Heartaches and Other Troubles

Above Gothic, Colorado


Well, we've been up north of Gothic for a while now, in a lovely flat spot across from a waterfall. About a mile from Emerald Lake. Fields of lupine and skunk cabbage and monkeyflower all around. Gothic is an old mining camp that's been taken over by the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. They have a tap behind the information building that they let me use. I've discovered that if I fill up a couple of 6 gallon jugs once a day, we'll never run out of water.

Electricity is another matter. Lately I've had to run the generator more and more, and we're still not catching up. Time was when an hour a day was plenty. I checked the water in the batteries, and the connections, and all seemed just fine. Then a day or so later, I discovered that looking back into the dark recesses of the battery compartment at the wires was not quite the same as "checking the connections". The nut on the one connection that was hardest to see and get to (naturally) was actually loose, and the ring connector, instead of being flat, was canted at an angle. This means the surface transferring the charge was the edges of the ring. Once I got that fixed, I resumed getting a charge out of life, or some life out of my charge.

Something like that.

Went to see a couple of movies in town, including Fahrenheit 9/11. Pretty good piece of propaganda, and entertaining. Of course it played to my prejudices. I doubt it's going to sway anybody that's already made up his mind, and especially not any of the two or three troglodytes on the newsgroup.

The road from paradise to Crested Butte runs through Mt. Crested Butte, the ski enterprise. Gradually the Aspen disease is creeping ever higher up the road. The town, not the tree: one millionaire's empty summer home after another. I guess some day Bill Gates or some lesser godlet will buy up everything to Schofield Pass. Visit while you can. It is a wonderful place to view vast fields of alpine flowers, and this is the time of year to do it.

Before it disappears under the avalanche of McMansions.

Indeed, as I was coming down the hill one day, Crested Butte itself disappeared. A low compact cloud had swallowed it up entirely, like the whole valley had been packed in cotton. Eerie.

One advantage of rich folks is that they like to put on airs, and that means me and forty bucks got to go hear a classical concert for the first time in months. Some guitar. Mostly voice, which is not my favorite instrument, but appearing there gave me an excuse to act moderately presentable. I spread a rumor that I clean up pretty good, and it's still going around. Just ask me if you don't believe it.

Janice had to go back to Georgetown. She retired as a schoolteacher in the spring, after umpty years. But, as any schoolteacher knows, few can live entirely on the pittance the Great State of Texas puts out. So she's lined up a bunch of job interviews as a counselor, part or full time.

We've had a good time together, despite the infamous mouse massacre. I miss her.

I'm been sleeping above 10,000 feet, and every now and then I wake up gasping for air. I had gotten used to it at Lake City. But now my chest has started hurting with a dull ache, right above the heart. I'm about to surrender to the better part of valor and head on down to the Blue Mesa Reservoir, and sit there by the water for a while.

We looped and looped around this area in the truck. I've seen most of what there is to see.

I have a very modest lifestyle. If necessary, I could live on a good deal less than I do. But I like to have a little extra oxygen on tap.

Make that a lot.

Breathing is one of my favorite things. Heck, when it comes to breathing, I'm a prodigal son of a gun.


Bob

Hiccups in Paradise

Above Gothic, Colorado


We moved here today.

We've been camped at Lake San Cristobal for a couple of weeks, and you've heard me admire the place ad nauseam. Well, there's been a few hiccups in paradise.

Just as well. You can get too used to things going right. The brilliant sunsets begin to look a little ragged after a while, the mild weather boring, the geese annoying as they fly around. Lean against the shady scented pines, and there's apt to be a little sap on both sides of your clothes. We've shopped and hiked, explored and partied. I've eaten as well as an ex-fireman ought to.

Time to move on.

Of course, there's more to it than that. I have discovered another platitude to add to my continuing list of the Grand Universal Rules of Camping. Ahem, and to wit:

"There is no place so perfect that a few more people can't ruin it."

We've been lucky, really. Half the time we had the whole place to ourselves. But a couple of days ago we drove up from exploring the jeep roads to find a 4 wheeler and a tent parked in our site. Right next to the picnic table.

"Well, that won't do," I said to Jan, and went over there to ask the fella what he thought he was doing.

"We just wanted to get into the shade. It ain't hurting anything there."

"Yes it is. You've got your own campsite. Use it. The line runs from the post right along here..." As it happened, all the trees were my side of the line. Which is why I picked that place. There were 4 adults and 3 teenagers in this group, along with 4 ATVs. Hell on wide wheels. Two large tents. The other tent was crowding the line, but largely on their side.

