Moments

Moon over Arlington

Re-entry to D.C.--on Sept. 9th, a week later than planned--was tough.

I forgot how crowded it is here, and how hectic. In the first week back, one client asked me to work over the weekend. Another e-mailed to say that she had gone home sick, had set up shop in bed with her laptop, and was ready to resume work on a project. This is considered normal behavior--even admirable.

I also forgot the degree to which some people take rudeness here, especially on the road—honking, tailgating, making fast illegal left-hand turns from the middle lane of crowded city streets and nearly mowing down pedestrians in the crosswalk.

However, a few days ago, a car stopped for me at a crosswalk, giving me a Boulder-like margin—my feet had not yet reached the curb. Surprised, I looked at the driver. He was Indian. Apparently either he was simply a good, polite man, or he had recently arrived in our fine metropolitan area and didn’t yet know he was supposed to drive like an idiot.

There are digital signs around the area that flash “Aggressive Driving Enforcement Zone.” While I understand they are meant to calm traffic, the wording makes me pause. Don’t we have enough aggressive driving here already without trying to enforce it?

Still, there have been good moments as well. Earlier this week, after a wonderful catch-up dinner and gab session with my friend Cat, I hopped in a cab bound for Casa Childress.

As we rocketed down 19th Street, the windows of familiar restaurants, sandwich shops, and office buildings rolled by like a film. At 9:30 on a Monday night, the streets were quiet, the sidewalks nearly empty--a hush reminiscent of Christmas Eve. For a few minutes, my world was just me, the city, and the cabbie’s velvety classical music.

So many memories here, I thought. Mostly good ones. After 10 years, the city still has not grown stale for me, only slightly less fulfilling.

Soon we turned by the Lincoln Memorial, one of my favorites, it many pillars glowing white and formal and elegant. Across the river, a cantaloupe slice of moon curved above Arlington. It was beautiful.

That night, I dreamed of riding--yet on a train, rolling past unfamiliar stores and suburban scenes, through a dusting of fresh autumn snow in Colorado.

Photo © Terry J. Adams, National Park Service

The Return to Pikes Peak

Eleven years ago, on my first trip to Colorado, my friend Chris and I drove to the top of Pikes Peak. What I remember most about the drive was the marmot waddling around in the dusty road and the temperature gauge on the rental car inching up to the red.

And when we finally stood on top, I looked out over the plains and mountains at the same view that inspired Katharine Lee Bates to write America the Beautiful, and I had the sudden sense that I had a whole other dimension to my personality--an unexplored hallway with doors opening off of it--that I had never before known existed. And this dimension involved being in Colorado, spending lots of time outside, and wearing hiking boots.

I never forgot that strange sensation, and during my last week in Colorado, I returned to the summit of Pikes Peak once again--this time, by climbing straight up the side in my well-worn hiking boots.

Pikes Peak is considered one of the most challenging of Colorado’s 14ers to climb, as the trail is 26 miles round trip and climbs 7,400’. The first day, I hiked in seven miles to historic Barr Camp to spend the night in a bunkhouse.

Because I hatched the plan to climb Pikes while looking at it as my plane to Denver landed the previous week, my camping gear was still on the East Coast. The fine folks at REI were happy to help, of course, and I stuffed a tiny new headlamp, some water treatment tablets, and a child’s red $28-on-clearance sleeping bag into my overloaded day pack.

As I began the climb up through the dry red dust and prickly scrub, to my left the cog railroad began its long trip to the summit, carrying loads of tourists. I promised myself then that some day when I could no longer scale it under my own power, I would return to the mountain, board that train, take a seat on the right-hand side, look out toward the trail and remember my solo trek to the summit.

While it sounds Pollyanna, I decided then that I was going to enjoy every single moment of the trip--and I did, even the few painful ones.

It’s hard to say exactly what made Pikes so special. Perhaps it was because this was the hardest physical challenge I have ever undertaken solo. Or it might have been the unexpected pleasure of spending an evening swapping stories at a cabin with 16 people I’d never met before who were kindred spirits, as hiking folk usually are. Or maybe it was the beauty of the imposing reddish peak and rounded hoodoos that rose above the trail, the line of sunrise burning orange against the base of the fir trees at camp, or the white tentacles of rain that reached down to the distant blue mountains at midday.

I undid some good karma, however, by briefly thinking unkind thoughts about Fred Barr, who created the trail in the early 1920s to use for the burro trips he ran to the top. He named one section the 16 Golden Stairs. Barr must have been quite the salesman, I grumbled as I lost count: better to call them the 25 Schizophrenic Switchbacks.

