Invited by my wonderful sister in law, Kay, Kip and I jetted off to spend several days in her rented digs on Pine Island, off the west coast, near Ft. Myers, Florida. I had surgery in January, and was just about cleared to run, bike, swim, lift my luggage, as we embarked. Eager to bag the state, I entered “us” in two 5k races in a row, in Ft. Myers. I figured Kay , Kip and I could walk the first, and I would run the second, solo, to see how much fitness I lost through surgery and recuperation. Little did I know how long it took to drive the short distance on and off Pine Island back to Ft. Myers. Honestly, it would have been a slog.
Sometimes the travel gods look out for the unprepared. Our arrival at the house on the southern tip of Pine Island boasted three surprises. One: we would be sharing the house not only with Kay but also with her in laws, David and Susan, who hail from North Carolina and who proved adept at impromptu sing-alongs, sunscreen sharing, condo buying, and card games. Two, our nearest neighbors were two bald eagle adults and their flight fearful, fully grown chick, who delighted us daily with his awkward attempts to wield his wings. And three: a breast cancer walk was scheduled for the very next day, March 12, my 54th birthday, a block away from the house. Eighty percent of the family agreed to join me at 8:30 am for the walk, despite their not being “morning people.”
Team Kerry, She Made Us Do This
The walk was invigorating, the terrain, of course, flat, and the locals turned out in support with water bottles, doggie play pools, and live music, both at the turnaround point and all day long at the community center. We all completed the walk at a brisk pace and cooled off in the screened in pool right behind our house, along the canal. Kip and I set off later in search of a marina to make plans for a boat trip later in the week, and we all drove to Bokeelia at the opposite end of the island for a sunset birthday dinner at the island’s best restaurant, the Tarpon Lodge.
I let everybody sleep in Sunday morning and borrowed Susan’s rented beach cruiser for a sunrise start for my challenge: an end to end to end ride on the bike path that runs from St. James City to Bokeelia, 18 plus miles. Pine Island is far less developed than most of Florida, and I greeted the dawn thusly:
Cattle for Company
True, there were no hills, but no uphill means no downhill, no coasting, just consistent work. To add to the challenge, the bike seat kept inching down, increasing the difficulty and stressing my knees and thighs. After a little over an hour, I reached the halfway point in fine fettle.
After a little walk and a few minutes break, I remounted my single speed steed and… discovered that I had been benefitting from a tailwind the whole way. Now, my tail was turned and so were my fortunes. Eighteen miles ahead of me, into a 15 mph wind. Now I was working! No wonder the people I had met going the opposite way on the path had looked like they were in super slow mo. And I thought they were just much older. They probably weren’t that much older. Feeling older, actually a year older on paper, I was not about to quit, and I trudged away at the distance. It took me significantly longer to do the second half, but I completed my challenge and hit the pool and had my second cup of coffee. Woohoo!
David and Susan spent the rest of that day buying a condo closer to the golf that they love, and we toasted their success that night ’round the corner at the Waterfront Restaurant and Marina in St. James City, topping it off with the chocolate peanut butter mousse cake. One slice is more than enough for 5 people. Don’t eat this alone unless you are, in fact, a moose. Then we played cards, a fun new game called Meet it, Beat it, or Eat it. I mostly ate it.
Day 3, Dave had a member guest tournament and the rest of us headed off- island to Airboats and Alligators, the closest opportunity to ride airboats and experience the Everglades. Lake Trafford, Immokalee, Florida, is reputedly the headwaters of the Everglades, and it truly does have an undeveloped shoreline, mangrove swamps, grasslands, and a mass of alligators. I expected to be disappointed but I wasn’t. I saw some wonderful life birds too, including boat-tailed grackles, coots, and the marvelous purple gallinule.
The only downside to the road trip was the mass of cages on the porch of the little cabin. Inside were scarlet and blue macaws, gray parrots, parakeets and lovebirds. The signs all screamed DON’T TOUCH! THEY BITE! But as I walked out onto the porch, the first bird cheerily said “Hello!” and every bird turned its shoulder into the bars of the cage, desperate for contact, begging to be stroked and touched. So I did. It’s cruel, tantamount to imprisoning a three year-old child for life. I wanted to take them all home with me.
We drove home, stopped to try to see manatees at Manatee Park, but the waters had warmed and the manatees had left their winter hang-out near the power plant. And it was back to the pool and to Myers Rum and OJ cocktails.