Another guy spoke up. "Mister, you're not using that space. There's no need to be petty about it."

"Petty?" I was amazed. "You've set up a tent and parked a vehicle 10 feet from where I'm gonna try to eat in a little while. And have a campfire afterwards. And you're right in the middle of the campsite I paid for. Hey, I've been here 10 days, and you're the first party that couldn't tell where the line was..."

"That guy, the camp host, he said it was okay. We already had to move from over there." I looked. It was the Handicapped site. "He said anywhere over here."

"Wait a minute." I looked him right in the eye. "The camp host said you could park in my site? That ain't right."

"That's what he said."

"Well, then, I'll go get him and we'll see." So I drove off, and sure enough he wasn't in. I left an intemperate message with his wife, and went back.

Lo and behold, in that short period of time, they had moved both tent and toy. About 15 minutes later the camp host came by, clutching his radio, but I told him to forget about it.

These guys were pushy, but they had one thing going for them, as neighbors. They were gone all day, and went to bed early. That same day, on the other side, somebody arrived from Dallas with a 3 axle toy hauler full of Harleys. These guys were at least interesting to talk to, and had some shiny machines to admire. Like the others, they made a lot of noise getting away, but they didn't hang around.

Maybe this stuff is cumulative. But it seems to me the absolute worst neighbor we had was the motorhome that arrived yesterday. They didn't make much noise. In fact, they spent almost all of their time inside. What did they do that was so heinous?

Light. Searing light. All night long.

They had a couple of small propane tanks. The sort that comes with BBQ pits. Screwed into the top were a couple of omnidirectional propane lanterns. They put out a hissing light, easily visible in broad day, that completely ruined the peace of the campfire. Stark shadows of trees were painted on the walls of the trailer. One look in that direction and you were blinded. We had to sit with our backs to it and try to have a fire. It felt like our necks were getting sunburned. It lit up the inside of the trailer.

Pretty quickly we gave up, let down the blinds, and went to bed. I hope the guy that invented that thing is barking in hell.

Thing is, they didn't even use 'em. They went inside. These searchlights were still buzzing away the next morning. When we hooked up and left for Crested Butte, around 11 o'clock, the people still hadn't come outside. I decided not to say anything.

Perhaps it will be left to them to discover if the obverse of my recently minted Rule is also true:

"Any campsite can be improved if a couple of neighbors leave."

Okay, that's the rant. Oh. Well, there were the mice.

Ever since I got here, little white and gray field mice with round ears have been scampering up unseen from somewhere, and nibbling their way through the bottom cabinets. I'd heard a little rustling, but one day an oblivious rodent actually ran across my feet while I was reading on the couch.

That does it.

I bought a rat trap and three mouse traps at the hardware store in town. I sacrificed a little peanut butter for bait. And ever since, every night, I've caught an average of two mice. Eight and counting. It's scandalous, I know, but when I hear that little "clack" in the night, I just smile softly and go back to sleep with all the practiced ease of the pure in heart.

I don't know how they all got in. I'm not using the electric cord but an hour a day or so. There's no holes in the bottom of the trailer, except where drain pipes come through, and I've taped around those.

One of the ladies at the laundramat suggested Downy softener sheets, so I bought some and wadded them up in the hole where the electrical umbilical comes out. The next day there were little shreds of downy on the ground. I think they ate the rest.

I do have a bad habit of leaving the door open, which is how what is known as a "least chipmunk" came to number among the litter of bodies by the big tree.

It's getting to Janice, I think. I heard her refer yesterday to the place where we eat and sleep as "the trailer of terror and death." She mostly reads outside.

Really. Like I said, it's probably time to hitch up the Karma and move on. Besides, these little vermin have finally figured out how to lick off the peanut butter without invoking the "clack". Maybe I'll try cheese. See how that works.

Hahahahhahahahahahahhhhhhh. You can run but you can't hide. Well, okay, you can hide. But you better not eat.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I'm an eclectic reader. Somewhere I picked up the idea that Buddhists have these little windwheels. They write out their prayers, attach them to the vanes, and, as the wind blows, with every circuit it sends their heartfelt orisons wafting up to heaven in an endless stream.

I wonder if they hear the "clack" up there?

I could be in trouble.


