A book I had bought and read in the same day started this madness. It was by a Woman who had moved from Ohio to Colorado. Her name was Mary. And Mary became the star and desined apprentice of a Native American Medicine Woman. Over the years she learned through her communion with Nature. That humans are creatures and as such are an integral part of the Web of living things on the planet. That we have a place in this Web. Ring of Life. And that if we acknowledge our place, the World has Everything we may ever Need. Food forever, the cure to any disease, Harmony with all creatures and Understanding. The good things we wish we could buy. But if we disregard our place in this Great Fabric (as you know we have from the Roman Empire to Ronald Reagan) we will incur the wrath of The Gods. I don't remember learning this in eigth grade but somehow believe it with all my Soul. Seems obvious to me at this point. But at the time it stole my breath. And in trying to regain it I became fascinated with the world this Medicine Woman was from. Must find her. I wanted to sit cross legged on the floor of her little pine cabin in the Rockies and feel safe.
This was just another step toward lunacy. Becoming Native. From the Earth and not just On it. I studdied medicinal herbs. Folklore and the Real History of America. I felt these things as I learned them. I bought a fifteen dollar map of Colorado to see if I could find the Medicine Womans cabin on it. Poured over it for days. Memorized the names of places. Durango. Steamboat Springs. Twin Feather Lakes. Oh to go there. Lakes nestled in the breast of a green mountain. Hawks and Bears and mountain lions. Where the land can still produce a Medicine Woman who knows the Truth. To set foot on such land became my driving force. Like lunacy. This was four years before and here was the third time I was headed Westward and the first time I would actually get up and into those Rocky Mountains. Where was Mary? Sitting silently in the shadow of some pines by a clear stream. Speaking with Birds. Waiting for poets like myself who make their way to her in ragged white robes. Burnt from wind and Sun and just a sip from the chalice please.
In the morning I check out the Sunglasses at the front desk. I love to do this. Cop and cowboy shades here. Heavy set girl at the desk has too much make up and hairspray going on. Smiles at me. Big red dress like Dorothy's Ruby Slippers. Lipstick to match. Same coffee as Indiana. Still cold windy. Eight hours not enough sleep again last night. No bother.
Clean and still wet in the cold car this morning. We decide unanimously not to drive a thousand miles today. Let's crash up in the mountains Somewhere.
Somewhere on earth are two Polaroid photos of this morning. We had pulled off the highway in the cold Sun shine to releive ourselves in the prairie. A train was stopped parallel to the highway. The exit road ran over top of the train. I wanted to pick some flowers for our wheat. Bright blue star flowers. And of course to climb up on top of the train. Photo of me is self taken. Sitting on the train itself and too close. Tracks over my left shoulder. Black sweatshirt, hair still wet and blowing long in the wind. Funny glare makes my eyes look black like a deer. Stupid ass smile. Then up on the road Trevor and James sitting on the bridge by the endless tundra range beside them greening into infinity. Ok. On to Denver.
People have told me "you can see the Rockies for hours and hours before you get to them. They don't even move. Takes all day." This is bullshit. These people have never been out West. You can't see the rockies until you are almost there. The mountains rise up suddenly and right at their base is the confusing mass of little structures known as Denver. Here I once turned North. Not now though. Pass me some crunch. More gas coffee.
All we saw of Denver was what I consider the outskirts. Of this I have spoken previously. Small shopping malls and miscelaneous jungle of short buildings. Heavy traffic moving exit to exit. Big green mountain right behind it. Gentle guardian spirit or overlord waiting to pounce. I don't know. I hope the latter. Denver looks dirty and brown from here. "Down in Denver all I did was die die die" wrote Kerouac. He was an alcoholic. Tell it like it is Jack.
The road rises right through the little city and becomes a black band up over the watching hillsides. I can see Snow from here on the peaks ahead.
