I went West, as humans often do, onward and upward as it were. I had a hankering for some solitude and the scent of pines and maybe, if I was lucky (and I was) a little mist to reconnect me to my mystical roots. It had been a number of years since I was up in the Estes Park area, not since before the flood and it was apparent to me as I wound up the road from Lyons to Estes… either my memory failed me or the geography was much changed. Perhaps a bit of both. Just me, the dog, my trusty rusty truck and the mostly open road. It was a rainy weekend (snowy up higher) and the usual weekend mountain crowd was scarce.
I couldn’t tell you exactly where I was, other than on the East side of the Estes Park Valley, because I wasn’t paying attention to the road signs. I was in one of those “in-the-moment” moments and my decisions to turn here or there were made in a flash and guided more of less by observations of “This road looks less busy than that road”. The roads got less and less busy, more and more steep, turned from paved to dirt… to “is this a road still?” Until I came to a gate “GO NO FURTHER!” it spoke with a commanding presence. And also it said “no overnight parking”. From there I took to the trail on foot with one fewer companion (Rusty had to remain at the Gate you see). Fortunately my preparatory skills had served me well and I had with me a coat, and a wooly hat, because it was freakin cold and wet up here, wherever “here” was.
We walked, we talked… well I talked to Io [a Dog] anyway until she realized I wasn't actually giving any directions, then she took off into the woods and I talked to myself after that. I found some tiny plants under the snow to identify thus satisfying my brain. I trudged around in the snowy mud and sniffed the air a lot, thus satisfying my desire for pines and solitude... and appreciated the scent of oncoming snow that wasn’t coming from Greely. I climbed a rock, Io tried to follow (see attached picture) and the wet mossy rocks were slick and rough on my bare hands. My jeans became damp and mysteriously green colored. Eventually the clouds gathered and darkened, the wind picked up a whistle while playing with the trees and I was having visions of thunder snow that turned me around and sent be back in the direction of old Red.
On my way in and then out, I marked a number of camping spots with pretty spectacular views which I imagined populated with friends and loved ones huddled around crackling campfires. I figure they’d be huddling because I’d bet a buck that those views translated to windy campsites.
I went West, as humans often do, onward and upward as it were. I had a hankering for some solitude and the scent of pines and maybe, if I was lucky (and I was) a little mist to reconnect me to my mystical roots. It had been a number of years since I was up in the Estes Park area, not since before the flood and it was apparent to me as I wound up the road from Lyons to Estes… either my memory failed me or the geography was much changed. Perhaps a bit of both. Just me, the dog, my trusty rusty truck and the mostly open road. It was a rainy weekend (snowy up higher) and the usual weekend mountain crowd was scarce.
I couldn’t tell you exactly where I was, other than on the East side of the Estes Park Valley, because I wasn’t paying attention to the road signs. I was in one of those “in-the-moment” moments and my decisions to turn here or there were made in a flash and guided more of less by observations of “This road looks less busy than that road”. The roads got less and less busy, more and more steep, turned from paved to dirt… to “is this a road still?” Until I came to a gate “GO NO FURTHER!” it spoke with a commanding presence. And also it said “no overnight parking”. From there I took to the trail on foot with one fewer companion (Rusty had to remain at the Gate you see). Fortunately my preparatory skills had served me well and I had with me a coat, and a wooly hat, because it was freakin cold and wet up here, wherever “here” was.
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