Bob

Creede Cats and Woodcarvers

Lake San Cristobal


After the 4th, we really got lazy. Things settled down into a routine of reading, eating out, napping, watching the lake, napping, building a fire, napping, feeding the chipmunks, napping, etc. We did take one long walk in there somewhere. Gasp. We drove over the Alpine loop, a circuit including both Engineer and Cinnamon passes, on moderate 4wd mining roads, with stops in Animas Forks, Silverton, and Ouray. I threatened once or twice to take the kayak out on the lake, but they were empty threats. I could see the whole lake from my campsite. What was there to explore?

I did figure out how to check my email over the pay phone at the Phillips station. I saw a poster about a Woodcarvers Convention in Creede on the 12th. Well, it didn't require any real effort beyond climbing in the truck, and we HAD been burning through a lot of firewood. Our sole hint of excessive exuberance. The sawmill was in Creede. Why not?

When we got to Creede, we decided to take a tour of Main Street before going up the canyon to the woodcarvers. Right away, as luck would have it, we found a sporting goods store. It was crowded, with most of the crowd traveling in a counter-clockwise direction. I joined the parade. I found a couple of hats that didn't fit me, and then stood lost in admiration before a dog kerchief that said: "If sniffing you is wrong, I don't want to be right."

I really wanted that thing. Problem is, I don't have a dog.

Janice tapped me on the shoulder. "Look there. Now that's Colorado." Sure enough. Somebody had set up a wedding gift registry in the sporting goods store. What a great idea.

Creede has almost fully embraced its reincarnation from blue collar mining town into tourist destination. T-shirt and sandwich shops galore. Expresso machines steaming up a storm. All they really lack is a taffy emporium. O yeah, and fudge. Both may be in there somewhere. I admit my eyes glazed over, there for a while.

We were attracted to the one door that advertised books. I finally found a few, after winding my way through about 60 feet of heavy brush - key chains, post cards, crystals, blown glass hummingbirds, fools gold earrings, faux indian jewelry, and the like. I lost Janice somewhere amongst a thicket of dresses, but I figured she'd show up eventually. She likes books more than I do. They had maybe a hundred of them, mostly Colorado stuff.

There were even a couple of hardbacks, and one was called something like "The Big Book of Cowboy Poetry". Simple stuff, sing-song in rhyme and meter. A few of the longer comic pieces were entertaining, mostly of the "rustic shows up the dude" variety. I must 've been getting into it more than I thought, though. When I was trying to make my way out, through a tangle of coathangers and handbags, and wishing I'd brought the machete, I heard a lady back over in there somewhere complaining about her husband wandering off. I started to yell over the hedge and ask which way he went, since "off" was exactly where I wanted to be. But then I sensed the plumb poetic quality of her lament, and the bard in me just jumped right out there:

"I thought he was my husband.
I thought he was my pard.
But now he's gone and left me here
Without a credit card."

Ah, yesss. It's timeless troubles that inspire true Art.

Speaking of timeless, I ran into an old friend down the street in an antique store, and he flat snubbed me. The store is called "Rare Things", and it's kind of interesting. Well above average. My friend was out cold, draped across a display case. He's a big orange cat called Frio.

It's unlikely anyone will remember this without prompting, but just about the first of these random reports I ever wrote concerned this cat. Back in the fall of '01, he was just called the Town Cat. My God, has it been that long? You can read about it here.

I finally got Frio's full story from the girls at the counter. It was the winter of '96. A black night. 20 below zero. Nancy, the gallery manager, was returning home with friends. Just as she crossed the Rio Grande, she saw something off to the side. Urk. She slid to a stop. Backed up. And there he was, managing to look pitiful and maybe a little scary at the same time. Who knows how he got there. They tried to pick him up, but his tail and left hind leg were frozen solid to the bridge. Being girls, of course, they didn't have any tools with them. His ears were solid ice, and his foot was all bloody where he'd tried to chew it free.

He was a real mess, and not long for this world.

Gradually, they worked him loose. He lost a little hair. They woke up a vet, and he stayed in hospital for a month. Then he moved into the Rare Things Gallery, though he wanders around town a lot. He's very popular, but aloof. They call him Frio, because he was found Frozen on the Rio.

He was still limping when I first saw him back in '01. I thought then that his leg was bloody, but finally figured out it was some kind of medicine. I don't know if he still limps. He wouldn't get up from the counter for the likes of me. Just another tourist, messing with nap time. The girls say they all work for him now. He's fat and sassy. Not a bit chastened, that you can tell. Nary a whimper in his sleep. He didn't even notice when I took his picture. Forget about autographs.

Yeah, you're a celebrity now, big guy. But I knew you back when.