Because both the cog railway and a road stretch to the top of Pikes Peak, a gift and snack shop crowns the summit, and clean, well-rested tourists swarm over it. While I appreciated the availability of cold water, flush toilets, and a cell phone signal with which to call Mom and Dad, I was a bit amused by my temporary celebrity status.

“Did you hike all the way up here?” asked a dapper-looking white-haired man, as if my large pack, wayward hair, and slept-in clothes didn’t make the answer obvious.

“Yes, I did,” I said, then answered his many questions about the climb.

Soon he spotted his wife across the gift shop.

“Shirley! Come here,” he called out. “I want you to meet this remarkable woman!”

Oh, mercy. Friendly souls from the midwest, they led me outside to snap my summit picture for me. I left the top soon thereafter, amid gathering clouds and a smattering of hail.

Late that afternoon, I passed an Apolo Ohno lookalike--or the real McCoy, on break from the Olympic Training Center at the mountain’s base?-- and returned to my car after a daily total of 19 miles.

The trip’s best moment? Arriving at the sign that said I had one mile left to go to the summit. I celebrated by cheering out loud and eating a jumbo chocolate malt ball--I was going to make it after all!

• See more Pikes Peak pics

Creatures of the Forest

Hoping for some final views above timberline, I hiked up to Rogers Pass today, where the wind made a zipper-like sound as it chased in fits across the Continental Divide.

On the steep climb to the pass, for a crazed moment something else chased in fits: a small chipmunk bounded up through the tundra and headed down the path toward me at warp speed. When it saw me, it shrieked in surprise--“Wheep!  Wheep!” Then it leaped straight in the air, twice, turned around, and tore down the trail in the opposite direction, screaming all the way and waving its little tail high, as I bent over my trekking pole with laughter. (See more Rogers Pass pics.)

Late this afternoon, however, I got word of a very different wildlife encounter.

Those of you who read my Robber on 6th Street entry (Aug. 24) may recall that while I was away, a raccoon had entered my sweet-looking rented house and had looted the cat food. The story, however, did not end there.  On four more nights after my return, as I lay in bed with the cat curled securely on the quilt with me, we heard knockings at the kitty door. She would hiss, and I would yell.

One of those nights, I had recently gotten out of bed to let the cat in and, in my deep sleep, forgot that I had re-closed the kitty door. When I heard something bang on the door, I launched from the bed, with eyes still shut, and grabbed the broom I had begun keeping out for security against furry things that go bump in the night. Enzo the kitty followed my two leaps to the kitty door. Disoriented, I shouted, “Hey!  Hey!  Nothing’s getting in this house!” And, still asleep, added the crowning glory at high volume, “What the f__!?!” Then I fully woke up.

The noise outside stopped. Enzo shook her head, bewildered, and retreated to another room. In the silence that followed, I considered how close the house was to the neighbors’ homes, how well sound carries through the yard, and the fact that the windows were wide open. Then I lay down in the bed, leaned my head back against the pillows and laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation—or so I thought.

Today I spoke with Ron, the owner of the house. He returned home jetlagged from Europe at 11:30 on Monday night. He read the note I had left about the suspected raccoon and my solution of barricading the kitty door, but as Enzo was not at home, he left the kitty door open and went to bed. Soon he was awakened by a rapping.

“Enzo?” he called out.  “Is that you?”

There was no response, so he looked out into the back yard. There, near the kitty door, stood not one but two large raccoons. He began yelling, and one ran away. The other stood its ground, looking back. He banged on the window and yelled some more, and finally it ambled off.

Later, Enzo bounced in, and they had a happy reunion. Ron went back to sleep.

At 5 a.m., he reports, he heard yet another knocking at the kitty door, and called Enzo’s name once again. No meow answered, so he got out of bed and turned on the light, just in time to see the black-and-white tail of a skunk disappear through the kitty door—after shooting a suffocating spray into the room.

“I was thinking, ‘I don’t want to be back home,’” Ron said. “I really, really don’t want to be here. What do you do when it’s 5:30 in the morning and there’s a skunk spraying in your bedroom? I had to leave, so I went to a coffee shop and just sat there for a while.”

Many thoughts ran through my head as I heard this news. My first reaction was horror—what a completely awful homecoming for him! And yet I had to laugh, as I would have had it happened to me—who could possibly have imagined that cast of characters would try to invade the house on the same night?

