep valley below, just to test my fear of heights. I'm not terrified, but I don't think that I'll be taking up rock climbing any time soon.
Back up at the top, we drive to the Spruce Tree House, a cliff dwelling that's open to visitors without a tour guide. They've recreated a kiva roof, and we climb down the ladder to the circular room below, imagining a place of prayers and a family sleeping. It's warmer here, and with a fire, it might even be cozy.
Joshua requests a walk out to pictograph point, and we skirt the mesa wall, half way between the rim and the valley below. A couple miles out, we stop to admire the petroglyphs that narrate the migration of the Anasazi, and then we turn back. It begins to snow harder, and now that we've been at Mesa Verde for five hours, we decide it's time to head back to Durango.
On our way back, snow begins to accumulate on the road and in the hills. The wind is blowing hard. When we get to Durango, we stop at Dairy Queen, just to be contrary. I order my standard chocolate dipped cone, and Joshua orders a blizzard. We sit in the parking lot of Walgreens and dread camping in the snow. It might not be any colder than any of our previous nights, but there's just something about a few inches of snow outside the fabric walls of a tent that makes things significantly less attractive.
We head back to our campsite, and sure enough, there's a few glittering inches of snow. I refuse to get out of the car. "I think I'll just read in here," I say.
Joshua goes over to the tent to shake off the snow and contemplate the long night ahead. He comes back.
"Let's drive home," he says. We had planned to drive home tomorrow anyway. "What's the difference between driving back tonight or tomorrow? At least if we drive back tonight, we won't freeze, and we'll get to sleep in our own bed."
It doesn't take much to persuade me. I'm NOT a fan of winter camping. Winter camping blows, and I don't care how wussy that sounds. I've only really done it once, and since it gets dark at, like, 4 PM, that leaves approximately 14 hours to freeze your ass off inside a tent. Talk about miserable.
So we break camp and hop in the car. The snow's stopped, and we're feeling good.
About ten mile out of Durango headed towards Pagosa Springs, it starts to snow again. Hard. Joshua looks over at me nervously. "At least it's still light outside," he says.
Twenty minutes later, the sun has begun to set, and it's snowing even harder. It's snowing really, really, really hard, actually.
It's snowing so hard that it takes us nearly three hours to cover 60 miles, as it turns out. Joshua is clutching the steering wheel the whole way, cursing our decision. We going about 20 miles per hour, and there's a line of about 30 cars behind us. I reassure him that we're not about to die. He's pretty hard to convince, but I tell him that I think it's rare to die when you're going just 20 miles per hour.
In Pagosa Springs, we pull into the parking lot of Subway. If we were to drive home tonight, there are three more passes to go over, and all of them are at much higher elevations than the one we passed going from Durango to Pagosa Springs. There's no way. I suggest we sleep in the parking lot of Subway. Joshua tells me to unclench. We're going to a hotel.
At the Econolodge, I plug my ears and squeeze my eyes shut when Joshua pays for our room.
Denial works out pretty well, because within 20 minutes, I'm taking my first shower in five days. I have to get back in dirty clothes afterward, but non-greasy hair gets me in a better mood instantly. Joshua's turned on the T.V., and apparently, we've shot Osama Bin Laden.
"Huh," we say, and stare at the screen. Obama comes on and gives us all the 411, and then the cameras turn to the screaming, celebrating crowd in front of the White House. The whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'm not saying that I'm sad Bin Laden's dead, but celebrating death is strange. I'm not a pacifist; nor am I entirely against the idea of the death penalty (although I AM against the disproportionate racial breakdown that occurs when the death penalty is carried out). But as I watch a bunch of drunk students from George Washington scream "Ding Dong Osama's Dead," I can't help but think, "an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind."
After Obama walks off the screen, I turn off the T.V. and fall asleep, warm at last.
Black Canyon Rim
Joshua and Oscar standing above the Black Canyon.
Pink pegmatite intrusions :)
Black Canyon.
A view of the San Juans.April 30, 2011
During the middle of night, we burrowed deeper into our sleeping bags. Outside, the wind buffeted the sides of the tent.