In a handfull of miles we have risen up above and beyond Denver. Now out of sight behind us. Good riddance. Altitude pressing on my eyes. I can hear the change in the car's engine. Purring to a growl. Trucks whiz by. We are in a postcard. Pointed white peaks to either side. Black dots of aspens like a short Beard up the mountain. Rocks and valleys and low clouds and ear pressure. Blue fire above and cold air biting outside the just opened window. Play some music we have waited to hear. Let's find a place to camp.
I had looked over the years at Route 70 as it crosses the rockies. Straight over the spine. Wanted to do this forever. Treacherous and beautiful. Drop off's to either side to death. And something I had never seen before. Signs reading Runaway Truck Ramp Half Mile. Jesus Christ. Runaway Trucks. Up here. Road's not deadly enough. Does this mean an eighteen wheeler that is out of control or a Semi that took off while it's master was bullshitting with the eternal gas station Woman? Sick of waiting. I hope the former. These ramps are at the base of big hills. Just as the road turns left or right there is a deliberate extension of straightaway. Eight hundred feet or so. Heavily graveled and slow rising incline. A Runnaway Truck Ramp. I can only imagine the horror of a Truck herder having to use one. Or maybe that kind of nerve comes with the territory. Gives me the chills. The sign might as well read Runnaway Truck Crossing.
We are up somewhere near nine thousand feet above sea level. My head is going to burst. That is also the lament coming from my car. Going to burst. Climbing slowly. Clouds and alternate blue Sun. More Snow caps. Big gaudy houses placed oh so neatly atop otherwise nice peaks. Strategic acquisition. My mountain. Get away. But LoOk.
We pull off an exit and wendle down a back road for a break. Maybe a spot to camp. Soft dirt parking lot. Fresh clean spring laughs loudly at us from the pines. Crystal clear and cold as ice. Colder. The hills surrounding come to rounded peaks. Like mars or some other brown beautiful inhospitable place. Rattlesnake land. Sharp stones and orange moss. A popular pull of place methinks. Fill a jug with the ice blue water Well worn paths. I follow one up a little stream and there is an abused stained matress and crushed beer cans about. Welcome to America. Do the best you can. Who knows what oaths of love were whispered here beside this giggling brook and stars. Over Budwiseror or Coca Cola.
A brown Jeep Cherokee pulls in. A shaded purple nylon wearing skiier type kid. Checking us out. Looking for his dog really. Motions for us to come over. Long black hair. I believe his soul. What do you want? "Where you guys from?" he muses.
How can I lie? The licence plate tells all. Tell him where we are headed. "California huh? Wow."
I should lie more. People are humbled by California. "Smoke some herb?" he mostly whispers. We look to one another for silent vote. Ok. Trust him. He produces a huge water pipe. Too huge. For show I think. Moves it to our vehicle in the kind of secret way that makes you wonder what the drug laws are like here. Maybe he is going to produce something fantastic. What does he have I wonder. Turns out he has very little. I think he was hoping we had something good. Little brown flakes from Mexico originally. Ours too.
He looks half Indian. Beautiful tan skin and long black shiny hair. So we fill the car with smoke and he let's rip.
"I'm from Vale. I used to be a ski instructor? But I got tired of it. But I got this sweet job now working for my landlord? He has some condos just up the road. I'm the freekin lifeguard at the pool. I just sit back and watch the girls Suntan all morning. But I took today off though. He doesn't care. I don't even call him."
Ok. But then.
"S'pretty cool. He pays me like so much money. You see my car?" the Jeep. We see. "Used to be my Dad's. Just a piece of shit. It's worth a fortune, I just beat the hell out of it. He gave it to me a few years ago. My Dad is so rich."
I am secretly jealous. His Jeep has more class than he. No wonder his dog is hiding. He has lost Trevor's interest. I don't know that he ever had it.
"Hey, is that water safe to drink?" Jim Dove asks the kid seeing Trevor holding that jug. I already knew what he would say. "What that water over there? Aw, no way man!" He informs us.