I also appreciated the fact that I had dodged a very large bullet. I had smelled the skunk several times, often on nights when Enzo caterwauled in the back yard; I had feared that she might fight with it and run into the house for safety, trailing it behind her. Now I see that was a perfectly well-founded fear. And if this scenario had happened on my watch, how on earth would I have explained it to Ron? “Dear Ron,” my note would say. “There is a bit of an issue with the house….”

He says the smell has gotten better, that he’s been keeping the windows open to air the place out. And while he didn’t say, I am betting that at night, the kitty door is now staying closed.

Marmot

Tony and I climbed Mt. Sherman, a 14er that has a fabulous ridge walk, last weekend. On the way down, we were exploring some mine ruins when a marmot bumbled past.

“What is that?” Tony asked, in his I’ve-never-seen-this-before tone.

“It’s a marmot,” I answered.

“A what?”

“A marmot.  You know, like the company that makes jackets and outdoor gear.”

“But what is a marmot?” he asked.

Perhaps one of us had misheard. “That is a marmot,” I said, pointing.

“But what is it?”

“A marmot. That’s a marmot.”

Soon we were both laughing.  It was a classic communications conundrum.  In my mind, the word “marmot” equaled the furry creature that disappeared behind the ruins. Yet Tony wanted more information about this mysterious new critter. What did it eat? Was it a kind of prairie dog? Why did it live up so high? He was seeking the very essence of marmot, and I had few answers to give.

Later on, as Tony took pictures, I chatted with a wild west type named Travis, who told me about the town that used to support the mine and about other ruins nearby.

On the drive out, as we bumped slowly down the rough road, the pickup in front of us pulled over. As we passed, the driver waved, his cowboy hat pulled low and his cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth.

“Oh, that’s Travis,” I said, waving back.

“What?” Tony asked.

This time I was ready.

“Travis. The man who was telling me about the mine workers’ town. What, you didn’t think I knew him?” I teased.

“I was just wondering what Travis was,” said Tony. And all was well.

• See more Mt. Sherman pics

An Anniversary to Remember

Last week, a special couple climbed Mt. Audubon.  They were 74 years old, and they were climbing this 13,000’ peak to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary.

I learned their story while talking to their son on the summit. The bride and groom were still struggling upwards.

When I later saw the husband, carefully picking his way up the rocks on a different route from his wife, I congratulated him both on the occasion on and their choice of celebration.

“Thanks,” he said, obviously pleased. “Yes, today is the big day. We’ve been planning this for a long time.” He wished me a good hike, then continued his slow journey up to meet his wife.

What a great moment for them—to celebrate five decades of marriage by standing together on that sun-washed summit, the peaks and valleys of the Rockies, and most likely of their many years together, there at their feet.  Cheers to them!

• More pics from Mt. Audubon

The Road to Eldora

On a cool, cloudy Colorado morning, I drove to the mountain town of Nederland for a run. Only a few cars passed me as I ran down the soft gravel shoulder of the road, headed toward the mountains and the Indian Peaks Wilderness. Quiet surrounded me and my thudding footfalls; the only other sounds were a light, fresh wind and the rush of a white stream that accompanied the road.

As I ran through the tiny settlement of Eldora, a collection of small log cabins set among the aspens, drivers of a couple more cars waved at me, as did a man who walked out onto his front porch with the morning newspaper. A short, muscular beige dog jogged over to greet me, then ran along ahead of me, looking back and panting, until the whining of another dog behind a wooden fence drew him away.

Slowly passing through this hushed scene on foot was something that the act of running often isn’t--relaxing.

Yet as I neared the car, the breeze on my face suddenly grew stronger. The road sloped downhill, and I picked up speed. My hair burst out of its holder, and I felt a surge of energy. Suddenly, it was no longer my body slogging along. Someone else’s legs reached out with long, strong strides. Someone else’s lungs deeply sucked the oxygen out of the thin air at 9,000’. For several powerful moments, this stranger’s body carried me through the final mile—smiling widely and saying “Ahh!”

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Did a moment make you smile today?  Please tell us about it!

Road Trip

My good buddy Phil, raised in Colorado, today explored with me what he’d heard was one of Colorado’s best-kept secrets, the Pawnee National Grasslands.

Several chunky, chalky buttes grouped together were the tallest features in these miles of freeing open prairie east of Fort Collins. We also drove past a submerged feature, a missile silo encircled by a chain link fence.

Around sunset, I hopped on I-25 to drive back to Boulder.

To my left, above the trailer sales lots, chain motels, and other miscellany of the interstate, a full moon peeked out between lavender clouds.

To my right, the Rockies and the cottony clouds above them were various shades of slate blue, with white and pale pink glowing between the clouds and the silhouette of the sawtoothed mountains. Then for a few quick minutes, the highway commercialism between the mountains and me disappeared, and the only foreground was a field thick with amber grasses.