By the time the sun rose, we were ready to go. Nothing like freezing temperatures to get your ass in gear. All of our water bottles were frozen shut. Oscar's nose was cold, but the jacket seemed to do the trick.
In the car, we followed the reservoir West. At Sapinero, we turned North onto 92 heading towards Crawford. For nearly 50 miles, we hugged the rim of the Black Canyon on Gunnison. Ranches with thousands of acres abutted the road, and silvery birch trees passed the window like an old, stuttering film reel.
In the fields and on the rim, large mule deer with white, tufted haunches graze on grass frosted with dew. Below them, the canyon dips low and out of sight. We pull into an overlook and peer at the green, rushing water of the Gunnison River.
Eventually, the road turns away from the canyon rim, and we drive out into a beautiful, green valley. To the East, the West Elk Mountains are covered in snow, but here, the Crawford Reservoir is sparkling in the sun. Unlike the scrub and sage near the Blue Mesa, this valley looks like rich farm land, and horses and cows graze in the pastures. It's story-book beautiful.
Just outside of Crawford, we turn South, headed for the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. Behind us, the sky is blue, but in front of us, low, grey clouds color the canyon, well, black. We're beginning to discover a few things about our new state, and one of them is, the weather can turn on a dime, from mile to mile and minute to minute.
At the rim of the canyon, we pay the park entrance fee and apologize to Oscar. He has to stay in the car while we hike the North Vista Trail. He curls up in the back seat and lays his nose between his two front paws. He sighs. He falls asleep.
From the trail head to the lookout point is three and a half miles. We run most of the way, pausing to take pictures of gorge and admire the view. The trail is lined in Pinyon and Juniper, and the canyon is stripped with pink intrusions of pegmatite. The walls are dripped with black stains from Iron and Magnesium mixing with bacteria. It's beautiful and strange, and once again, we're all alone on the trail. There weren't even any cars in the parking lot.
At the lookout, we take photos of the panorama, but it's cold, and we don't stay long. We run back down, feeling the thin air burn in our lungs. We're at 8,000 feet.
Back at the car, Oscar greets us with sloppy kisses. We joke that Oscar's affection is better described as "tongue" rather than "kiss." Joshua starts singing the Talking Heads. "Give me sugar on my tongue," he says, as he ruffles Oscar's ear, and Oscar slobbers over his nose and cheek.
For lunch, we drive up along the rim and stop to walk the short, informative trail. Using the pamphlet, we pause to read about each place marker. Unafraid to go meta, the National Park authors explain just how the canyon should make us feel small, big, inconsequential, and yet, deeply meaningful. We groan with each paradox and file away useful pieces of information like pegmatite, magnesium/bacteria stains, and the life cycle of a juniper tree.
From the Black Canyon, we head back on 92 towards Delta and then take 50 going South towards Montrose. I can't keep my eyes open, and I fall asleep as Joshua drives.
In Montrose, we decide that Lesson 16 of Pimsleur will get the blood flowing, and as we drive out into the dry, scrubby plains, we practice Spanish.
The scenery changes again, and now we're driving into the San Juan Mountains. Just as we hit our first set of switchbacks, we pass through the cute, tourist mountain town of Ouray. A sign announces that this town considers itself 'America's Switzerland.'
550 crosses several passes and cruises through the old mining town of Silverton. We drive through, heading the signs that tell us to 'Keep Moving, Avalanche Danger.' Joshua is a bit white knuckled, but mostly, we're in awe of the landscape. I was here once before in my Sophomore year of high school, but that was in the middle of summer. Spring here looks a lot more like the thick of winter. The hills are covered in thick, pillowy blankets of snow.
The drive to Durango takes us a couple of hours, but the scenery is gorgeous, and the conversation is easy (as usual :)). The sun breaks through as we drive into the Durango valley, and we point at homes, saying, 'I could live there.' Joshua laughs when I point at mobile homes, but I'm only half-way kidding. Who cares if you live in a double wide if you get to wake up to THIS?