Our final day, we did a dawn assault and caught the 9 am boat to North Captiva, the shelling capital of Florida. It was a foggy morning, and became a foggy day, which was fine with me, since I prefer shade to sun as long as it’s warm. The first person we met as we carted our beach chairs and towels toward the gulf side beaches said, “No, there’s no beach here. At the end of the road, there is a 6 foot cliff. Even my dogs can’t get down it. They are not supposed to tell you that you can walk this island. You are just supposed to eat lunch and leave. The public beach is at least a mile down that road.”
Husband Emerges from North Captiva Fog
She was wrong. She was mean. We walked a bit, ran into a resort, so we tried the road past the firehouse, and we found the beach. It is gorgeous, very quiet. True to its reputation, I have never seen so many undamaged shells anywhere else. They are piled up two to three feet high in certain areas. In other spots, there are none. Those are the places where swimming is best. The water was cool, no undertow, delicious. Two happy hours on the sand, and we trekked back to Barnacle’s Restaurant, where we had sangria and yummy salads, black beans and rice, and fish sandwiches. Susan and I schooled a younger couple in the game of cornhole, and we made our triumphant return to Pine Island on the 2:15 boat. Another great day, a relaxing and fun vacation overall, and a wonderful chance to get to know extended family. Now that Susan and Dave have a house down there… we may spend more time in Florida as the years go on.
17)Topeka, Kansas- 6.55 mile solo run on the Landon Trail
18)Crested Butte, Colorado- 5k Cross country ski, 2 winter hikes, and a solo 4 mile snowshoe to the Oh Be Joyful Wilderness Area
On the road again. I LOVE the road. GPS and EZPass have freed us all from so much of the worry and uncertainty of travel. Just ask Google, and go. Laura was home with us from Chile, applying for jobs all over the country. She landed an internship in Crested Butte, Colorado, with a travel firm: www.elevenexperience.com
They customize vacations in Crested Butte; Iceland; Chile; Harbour Island, Bahamas; Amsterdam, and other locales. They like Laura’s “eclectic” resume, and I relished the chance to help her drive out there.
We had thought the internship started December 1, which would have meant dashing to Crested Butte just after Thanksgiving, but the company asked if we could get there by November 17. Sure thing! After a safety check at Prestige Auto, we loaded up the CRV. After four years of owning the car, we were pleasantly surprised to discover it has all wheel drive, a big plus for a Colorado car. I had one eye on the weather and the other on the road as we set out. A storm was developing and forecast to hit Colorado on Monday the 16th. We left the driveway Wednesday the 11th, after coordinating schedules with my sister and making sure she was around for Dad and Kip was around for Morgan, a very sad dog who hates to see packing that doesn’t end with him in the car.
Laura and I traded off driving and navigating as we crossed Pennsylvania. This takes FOREVER. We were listening to a book on tape called Squirrel Meets Chipmunk, by David Sedaris, which turned out to be a collection of fables like a modern day Aesop, showing the foibles of present society. It was, at turns, hilarious, but otherwise hard to take. We resorted to olden day methods of passing the time, like talking to each other and listening to the radio.
It was Veterans’ Day, and I found a site in Pittsburgh called the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial www.soldiersandsailorshall.org . Pittsburgh was not far off our path, and it seemed like it would be a perfect place to pay our respects and take a bit of a break. On a whim, I texted my friend Kevin, whom I had met on the Selma march. He lives in Pittsburgh but is frequently on the road himself, conducting interviews and researching his book on civil rights history. Amazingly, he was home, and agreed to meet us at the Memorial. We found free holiday parking and a space right in the middle of UPitt. After a slow motion run and reunion hug across the impressive stairs fronting the museum,
we spent a happy and contemplative hour reviewing the exhibits, aided by volunteers who were both well-informed and thrilled to host us on Veterans’ Day. Apparently, it had been a quiet day… lest we forget, Americans, come on, we are better than this.
With Russ and Kevin
We asked our guide, Russ, what led him to volunteer at the memorial. He said that he was a Vietnam era vet, and he was running through the San Francisco airport in 1972, home on leave, on top of the world, in uniform, rushing home to marry the love of his life back in Wisconsin. A fellow American spat on him as he ran by. He said, “Regardless of what you think of the Mission, you have to honor the Soldier.” And so he volunteers to help ensure respect for veterans- past, present, and future.
The guys agreed that Laura and I could not leave Pittsburgh without visiting Primanti Brothers and tasting the signature sandwich of the city. This entails eating your French fries between the bread along with cheesesteak, lettuce and tomato. It’s spicy, hearty, a bit too much of a good thing, but we did it and hit the road, wanting to put ourselves in line for our next major stopover- Louisville, Kentucky. On we went, logging a twelve hour day, crossing through the top of West Virginia and choosing a Comfort Inn on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio as our first overnight stop.