After the Creede Cat, the woodcarvers were something of a letdown. The get-together was in the convention center, which was underground, having been carved out of the mountain by miners. Same with the fire station next door. This wasn't an art exhibit, but a craft and hobby convention, with classes. Lots of people with their heads down, concentrating on not cutting themselves. Piles of shavings. Some were doing pretty well with an old jackknife. Others had enough little specialty knives to outfit a surgery, or a medieval torture chamber, but didn't seem to be doing any better. I guess it's sort of like fishing that way.

There were some carvings for sale, if you like trolls, wrinkled old cowboys, rickety outhouses, or walking sticks. One guy had some intricate, sturdy looking toys - trains, automobiles, and earth movers. I joked that he must have some lucky grandkids. He said they've got the toys, but they don't play with them. Their parents put'em up so they wouldn't get broken.

Well. What a shame.

I bought what in other circumstances might have been called a gimme hat. There weren't any carvings I wanted, and I could see that lessons would be wasted on a slacker like me. I might be able to work up a half decent troll, after a year or two. We went on up the canyon to take a few pictures, but got hit by some pretty good sized hail and turned back.

We stopped at the sawmill on the way out of town and got another pickup load of firewood. Different guy in charge this time, so it cost five dollars.

Hell of a thing, inflation.

Bob

Independence Day

Lake City, Colorado


Come the dawn of Independence Day, we still didn't know how we were going to spend it. Part of any trip to Lake City ought to include at least one foray up over Engineer Pass, and down into Silverton and Ouray. There's still snow up there, and just below the snow Columbines are starting to bloom.

My brother recommended the 4th in Ouray. A hundred years ago, every wagon in town would gather up in the area of the Amphitheater Campground, festooned with colored lanterns, and after sunset they would all wind slowly down the serpentine highway, descending into town like stars from the night sky. Now they recreate that scene with jeeps and electric lights.

Though debased these days by a dearth of kerosene and horses, it still sounds like it might be worth seeing.

I consulted with our camp host, who has been here for time out of mind. He thought we ought to stay in Lake City.

"There's a pancake breakfast in the morning. Then a crafts fair at noon, and a street dance around 7 o'clock. And fireworks, of course."

"Pancakes?"

"This is the first year for that. The Sheriff's Department is trying to raise money for radios. I don't really know if those guys can flip a flapjack, but it ought to be fun to watch them try. We're going."

I expressed some doubt that I wanted to eat anywhere the cooks might be armed. He assured me that lead poisoning was the least of my worries. "Unless you plan to rob the kitty..."

An arresting prospect.

In the end we decided in the usual way: by putting off all decision until it was too late. Indolence looked a lot like Independence to us, on this particular 4th of July. When pleasure is your only purpose, laziness is not the worst of guides. We stayed in camp all morning, cooked our own ham and eggs, held books in our laps, and watched the lake.

What, again? Yesss.

We did go into town around noon, to pick up a paper and a coconut custard pie from the City Bakery. On the way back we passed by a little crafts fair in the Veteran's Park, and got out to look. There was the usual produce of idle hands, or so I thought - photos of mountain scenes, stick built wood frames and calendar holders, T-shirts and light leather work. No belts, darn it. Janice stopped to look at the photos, and called me over.

What she'd found is something I'd never seen before: quilted photographs.

A photo is printed on fabric, and then contrast is heightened by the highs and lows of custom quilting. It is striking. I bought one for the trailer. A scene of Blue Mesa Pass from below, with the brilliant yellow of the fall cottonwoods puffed out, the blue river neatly delineated between its banks, and the pass itself indented into the distance. Linda Ramundo, the "fabric artist", also had a few photos of pets, and the quilting brought out distinctive features, like the long nose of a German Shepherd, and those upright ears.

It was just craft stuff, but the idea holds potential for fine art. I bought another, of a road through aspens with a snowy mountain in the offing, as a gift for my stepson stuck in the heat back in Austin. They were quite reasonable.

Walking around town afterward, we made a second find, in a shop inserted into the long narrow frame of an old carriage house. Here there were various kaleidoscopes, made locally from leaded glass.

One in particular made its patterns from dried alpine flowers pressed between bits of poured glass. Janice got it as a coffee table item. It looked like a bit like a miniature ferris wheel on the end of a telescope. It was pretty heavy.

I thought about getting one, but I swear I saw words hovering in the air above it. Like Constantine. Only instead of "In Hoc Signo Vinces", the words just said: "Go ahead, break me". You learn to pay attention to stuff like this when you live in a trailer, where things are apt to slide around.