In Durango, we turn onto Junction Creek Road. Up in the hills, we past geodesic domes and adobe homes with solar panels. A couple of homes are barn/home hybrids. We think this might be where the hippies live :)
Luckily, Junction Creek Campground opened yesterday, and we're one of the first to arrive. We get our pick of the campsites, and the fee is half price. Joshua and I set up the tent, and then we play Frisbee. Oscar runs back and forth between us, but when we try to get him to fetch, he looks at us with disappointment. "I'm far to dignified to fetch," he sneers and plunks down to chew on his paws.
For dinner, we make pasta. We eat it wearing mittens (no small feat) and predict another cold night. When the sun sets, we dress up Oscar in my rain jacket, don every last layer, and burrow into our sleeping bags.
Cold Blue Mesa
Oscar in my rain-jacket. 
Elk Creek Campground at Blue Mesa. It felt about as cold as it looks
Hawk (or Falcon? I'm a little hazy on my birds of prey) outside of Gunnison.April 29, 2011
I wake up and look over at Joshua. His sleeping bag is cinched so tightly, I can't see skin. I nudge him and ask him if he was cold during the night. He mumbles in the affirmative.
Seeing that we're awake, Oscar hops up onto our cots and snuggles in between us, shivering. We press our cold noses against one another.
We break camp, and less than an hour later, we're back on the road. Before us, the road follows the Arkansas River, and above us, the sky is encoded with various predictions. Rain, snow, clouds that touch the earth and obscure the horizon. Even blue sky.
In Poncha Springs, we take 50 headed West. The road climbs steadily over Monarch Pass, and at the top, the peaks are covered in a powdery blanket of snow. Chairlifts that have retired for the season sway lonesome in the wind.
On the other side of the pass, the western slope unfolds. Colorado may be famous for its Rocky Spine, but it has a grand set of ribs: the West Elk Mountains, Sawatch Range, and San Juan Mountains are visible from this place, high on the Continental Divide. From here, all rivers flow West.
In Gunnison, we turn North on 135 and then West on Ohio Creek Road. At Mill Creek, we take to the dirt road, and at the trail head, we picnic in the car, dipping hard boiled eggs in mustard and red hot chili powder.
Strapping on our snowshoes, we climb into the West Elk Wilderness on the Mill-Castle Trail. High in the mountains, we see spires of rock reaching upward. Snowflakes drift down lazily. The sky is grey.
We snowshoe for hours. The snow is deep, and the trees afford us shelter from the wind. There is no one here. High in the mountains, abandoned log cabins sit stranded in deep snow. There are no traversable roads to get here. We wonder who owns them and when they stay there. Are these summer homes? Imagine owning a four-story log cabin summer home!
Up the trail, we stumble upon a piece of Rubbermaid Tupperware stuffed in the stump of a tree. We pull it out and discover a Geo-cache. People have left small, inconsequential things: a bandanna, an empty bottle of sunscreen, coins, a whistle. We flip through the journal, write down a few words, and leave Joshua's Ellsworth library card. We take a skeleton doubloon.
It starts to snow harder, and we turn around. It's all down hill on the way back, and Oscar races on ahead, jumping and pirouetting in the snow.
Back at the car, we again peel off our sopping socks. As we're driving back down the road, we spy an enormous hawk, perched on a fence post. We drive up close, and it stays still and allows us to take a photo.
We drive back through Gunnison, and snow turns to rain. We continue West of 50, headed toward the Blue Mesa Reservoir, Colorado's largest body of water. As we leave the snowy peaks behind us, the land from side to side is clothed in Sage. Up on the hills, Pinyon and Juniper twist their gnarled, stubborn limbs against the wind. We've read that juniper can cut off supply to a limb, should it need to. The limb will fall off and die, giving the tree the extra reserves it needs to live on.
At Elk Creek Campground, we turn toward the water. It starts to rain harder.
Sitting above the water, completely exposed to wind and rain, we decide to sit in the car for a while and let the weather change its mind. I pull out my book, and by the last page, it's stopped raining. We set up camp, and Joshua stakes everything in with the back of his hatchet. He assures me that we're not going to blow away. I look at the ominous sky and our lack of windbreak and nod my head, noncommittally.