Jim knew it. Trevor tries not to call attention to the jug of water in his hands. Me neither. Neither of us want to hear "you aint' drinking that are you?" Because of course we are. And I will continue to do so once this kid is gone. Despite Jimmy's familiar doubt. The water was clear and perfect to taste. Maybe it would kill me. Spite the pool boy. Die of crystal water.
He starts to try and tell us where we can camp. This is only somewhat valuable because we do want to camp but suddenly I don't believe this boy. And I sure as hell don't want him camping out with us. Best to play nice and escape.
Somehow we free ourselves from him. I studied the detail on his jeep painstakingly as we pulled away. Faded brown Navajo pattern. To honor it's memory like a beaten dog you befriended one afternoon. We drank almost all of that water Trevor and I. I am still alive to tell this tale.
Back on the highway – airway as the pressure feels, we scan for a place to camp. Miles ahead a sign reads Silverthorne. Sounds fine. And how about some hot food for a change.
The imaculate restaurant serves breakfast all day. My favorite. Eggs are fine at any time if you are starving. I'll have five and pancakes. We are stony and road silent sitting in the round booth. Seems like I haven't had anything but room temperature crunchy food for days. Mountains out the windows looking in. Drooling over the colorful ice cream dishes on the menu. My God look at this one. Run my dry fingers across the glossy picture. Blonde equally stony waiter floats up to us.
"Um, we got pot roast, um, black angus steak with rice, um did I say pot roast?"
How much for five pancakes?
"Um, pancakes. . . with two sausages pancakes are like, I dunno five bucks."
I give a quick shrug. Never mind, I really want those eggs.
"You want pancakes? I'll hook ya up with some pancakes."
We are grinning like fools. What a nice kid. And he does hook us up. Pancakes and eggs sunny side up with cheese and sausage. Homefried potatoes and onions and please leave the ice cream pictures. Syrup and orange juice and coffee. Real coffee in a ceramic mug. We stuff ourselves stupid. Best eggs I ever had. Trevor looks to faint.
I walked to the mens room timed strategically to bump into two nice looking young ladies who were striding across the parking lot. Both taller than me and mountain girls. Freckles and gold hair. They turned around in sync to smile at me. Eye contact. Score. Back to the table to gloat and more coffee.
Full to brimming. Have I ever felt this good? We decide to look in yon mountains for a place to rest our weary skulls. Hike a bit and a bright fire. Turn in early. The waiter is too happy to suggest a place. Up the road and left up a dirt path. Best place around. So Ok. I believe in his pancakes. A fat tip for pot roast boy.
The winding road through the mountains reminds me of Idaho. She snakes like a band around hills and is gone. Vales and meadows flower starred and around us and too pretty to believe. Steep dirt road. We follow it upwards forever. At points becomes so lumpy we have to crawl. The clearings are full of impossible blue flowers and short grasses. I have never seen such flora. And at the top of this road a mystical and abandoned village that spooks us into turning around. Small and handmade cabins just off the road to either side. Many of them and each beautifully made. Long deserted. Hidden by a sudden and new forest of black birch. Hidden almost too well. Yikes there's another. And I should probably have thought that Mary and her Medicine Woman were up here but instead I though of Charles Manson. Small secret stay out communities well protected. Someone could have shot us from a window and disposed of us – car and all – and we would have never been seen again. Too bad, this is just about what brought me here. Small cabin and white barked trees. Flickering birch leaves like green coins in the air. Land of the secret mountain men. No tresspassing though I can't recall having seen a sign that said so. Sign from God I think. Back down.
We spend the better part of a few hours rumbling around looking for a spot to camp. Meadows are lucious but thorny. Brambles say not here please. Community of big mammals like beaver mice. They squeal at us from about ten feet. Then are gone. And another Polaroid lives somewhere of this moment: Trevor sitting Indian style on the roof of the car. He is pictured with arms slightly akimbo conversing with the mountain before him. Green hillside and a galaxy of flowers and the car a small red carpet beneath him. Mountain listens to him thoughtfully.