Well. Two items worth having in a single afternoon. This is so much beyond my usual luck in shopping that we decided not to press it further, and sat down on a bench in front of the ice cream store, licking cones like a couple of kids.

Then we drove back to take another look at the lake. Yes, again.

About 7pm we went down to pick a spot to watch the fireworks, and set up chairs at the edge of the grass in the town park. To our left was the Bud concession, where they had an area roped off with orange webbing for the drinkers.

To our front an energetic but rather formless game involving a frisbee was taking place. Twenty-five or thirty people on each side, and they seemed to be trying to throw the thing from one end of the field to the other, without someone from the opposing side catching it. There were more young people here than could possibly be native to the town. I suspect a lot of the local temp help had gotten the afternoon off.

May even have been some Belarusskies in there. Hard to tell.

These guys were earnest. One of them made a dramatic leaping catch practically in our laps, picked himself up with an oof and a rueful grin. "I may be old, but I still got it," he says. He might be 27.

I got up in disgust and went over to the truck to get the computer and check my email. As I passed by the Bud sign I heard a commotion, and some woman said "Well, I guess it ain't a holiday unless there's a fight." I didn't pay much attention. I couldn't see past the fence.

I went to the pay phone at the Phillips 66 station and got my mail. It didn't take long on the phone card. Then I locked the laptop up in the car. When I cleared the back of the beer concession again, I saw 4 or 5 people sitting on a stocky bearded guy, almost holding him to the ground. He was squirming and cussing. They were all rolling back and forth on the ground. He was a handful.

"Let me up! I can whip all you pissants!"

"Sure you can, Luke. You could whip us all. But then what would you do for friends?"

"Luke! Calm down! He's gone now. You wanta spend another night in jail?"

"$&%$#!!" says Luke, or something like that. Then he started crying. Four guys held his arms and legs, and a woman sort of straddled him and tried to sweet talk him.

"Luke, you be nice now, honey. You be nice and we'll let you up."

I cocked an eye at Janice, who looked a little pale. All this was going on about 30 feet away.

"I can't leave for a minute without all hell breaking loose, can I?" I said lightly.

She failed to smile. From what she could tell me, it seems Luke had gotten in an argument with his Dad, and they both threw a few wild punches. Then Luke knocked the old man down, and somebody grabbed Luke from behind and both of them went to the ground. Dad disappeared, and more people piled on Luke. It was amazingly bloodless, and they all seemed to know each other. I figured the thing was under control, and none of my business anyway. Bunch of drunks.

There had been some Sheriff's deputies around earlier, and what looked like a plain clothes constable, but they were nowhere in sight now. After a bit Luke seemed to calm down, and they let him up. We had a front row seat for the bleary but tense reconciliation. The woman seemed flush with a few beers herself, and came right up to Luke.

"You okay, Honey?" Luke shoved her back, and she staggered. One of the men came between them, and said "Nadine, you stay away, he's too violent for you. Nadine. " Nadine came on anyway, and then the guy grabbed her.

"Go on home, Luke, before you end up in jail."

So Luke thinks it over, or maybe he's just trying to stand up straight, and then he starts walking. When he gets right in front of Janice, maybe 20 feet away, he turns, leans over, and screams right at her.

"DID YOU ENJOY THAT?!!"

Here comes the Posse again, one of them looking straight at me and saying "Keep cool, keep cool." Then the woman turned on Luke:

"Luke, that's enough! Go home! You're drunk!"

Duh. But sure enough, Luke shambled off, stumbling into the street, not to be seen again.

We moved over in front of the ice cream shop. Less dangerous than beer. The band was playing, and pretty soon those frisbee flingers over there forgot their game and gathered up in front, and before you know it a line dance was rolling back and forth in full swing. The pavement was none too smooth, and scattered with gravel, but it didn't seem to slow 'em down any.

Backed off a bit, even little kids got into it. There is a delight in watching the delight of children. It doesn't take much to start it, and it lasts a long time.

Jan got some pictures. I'd left my camera at the lake.

Gradually more and more people were showing up. All shapes and ages. Flowing in. It was really getting dark. Twilight can last for an hour up here, but finally it does end. The street began to fill up with lawn chairs, and we joined them. With everybody talking, kids chasing each other around with their sneakers sparkling, dogs watching carefully, with strained politeness, as food passed over their heads from hand to hand, the band sorta receded into the background. Then there was a commotion up front, and quiet spreading out from it, heads turning, and the faint strains of a familiar tune. Then a wave of people rising, a rustle as they fumbled for forgotten hats, and everyone was singing.