Once our tent is staked to the ground, we walk through the sage to the rocky beach. We're wearing our down jackets, and our hands are shoved in the pockets, our collars up near our ears. Blue Mesa is a fitting name. With all the flat-topped hills around, the reservoir looks like another inverted, blue table.
For dinner, we heat up a can of re-fried beans and eat them with the corn bread Joshua made before we left. There's no running water nearby and the thought of touching the reservoir's freezing water makes us shudder. Oscar obligingly cleans our dishes.
As the sun begins to set, we pack into the tent. I dress Oscar in my rain jacket so he won't be cold, and we laugh at his fumbling tries to walk. In the end though, he curls up and falls asleep. We stick our hands down the collar of the jacket, and inside, his fur is warm.
We play a couple more games of boggle, and afterward, I start my next book, Plainsong. But just as the last 100 pages of a good book hold me captive, the first hundred are less enticing. I fall asleep with the book tented upon my chest.
Buena Vista, Happy Birthday
Not sure how to place photos in text and in chronological order :)
Joshua leaning against our car between Buena Vista and Cottonwood Pass.
Sign outside of Buena Vista.
Tumbleweed :)
Drive-thru theater.
Road up to Cottonwood Pass. It got snowier as we went along, and we were glad to have our snowshoes.
Oscar and his grin :)
A view of South Park.
On Thursday morning, April 28, we loaded our little red Hyundai, turned the key in the ignition, and drove towards the mountains.
Three blocks down, we turned around and retrieved my library book, Plainsong, by Kent Haruf.
Once again, we hopped in the car, rolled the windows down, fired up some tunes, and then turned around - this time to retrieve extra blankets, just in case.
The third time we pulled away from the curb outside of our new home, I looked at the clock. It’s 9:30 AM, and I’m 25 years old. Scrolling through texts on my phone, I see happy birthday wishes from family and friends, and I think how bizarre it is to have been alive for a quarter of a century, a generation, two and a half decades. I feel old and young at the same time. My father-in-law, Tim, reminds me that I’m celebrating this birthday in the same state where I was born, and I pause to admire the symmetry.
My husband prides himself as a ‘notch-on-the-belt kind of guy.’ As we turn onto 285 heading out of the city, he catalogues my notches.
“You’ve gotten a degree, you’ve completed two years of teaching, gotten married, traveled for four months in South America, one month in Greece, and six months in Europe and India and Nepal. You have a cat and dog and a new job. You’ve lived in Minnesota, Washington, Louisiana, Wisconsin, and Colorado… Twice. I’d say you’ve cleaned up!”
I assess my resume from Joshua’s perspective, and I agree that it’s been an eventful 25 years, but at the same time, I’ve had moments when I have stopped to think about how quickly time moves and how scary it is that a moment lived is just as soon gone. I know that I’m far too young to talk about mortality with any real wisdom, but my two years in New Orleans showed me a certain fragility. Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t be able to fit everything in, and I’m terrified of wasting time. I sit in the doctor’s office, and I’ll think, “huh, I guess I’ll never be a doctor.” And although I’ve never particularly wanted to be a doctor, it makes me just a little bit sad.
But before I get too melancholy, Joshua asks me, “if you could choose a super power, what would it be?”
I think for a moment. Maybe I’d be like the fairies in Fern Gully and make things grow. Or maybe I would be a healer. That would be cool. But when I think about all the super-power TV shows, books, and movies, it strikes me that none of the heroes or villains got to choose their super-powers.
“I don’t know,” I say, “it seems like the better question would be: if you were born with a super power, what would it probably be?”
Joshua pauses for a moment. “Huh,” he says. In the silence that follows, we contemplate the immense profundity of my observation.
“I know what super power you would have,” I say.