My breath caught in my throat, and I thought of how in the past three weeks, almost every day has yielded glimpses—sometimes one or two, sometimes hundreds—of stunning natural beauty.

What moments have caught your breath lately?  Please share them with us!

• More Pawnee National Grasslands pics

Earning Elbert

Today’s moment was a happy one—reaching the summit of Colorado’s highest peak, Mt. Elbert, at 14,433’! This one had been on my list for a while.

While on most summer days in Colorado, thunderstorms begin building around noon, today was crystal clear. But as is often the case, the weather still had a trick up its sleeve—wind. Gusts in the valley 4,000’ below were clocked at 20 mph. High on the mountain, they were strong enough to knock me off balance, push me a few feet to the side, or grab my pack and swing it to one side of my back. Climbing switchbacks that faced directly into the wind was an exercise in patience.

Near the summit, the trail lies slightly lower than the ridgeline; a sheer drop is on the other side. While that short portion of the trail was sheltered, I could hear the wind thrashing against the rocks below, and when the trail rose at the pass, the wind tried to push me left once again. Luckily, temperatures were fairly warm, though I loaded up on the windpants and extra fleece to descend, without the heat of climbing.

The view was spectacular. Not a cloud floated in aptly named Summit County. Peaks rose in all directions. Mountains more than 100 miles away were clearly visible. And today’s wind-whipped climbers earned every bit of that summit view!

• See more Mt. Elbert pics

Robber on 6th Street

After several days in Washington, I returned to Boulder today to find a bit of disarray at the house. The extra-full bowl of cat chow I had left in the kitchen for the resident kitty Enzo was empty; the two water dishes were full of dirty, foul-smelling water. On the kitchen counter, a bag of cookies was ripped open, as was a bag of cat chow. Down the front of the stainless steel dishwasher were telltale hand-shaped tracks; apparently a raccoon entered the house and plundered the loot.

The innocent-looking house I’ve rented is three blocks from open space that stretches up into the mountains. Living here is a bit like living in a Walt Disney movie--foxes trot through the streets and alleys in the mornings, and I looked at the window one afternoon to see a deer on the other side, gazing in at me from four feet away.

Yet not all of the forest creatures are sweet. Two weeks ago, I lay awake wondering when the infestation of wolf spiders in the bathroom would spread and drive me from the house--while their numbers have dwindled, my days of walking through the house barefoot are over for good. Other nights, I have heard the cat yowling angrily in the yard at demons I cannot see. I have awakened in the wee hours to a strong scent of skunk fuming in through the open windows and worried that Pepe Le Pew would bounce through the kitty door cut into the far corner of the bedroom wall.

Tonight, I will add a new item to my bedtime list of chores—barricade the kitty door with a heavy object, and hope that Enzo wakes me if she wants to come in for a midnight snack. While I’m up for most Colorado adventures, I do hope that tangling with a masked bandit while decked out in my PJs will not be one of them.

Rainbows

Yesterday, I drove out to the airport in the early evening to pick up a friend who is visiting for the next few days. 

We had bad storms yesterday afternoon; I had thought to myself that this year’s thunderstorms were much less violent than in the past, and immediately a loud crack broke above the house. Rain poured down, rushing in streams two feet wide and several inches deep on either side of the street.

Then the storms moved east, and as I left for the drive, a vividly dark blue cloud colored the sky to my right and contrasted with the beige prairie grasses. In my rearview mirror, the lowering sun skimmed the jagged silhouette of the Rockies, its rays visible in the mist the storm had left behind.

In a moment of elation and soul satisfaction, I suddenly realized that although I was driving to the airport, usually my portal back to Washington, this time I would be returning immediately to sleep against the base of my beloved mountains.

Shortly thereafter, I noticed a small slice of rainbow off to the left of the car. As I continued to drive, it slowly grew bigger. Then, to my right, a mirror rainbow piece appeared. The closer I got to the airport, the brighter and more complete the rainbow became. As I reached the airport grounds, the rainbow was in full effect just to the right of the airport itself, centered above the car. The sun shone brightly against the wet pavement. Where the rainbow met the ground, its colors became blindingly bright. Then the faint stripe of a second, outer rainbow appeared. Pictures taken from inside the car don't begin to do it justice.

In all my life, I have never seen anything like the brilliance of that rainbow. While I have no idea what it meant, if anything, I know for sure that I will never forget it.

• Other pics from yesterday's rainy hike--See Beaver Creek photos