"What so proudly we hailed..."

And there, at the end of the street, in the twilight's last gleaming, the first rockets started up, streaming sparks, from the hill behind the water tank - thoomp, thoomp, thoomp - and a long breath later the black and star-strewn sky above Lake City filled completely up with red, and white, and blue.


Bob

Loose in the Moose with the Belarus

Lake City, Colorado

Today we decided to splurge and try out Lake City's finest for supper. The Alpine Moose is owned and operated by my friend Bruno and his bride Frederika. I've mentioned them in years past. Twenty-five years ago they left France and began to operate a series of restaurants in the United States. Most of that time was spent in Corpus Christi. Then Bruno decided to retire. That lasted about a year. Now they are in Lake City. And after all this time, they are still apt to break into French at a moment's notice, especially when the subject is food.

I'd noticed an odd music in the air, walking around Lake City. A charming accent that I couldn't place, wafting out of the kitchens about town. Perhaps eastern Europe.

The girl who set out the wine glasses at the Moose didn't say a word. She was smiling, slim, a little exotic, and silent. Perhaps 19, 20. When Frederika came to show us the menu, I asked about her.

"That is Irina. She is a good worker. All these girls are good workers, this year. They come from Belarus...you know? That thin little country on the side of Poland?"

"I've heard of it. They seem to be all over town. How did they get here?"

"There are agencies. They email us every year, starting in March or April."

"I guess you need a lot of help in the summer. More than you can get around here."

"Aaaah! Local girls. I can't get one who wants to work. They want to work today, but not tomorrow. Not on Saturday. They have boyfriends, always something. Look at me! I am 64 years old. I did not think I would be working this hard at 64. Do I get off? No. There is always work to do. But these....are good girls. They know how to work. When you show them how to clean, how to make a bed, they will do it that way every time."

"It must be exciting, coming so far. They get to use their English, see the world a little, maybe learn how to run a business..."

Her shrug was eloquent. Very Gallic.

"They come to make money. Here they have a place to sleep, we give them food. They have no expenses. The money they make, they can take it home. That girl that was here, Irina. A very clever girl. Her mother is a doctor. Her father is a mathematician. Do you know how much a doctor makes in Belarus? One Hundred Fifty Dollars a month! These girls can do very well here..."

"So you like this arrangement?"

"O yes. These girls come to work. Work, work, work, work, work." She was pounding the back of one hand into the other, a rhythm of emphasis, her voice rising with Dickensian satisfaction.

Then, all at once, she seemed to recover her focus. "Would you like an appetizer? These little roulettes of salmon, with the capers, they are very good. We smoke this ourselves."

Over the appetizer, Janice and I talked a bit about what we were going to do on the 4th. I wondered what the Belarusskies would do. Probably work, work, work. Then the girl Irina brought me the wrong soup.

"Wait. I ordered the shrimp gazpacho. This is chowder."

She was a plain girl, really, her face unadorned in the light of day. But it was a mobile, interesting face. She always seemed to be about to say something. There was a little cloud across her features, the sort of mark that any struggle in life will place, even on the prettiest brow. It will deepen with age.

But she is so young, it is almost nothing. I may have imagined it.

Just then her eyes were wide, as though in shock. But still, it seemed, she did not trust her English to reply. She bobbed her head instead, her fingers fluttered a mime of apology, and the chowder was silently whisked away.

She carried it toward the kitchen perched high in one hand. Mine was not the only gray head that turned to watch. As she approached the door, another waitress suddenly burst through, carrying a tray. Immediately Irina responded, made a little pirouette to the side, balanced almost on her tiptoes, and proceeded through the closing door.

Disaster averted. Very graceful. But perhaps there was also something formal about it, something knowing. A performance. She was waiting on these people, but she was also aware of being admired.

The little Minsk.

Bruno came over as I was backing off from the shank of lamb.

"What have you done to my poor little lamb? Look at this!"

I did. Nothing but a large white bone remained on the plate, and that may have been gnawed.

"It is always a struggle, my friend. Sometimes it wins, sometimes I win. You never know."

Bruno raised a single brow. I admire a man who can do that without reminding you of Spock. "Oh, I think you win, a lot. Most of the time."

"You have a very good eye..."

"But poor manners. Would you like a dessert? More wine?"