Joshua would have the super power to intuit topography and blueprints before arrival. Although not a part of his super power, he would develop a talent for drawing topographic maps and blueprints over the years, and his skill as a strategist and memory for directions (abilities that he was born with but are not super powers - unless you consider the ability to remember 10 to 15 step directions a super power, which I guess is debatable) would make him a valuable asset in crime, war, and adventure. His weakness is an inability to sense biological matter in either landscapes or buildings before arrival, and he must be within 200 miles of the landscape or building to sense its unique topographic or blueprint layout.
Once I’ve told him, Joshua expresses initial disappointment that telekinesis passed him by, but ultimately, he agrees. “It just makes sense,” he says.
Ironically, Joshua decides that I would have the super power of healing. By touching others and concentrating, I was first able to heal basic scrapes and burns, and as I grew older and stronger, I became able to heal larger injuries. My weakness is that healing others drains me, and it takes time - sometimes even weeks - to recover from healing. That’s why I have to work out like “a chick being chased by a hamburger.” I have to keep up my strength.
As we drive, I keep a steady playlist of Adele, Mumford and Sons, Joni Mitchell, and Brandi Carlile coming through the speakers. I play all of my favorite songs (in no particular order):
I Miss You by Blink 182
Brick by Ben Folds Five
Paper Planes by MIA
Maps by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Dreams by The Cranberries
High and Dry by Radiohead
Hide and Seek by Imogene Heap
De Perros Amores by Control Machete
Beautiful World by Colin Hay
Dixon’s Girl by Dessa
Skinny Love and Blood Bank by Bon Iver
Lay Lady Lay by Bob Dylan
Anthems for a 17 Year Old Girl by Broken Social Scene
Yellow by Coldplay
Heavenly Day by Patty Griffin
Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes
Eyes by Rogue Wave
Half Acre by Hem
Orange Sky by Alexi Murdoch
Pink Moon by Nick Drake
The Freshman by The Verve Pipe
Re-Offender by Travis
Kids by MGMT
Can’t Stop by The Red Hot Chili Peppers
Push by Matchbox 20
Desperately Wanting by Better than Ezra
Joshua has heard this same playlist over and over, but since it’s my birthday, he applauds each choice and sings along.
The road winds through passes and bends, and we steadily climb higher. Smooth hills covered in brush make way for steeper hills covered in evergreens. Two hours into our drive, we pull over to look out over South Park, a wide high-alpine plain surrounded by gorgeous snow-capped mountains, blue skies and white, pillowy clouds.
We get out to stretch our legs, and we look so good doing it, three more cars pull in to do the same. One couple is from Baton Rouge, and when we reveal that we lived and taught for two years in New Orleans, they look at us as though they think we might be lying. We tell them that our cat’s name is Thibodeaux, and they smile easily. We aren’t lying after all. The man looks out at the mountains and takes a deep breath. “Sure don’t look like Louisiana, does it?”
We agree that it doesn’t and take a moment to treasure our good fortune.
Back on the road, Joshua sings the jingle to South Park all the way to Fairplay. I entice him into doing Lesson 15 from Pimsleur, and together, we practice telling la Senora Gomez about how we want to eat and drink in the Hotel Bolivar, but we only have 73 pesos. Setenta y tres pesos. No es demasiado. Is it late or early? Tarde o temprano? Puedo pagarlo. From the back of the car, Oscar tilts his head from side to side, as if he were watching a tennis match.
We cross the pass into the Arkansas Valley shortly after noon. Driving through Buena Vista, we admire the lovely, old painted homes and resolve to explore Old Town on our way back.
Heading up Cottonwood Pass, we wonder at the enormous log cabins that dot the hillside. Who are these people, and how did they make their money? If the rich are only 10 percent of the population, they sure do have a lot of homes in Colorado.
A few miles up the road, we reach an opened gate. A sign informs travelers that the pass is closed, but if you should be fool-brained enough to try it anyway, your rescue and the rescue of your vehicle shall be at your own expense.
We drive on another 200 yards, and where the snow covers the blacktop, we stop and park. We make ourselves a couple of sandwiches and eat, sitting on our crazy creeks, gazing up into the mountains. The sun is shining.