We finally choose a spot. Golden meadow and pines. Whitecapped peak just over the treeline. Ancient stream talks to itself over which is a bridge obviously made by idiots like ourselves and just across it the perfect spot. Between icy brook and rocky hillside. Sparse aspens let the light in. All the firewood we would need. Mid June and did I mention forty degrees out. We are at eleven thousand feet and we need that fire.
My little tent and I first met by the side of the road. I had responded to a classified for a tent never used. Ninety bucks. My pal Jessie and I decided to go splits. We met the owner (age 9) and his Dad in their driveway at dusk. Dark Sky and red brake lights. Mysterious blue and green nylon sack and the old switcheroo. Never even opened it to loOk. Thank you sir. A nine year old scores ninety dollars. Thanks kid. I have spent a great deal of time in this little nylon hut. First with Jessie in Virginia in a freezing November Rain.
I pitched the tent none too expertly and Jimmy made a little fire. Trevor is the Fisherman. His soul is dark skinned with a white Beard and stands in silvery waves up to his waist casting his diamond net into the surf. So he stalks the brook and appraises it's value for Fishy tennants. Sun is going down and time for a quick hike.
We climed over the rocky hill against our campsite. Made a wide circle counterclockwise. Best to keep it simple. I cannot fathom how lost you would get up here. Hopelessly I think. And be quiet there might be Bears. Up the hill down the next and up again. Shade from the aspens and worn jagged stones. Air is too thin. Finally a marsh of tall gold grass and water beneath. A clear path across the marsh has been lain. Probably a moose or a grizzly. Hiking like this is invigorating. Exploring with the fear of death. Well out of our league here strolling through the hillsides of the Rocky Mountains. No weapons or anything. Just a lot of stupidity. Head out into the marsh. The grasses mesh beneath our feet like snoeshoes. Keep our tootsies dry to the other side. Surreal moment in the marsh thinking a Bear might be waiting ahead. Could this be it at last? Thankfully no.
The marsh leads to a brook – our brook which empties itself here some thousands of yards below our tent. A tricky crossing where the water is thick on beaver sticks and roots. Trevor's eyes gleen like a cat at the still dark pools. What silver Fish live there? Our feet are a little wet. Rolling meadow beyond enjoying the view. Yankees high stepping with wet sneakers.
Back at the fire we jam the tent full of sleeping gear and boil a little water. Couscous long awaiting a campfire. Quick to cook hard to ruin.
"Ya know" says Jimmy, and odd that he always begins with ya know when he is going to tell you something he believes you don't know.
"Ya know if a Bear comes, you shouldn't climb a tree. They can climb trees you know." I look around for the survival school students. There are none. This for some reason annoys me. I proceed to tell Jimmy that he is too referential. Too by the boOk. That he has found only the statistical on this journey of interest. Numbers and such. A halfhearted argument. No rebuttle. Breaks the tension though. A mild tension but one that has built up. Ashes in the couscous. Darkness falls. Screw it.
The tent is a little too small for three. By dark morning I awake and Jim is gone. I can't seem to use his space so I too load out of the tent. Drag my sleeping back to the car. Trusty backseat always does me right. There's Jim in the car. Studying a map. Ok. Showing interest in navigation at Sunrise. I am glad of it but still sleeping and excuse me please. Back to sleep in a cold ball.
When I was just a boy, my Grandfather used to tell me stories about black Bears in Vermont. Perhaps he merely mentioned them. I used to dream of them all the time. Once a big grizzly chased me in a dream after stumbling upon her baby. Through New England maples on a warm Autumn day. It caught me and clutched my head in it's jaws like a vice. I can remember that dream just as vividly today as if it had happened yesterday. Many Bear dreams. The Native Americans have their say. Perhaps I was a Bear in another life. Perhaps I was killed by a Bear once before. Something. I used to think that it was a dream of my death. That I would one day be killed by a Bear. And as I got older and faced the alternatives, it seemed a romantic if brutal way to go. No Bear dreams tonight though.