We took him up on both. Janice had the key lime custard. I had another glass of cabernet. Briefly I wondered what Irina must be thinking, as she cleared away the dishes. Three weeks of her mother's life, consumed in a single meal?

Well. All I can say is, it was worth it.

I'd recommend the Alpine Moose to anyone passing through Lake City. At the very least your meal will be delicious. If you are lucky, it may also be an education.


Bob

Summer Snow

"Moonlight begins
with a thin clear taste,
like water from a tin cup.

Dispassionate, it flows
into all the night's small places. "

-- Anonymous Bosh



Lake San Cristobal

When I got up yesterday, the Floydada family was already gone. I moved over there. It's a nice site. A little patch of woods to break the wind, and a long stretch of bluff to watch the lake and the sunset.

And what sunsets. Occasionally I have seen as gorgeous, over the ocean, but not often. And the ocean seldom acts as a reflecting pool, repeating the clouds and the mountains all around.

You can also sit on the bluff of a morning, and watch the fish slowly moving back and forth below, ignoring the fishermen. You can sometimes see clear to the bottom from up here. I can tell a lot of these guys are Texans, trained to hit the water early. Up here, you want to do just the opposite. Wait till it warms up. The water's too cold until 10 am. Or even better, after lunch. I've watched them lay a line right in front of a huge carp, and while the brute might turn and look at it, he won't bite. The trout are no better, though harder to see.

It's freezing down there. They are barely animate, let alone hungry.

The physical beauty of this place is mesmerizing. You can spend hours just watching the changing light. I did, a book in my lap. And then there is the altitude, above 10 K, which induces torpor in those of us not acclimated. I found myself gasping and stopping to rest during a hike to the bottom of the lake and back. That never happens at home.

It's also very dry, and dehydration sets in before you know it. Your lips begin to crack, your eyes dry out. The sun is deceptively powerful. Even intermittent, filtering and floating down through the trees. The top of my head grew bright red. Even sorta crispy.

All in all, it's a lot like that old song: "Killing me softly with your love." You can easily fall in love with this place, and all the time it's slowly trying to do you in.

Bogie said it best: "It's like this, sschweetheart. I won't play the sap for you, see? I won't." And yet I did.

Which is to say, I didn't get much done on Friday. But I didn't care. When you are at the Axis Mundi, where everything turns around you, it seems gauche to complain. And then around 6 pm Janice showed up from Georgetown, to spend a couple of weeks with me before going back to work. She was tired from the drive, and as for me, after a hard day spent sitting on the bluff, I found cooking steaks on the grill and steaming asparagus, together with the arduous mixing of the salad, about as much as I wanted to do. It wore me out. We burned a little wood afterward, and went to bed.

I woke up at 4 am, hearing the soft plop, plop, plop of something rubbing or falling on the trailer roof. I squinted at the thermometer: 39 degrees. Brrrr. Then I looked out the window.

Snow!

Is that possible, in July? The pine needles and branches had a thin frosting of white, and it was all over the road, and the rocks leading down to the bluff. This window was right up against the pines, and too narrow to see much. I stumbled out of bed, found my glasses, pulled on my pants, and opened the door.

Waitaminnit. No snow. Cold as bejeebers, but no snow. What the heck? I went back in and looked out the bedroom window again. There it was, dazzling white. Back to the door. Then I saw what had been hidden by the trailer, and by the door.

It was Moonlight.

Shining behind me, pouring down, painting all the world the palest white - the upper parts of the pine needles, the caliche in the road, the rocks below.

I've never seen it so bright. It was hard to look at. It glared. It washed out the stars. It seemed liquid in the air, and solid where it hit the ground. It almost bounced.

As astounding as snow. Almost.

'What is it?" Janice mumbled. "Mmmmmmmff", I replied. I'm not 'fessing up to this. Not yet, anyway. But still I watched out the window for a long time, wide-eyed, warm once again, trying to pierce the illusion. It must be the angle. Without my glasses it's hard to tell.

I think I almost had it figured out when I fell asleep.


Bob

S'more

Lake San Cristobal, Colo.


I blew into Creede around noon yesterday, and stopped at a BBQ joint on the south of town. Had a brisket sandwich out under the trees.

Then I took a turn around town. Stopped at the Forest Service office to make sure I could have a campfire. Bought a sack of expensive groceries at the Kentucky Belle.

Just down the street I came across an outdoor wiener cafe. A roly-poly guy in an apron, who I took to be the cook/owner, was sitting at one of the tables in the back. Nearby, smoke was pouring from a pit about the size of an oil drum.