Just as we’re about to set off on our snowshoes, a young man pulls up in a pickup. He’s outfitted with heavy winter appliances, and he asks us if we think the pass is possible. We shrug and say we would never try it in our little tin can of a car. He nods, revs the engine, and surmounts about two feet of snow, fishtailing for a hundred yards before he slides into reverse and whips back down the hill onto hard pavement. He doesn’t look over at us as he passes by.
For the next three hours, we snowshoe up Cottonwood Pass. For the first couple of miles, we walk in the middle of the road. It’s covered in deep snow, and all around us, peaks meet blue sky. Oscar runs himself ragged, scouting up ahead and racing back to check on us. He’s grinning.
After a couple of miles on the road, we turn off on a trail to Ptarmigan Lake. The snow is so deep here that we can hardly guess where the trail might be, but with luck, we find a bridge covered in snow, and we follow the gaps in the trees. Oscar bounds first with his front feet and then wriggles his hind feet up and out. Eventually, he gives up and lets us break the trail. It’s deep, and our hearts are racing from the exertion and elevation.
At an hour and a half, we turn around and make our way back. Again, Oscar races on ahead to show us the way.
Back at the car, we shed our soaking socks (Joshua resolves to purchase gators) and load back into the car. We drive back down the mountain, and just before we get back into town, we stop to take photos of an old drive-in theater. The wind is blowing hard, and tumbleweed blows across the field.
In Buena Vista, we hop out of the car and walk down Main Street. Cute cafes and gift shops have hours suited to tourists, and they’re all closed now. At the end of mainstreet, I spy an antique store that I might like to browse through, but the owner is closing up for the day. Outside, he has a chrome and pink formica dining table that I salivate over while he tells us that the wind just stopped blowing through the valley last weekend, and a good thing, too. The record low this winter was 36 below in February.
Main Street is short, and before we know it, we’re back in the car, heading South out of town. We pass river outfitters and follow the Arkansas River down to Ruby Mountain Campground. It’s empty, and we set up camp near the river.
As the late afternoon sun warms the tent, Oscar and I lay inside as Joshua makes dinner. I’m nearing the end of The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and as with most good books, it’s hard to put down when I’m less than 100 pages from the end.
The sun dips below the mountains in the west, and Joshua announces that dinner is served. Pasta with an artichoke and basil pesto that Joshua had the forethought to whip up last night, before we left.
Stuffed, we crawl into the tent and play a couple of games of boggle. Joshua beats me, as usual, and before we snuggle into our sleeping bags, we wrap Oscar in a couple of blankets. We read for a little while with headlamps, and then we fall asleep to the sound of the river.
Joshua leaning against our car between Buena Vista and Cottonwood Pass.
Sign outside of Buena Vista.
Tumbleweed :)
Drive-thru theater.
Road up to Cottonwood Pass. It got snowier as we went along, and we were glad to have our snowshoes.
Oscar and his grin :)
A view of South Park.On Thursday morning, April 28, we loaded our little red Hyundai, turned the key in the ignition, and drove towards the mountains.
Three blocks down, we turned around and retrieved my library book, Plainsong, by Kent Haruf.
Once again, we hopped in the car, rolled the windows down, fired up some tunes, and then turned around - this time to retrieve extra blankets, just in case.
The third time we pulled away from the curb outside of our new home, I looked at the clock. It’s 9:30 AM, and I’m 25 years old. Scrolling through texts on my phone, I see happy birthday wishes from family and friends, and I think how bizarre it is to have been alive for a quarter of a century, a generation, two and a half decades. I feel old and young at the same time. My father-in-law, Tim, reminds me that I’m celebrating this birthday in the same state where I was born, and I pause to admire the symmetry.
My husband prides himself as a ‘notch-on-the-belt kind of guy.’ As we turn onto 285 heading out of the city, he catalogues my notches.
“You’ve gotten a degree, you’ve completed two years of teaching, gotten married, traveled for four months in South America, one month in Greece, and six months in Europe and India and Nepal. You have a cat and dog and a new job. You’ve lived in Minnesota, Washington, Louisiana, Wisconsin, and Colorado… Twice. I’d say you’ve cleaned up!”
I assess my resume from Joshua’s perspective, and I agree that it’s been an eventful 25 years, but at the same time, I’ve had moments when I have stopped to think about how quickly time moves and how scary it is that a moment lived is just as soon gone. I know that I’m far too young to talk about mortality with any real wisdom, but my two years in New Orleans showed me a certain fragility. Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t be able to fit everything in, and I’m terrified of wasting time. I sit in the doctor’s office, and I’ll think, “huh, I guess I’ll never be a doctor.” And although I’ve never particularly wanted to be a doctor, it makes me just a little bit sad.
But before I get too melancholy, Joshua asks me, “if you could choose a super power, what would it be?”
I think for a moment. Maybe I’d be like the fairies in Fern Gully and make things grow. Or maybe I would be a healer. That would be cool. But when I think about all the super-power TV shows, books, and movies, it strikes me that none of the heroes or villains got to choose their super-powers.
“I don’t know,” I say, “it seems like the better question would be: if you were born with a super power, what would it probably be?”
Joshua pauses for a moment. “Huh,” he says. In the silence that follows, we contemplate the immense profundity of my observation.
“I know what super power you would have,” I say.
Joshua would have the super power to intuit topography and blueprints before arrival. Although not a part of his super power, he would develop a talent for drawing topographic maps and blueprints over the years, and his skill as a strategist and memory for directions (abilities that he was born with but are not super powers - unless you consider the ability to remember 10 to 15 step directions a super power, which I guess is debatable) would make him a valuable asset in crime, war, and adventure. His weakness is an inability to sense biological matter in either landscapes or buildings before arrival, and he must be within 200 miles of the landscape or building to sense its unique topographic or blueprint layout.
Once I’ve told him, Joshua expresses initial disappointment that telekinesis passed him by, but ultimately, he agrees. “It just makes sense,” he says.
Ironically, Joshua decides that I would have the super power of healing. By touching others and concentrating, I was first able to heal basic scrapes and burns, and as I grew older and stronger, I became able to heal larger injuries. My weakness is that healing others drains me, and it takes time - sometimes even weeks - to recover from healing. That’s why I have to work out like “a chick being chased by a hamburger.” I have to keep up my strength.
As we drive, I keep a steady playlist of Adele, Mumford and Sons, Joni Mitchell, and Brandi Carlile coming through the speakers. I play all of my favorite songs (in no particular order):
I Miss You by Blink 182
Brick by Ben Folds Five
Paper Planes by MIA
Maps by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Dreams by The Cranberries
High and Dry by Radiohead
Hide and Seek by Imogene Heap
De Perros Amores by Control Machete
Beautiful World by Colin Hay
Dixon’s Girl by Dessa
Skinny Love and Blood Bank by Bon Iver
Lay Lady Lay by Bob Dylan
Anthems for a 17 Year Old Girl by Broken Social Scene
Yellow by Coldplay
Heavenly Day by Patty Griffin
Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes
Eyes by Rogue Wave
Half Acre by Hem
Orange Sky by Alexi Murdoch
Pink Moon by Nick Drake
The Freshman by The Verve Pipe
Re-Offender by Travis
Kids by MGMT
Can’t Stop by The Red Hot Chili Peppers
Push by Matchbox 20
Desperately Wanting by Better than Ezra
Joshua has heard this same playlist over and over, but since it’s my birthday, he applauds each choice and sings along.
The road winds through passes and bends, and we steadily climb higher. Smooth hills covered in brush make way for steeper hills covered in evergreens. Two hours into our drive, we pull over to look out over South Park, a wide high-alpine plain surrounded by gorgeous snow-capped mountains, blue skies and white, pillowy clouds.
We get out to stretch our legs, and we look so good doing it, three more cars pull in to do the same. One couple is from Baton Rouge, and when we reveal that we lived and taught for two years in New Orleans, they look at us as though they think we might be lying. We tell them that our cat’s name is Thibodeaux, and they smile easily. We aren’t lying after all. The man looks out at the mountains and takes a deep breath. “Sure don’t look like Louisiana, does it?”