"You look like somebody who could answer a question for me."

"Depends on what it is."

"You know where I can buy some bulk firewood? I need a pickup load."

He broke into a smile. "Try the sawmill. Five miles west, left hand side."

I thanked him, but declined a polish dog. He was doing a fair business otherwise. The entire establishment consisted of a covered trailer about 8 feet long, which had a fridge and supplies and a window to push plates out of, maybe 6 or 7 picnic tables, a stack of cordwood, and a couple of cookers. I don't know what he paid for his parking spot. It was right in the middle of the foot traffic on the main drag. But other than that, he pretty much had his overhead under control.

The Rio Grande Valley west of Creede has sprouted a lot of developments and fishing camps over the last few years. Summer homes, I guess, but some of them are sizable. The sawmill was right in the middle of all that, next to the road. It looked deserted, but the gate was open. Stacks of lumber everywhere. Finally I saw a couple of dogs, and nearby an old guy slumped over in a pickup, eating his lunch. He directed me to the back, where there were 3 or 4 long windrows of cast off cuts.

I filled up the pickup as high as I could manage and still clear the fifth wheel. Looked like a month's worth of campfires, unless I got in with some drunks. The bark side of the wood was charred and burnt over, and I got a little sooty. I asked the guy about that.

"Oh, well, yeah. This come from the fire over to South Fork." He grinned at me. "Hell, it's guaranteed to burn. It's done burnt once already." I couldn't argue with that.

"How much I owe you?"

He pursed his lips and looked the load over. "Two dollars?"

I paid him. My life complete, for the moment, I set out down the valley to Lake City, in brilliant sunshine, through some of the prettiest ground in Colorado.

When I pulled up at the lake, my favorite spot was taken by a couple from Floydada, Texas, and their three kids. I took the site next to them, leveled up, grabbed a beer and some reading matter, and set my chair at the top of the bluff. Ahhhh. Peace and quiet.

"Hey! Y'know what? We gots two moms." There was a boy and a girl about 5 and 6, and an older girl around 8.

"Hey. Well. Good. Two moms. AND a yaller tent. You got everything you need."

"What you doin' ?"

"Readin'. What you doin'?"

"We're talkin' to YOU." "We went fishin' today, but we didn't catch nothin'." "That's 'cause HE wouldn't shut up, and he jumped in the water an' scared the fish, an' he got a spankin'."

The boy didn't seem too upset about it. He just shrugged. All in a day's work.

I put down my book. "Ya'll gonna be here long?" The little girl just shrugged. The older one, Mikaela, scrunched up her face for a moment, and allowed as how she thought they were leaving tomorrow.

"Our tent fell down in the rain. It went Kerploosh!" "We were all inside." "It was scary." "It was fun!"

I looked over there, where their father was fanning a smoky fire. Mom was busy stirring something at the table. One big tent for everybody. Lots of lines strung between the trees. Clothes and towels hung up on 'em.

A couple of chipmunks zoomed over the edge of the cliff, came to a jerky stop, then skittered on toward the trailer. The little ones whooped and took out after them. Mikaela sighed. " I can't get anything to come close, 'cause a THOSE two."

A distant voice called. "Mikaela, ya'll leave that man alone. Ya'll come and eat now."

"Yes, ma'am. Bye, Bob." And then the young'uns: "Bye, Bob." "Bye, Bob." The boy made a little song of it as they trooped away. Byebob, Byebob, byebob byebob byebob.

My beer had gotten hot. I looked up at the trailer. And there, sitting up on the back of my couch looking back at me through the screen, his bushy tail erect and fanned out behind him like a throne, was the dim outline of a squirrel. He quivered. I swear he was laughing.

I'd left the door open. Great.

I yelled and beat around behind there with a flyswatter for a while, but he wasn't coming out. I decided to just leave the door open and hope he would find his own way out. I ate a ham sandwich and looked at my book for a while.

It was about 8 o'clock and starting to get dark outside, the sun going down behind the mountain. So I grabbed another beer and went out on the bluff. Started a small campfire. Thank god for charcoal lighter. The wind picked up a little. Sky above and lake below were quiet, filled with red light and clouds. Sparks flew up from the fire.

And then, inches away, over my right shoulder, I heard that little voice again.

"Bob? Hey, you want some S'mores?" "I made 'em myself." "No you didn't, I did." "We all made 'em." "They're real good."

Ah, well. Of course I do.


Bob