We agree that it doesn’t and take a moment to treasure our good fortune.
Back on the road, Joshua sings the jingle to South Park all the way to Fairplay. I entice him into doing Lesson 15 from Pimsleur, and together, we practice telling la Senora Gomez about how we want to eat and drink in the Hotel Bolivar, but we only have 73 pesos. Setenta y tres pesos. No es demasiado. Is it late or early? Tarde o temprano? Puedo pagarlo. From the back of the car, Oscar tilts his head from side to side, as if he were watching a tennis match.
We cross the pass into the Arkansas Valley shortly after noon. Driving through Buena Vista, we admire the lovely, old painted homes and resolve to explore Old Town on our way back.
Heading up Cottonwood Pass, we wonder at the enormous log cabins that dot the hillside. Who are these people, and how did they make their money? If the rich are only 10 percent of the population, they sure do have a lot of homes in Colorado.
A few miles up the road, we reach an opened gate. A sign informs travelers that the pass is closed, but if you should be fool-brained enough to try it anyway, your rescue and the rescue of your vehicle shall be at your own expense.
We drive on another 200 yards, and where the snow covers the blacktop, we stop and park. We make ourselves a couple of sandwiches and eat, sitting on our crazy creeks, gazing up into the mountains. The sun is shining.
Just as we’re about to set off on our snowshoes, a young man pulls up in a pickup. He’s outfitted with heavy winter appliances, and he asks us if we think the pass is possible. We shrug and say we would never try it in our little tin can of a car. He nods, revs the engine, and surmounts about two feet of snow, fishtailing for a hundred yards before he slides into reverse and whips back down the hill onto hard pavement. He doesn’t look over at us as he passes by.
For the next three hours, we snowshoe up Cottonwood Pass. For the first couple of miles, we walk in the middle of the road. It’s covered in deep snow, and all around us, peaks meet blue sky. Oscar runs himself ragged, scouting up ahead and racing back to check on us. He’s grinning.
After a couple of miles on the road, we turn off on a trail to Ptarmigan Lake. The snow is so deep here that we can hardly guess where the trail might be, but with luck, we find a bridge covered in snow, and we follow the gaps in the trees. Oscar bounds first with his front feet and then wriggles his hind feet up and out. Eventually, he gives up and lets us break the trail. It’s deep, and our hearts are racing from the exertion and elevation.
At an hour and a half, we turn around and make our way back. Again, Oscar races on ahead to show us the way.
Back at the car, we shed our soaking socks (Joshua resolves to purchase gators) and load back into the car. We drive back down the mountain, and just before we get back into town, we stop to take photos of an old drive-in theater. The wind is blowing hard, and tumbleweed blows across the field.
In Buena Vista, we hop out of the car and walk down Main Street. Cute cafes and gift shops have hours suited to tourists, and they’re all closed now. At the end of mainstreet, I spy an antique store that I might like to browse through, but the owner is closing up for the day. Outside, he has a chrome and pink formica dining table that I salivate over while he tells us that the wind just stopped blowing through the valley last weekend, and a good thing, too. The record low this winter was 36 below in February.
Main Street is short, and before we know it, we’re back in the car, heading South out of town. We pass river outfitters and follow the Arkansas River down to Ruby Mountain Campground. It’s empty, and we set up camp near the river.
As the late afternoon sun warms the tent, Oscar and I lay inside as Joshua makes dinner. I’m nearing the end of The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and as with most good books, it’s hard to put down when I’m less than 100 pages from the end.
The sun dips below the mountains in the west, and Joshua announces that dinner is served. Pasta with an artichoke and basil pesto that Joshua had the forethought to whip up last night, before we left.
Stuffed, we crawl into the tent and play a couple of games of boggle. Joshua beats me, as usual, and before we snuggle into our sleeping bags, we wrap Oscar in a couple of blankets. We read for a little while with headlamps, and then we fall asleep to the sound of the river.
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