Day 2, Thursday, November 12, weather: perfect
On our epic cross country drive of 2011, Jen, Laura, Emily and I had been forced to skip Louisville, the home of horse racing’s heart, Churchill Downs. It was summer, and a tornado had struck the racetrack, and it was closed. We had watched the storm clouds race away from us as we approached, like Secretariat pulling away from the field in the 1973 Belmont. This time, the weather was fine, and we arrived in downtown Louisville just as the first race was finishing up. We paid our $3 (!) admission fee and trotted in over worn cobblestones, past darkened ticket windows, their wooden frames worn away by a century’s worth of gamblers’ elbows.
A square of light shone ahead, and as I approached the opening, I saw a lone racehorse, cantering back up the stretch, heading for his groom and his bath. I started to sprint, yelling back towards Laura, “A horse! A horse!” We laughed, reminded of the history podcast we had been enjoying in the car. The Secretary of State under Teddy Roosevelt once tried to explain the President’s personality and need for constant action by saying, “Remember, he’s six.” Me, too.
We found some other horses of course, and stayed for seven races. I bet on the fourth. There were two horses entered with names drawn from the spirit world- meaning alcohol. I bet on the 5 horse, Jello Shot Jodie, to Show. She didn’t show up at all. I should have gone for Tequila and Salt, because 1) I like margaritas, and 2), she won. The track announcer had some fun with the call, exclaiming, “Sweet Box O’Joe is exhausted.” Undercaffeinated, I suppose.
The Sixth Race, it was Laura’s turn. We are both horsemen, and we studied the large field as it circled the saddling enclosure. Our newest friend, a veteran handicapper, was just one of many voices touting the merits of the 17 horse, but Laura had her eye on a couple others. She made her selections and bellied up to one of the modernized but far less evocative tote windows.
She put $3 on number 12, Private Appeal, to show and $2 on number 2, Sir Dudley Diggles, to win. Number 12 was her favorite, but no one else’s, and was going off at 33 to 1. Private Appeal, aptly named, appealed only to her.
“And they’re off, in the Ally Financial Classic, one mile on the dirt. Private Appeal breaks smartly on the outside, with close attention from Sir Dudley Diggles. Moon Gate Warrior, the 17 horse, is showing some speed but under a close ride from jockey Emmanuel Esquivel. It’s a big field but these three are showing the early class down the backstretch. It’s anybody’s race, folks, because once they turn for home down the stretch, they will be up against a headwind strong as Muhammad Ali’s daughter.
And down the stretch they come! It’s Private Appeal, it’s Sir Dudley, it’s Private Appeal, it’s Sir Dudley, it’s– but wait! Here comes Moon Gate Warrior! Moon Gate Warrior wants a piece of this, Moon Gate Warrior digging his toes in, and here comes the wire, and it’s!!!…..”
It was her first time at the track, it was her first bet, she picked two out of the top three, and it was so exciting that even writing about it makes me feel like a little kid at Disney World. Churchill Downs is a sleepy place in the fall season, but we loved it. It is a not- to -be -missed pilgrimage for horse lovers. To watch them come down that stretch and hit that wire together and to share it with Laura was unforgettable. Even if she did clean my clock in the betting.
We stayed in Louisville that night courtesy of Air BnB, in a third floor apartment of a 100 year old home. The young couple who owned it had a two year old daughter, chickens in the back yard, grew their own vegetables, and provided us with a turntable and LPs: a trip down memory lane for me and the first time Laura had ever seen one. We walked to a local brewhaus called Holy Grale, tucked into a converted church, for a tasty dinner and a wide selection of Louisville suds. Laura bought me a beer with her winnings, and we toasted another fabulous day on the road.
Day 3- Friday, November 13-Destination, St. Louis. Weather, perfect. Our mission was to bring winter clothes to Emily at Washington University, hoping to arrive around lunchtime and treat her to a trip over to the Loop. Thanks to my sister’s habit of trolling the internet for fabulous activities, we also had tickets to the U.S. Mens’ National Soccer Team’s World Cup Qualifier against St. Vincent and the Grenadines that very night at Busch Stadium. I confess: I didn’t know there was a country by that name, but now I do.
I have a special relationship with the passage of time. Without really planning a specific departure time, despite crossing a time zone on the way, I pulled that car into the parking lot at Emily’s apartment at 11:59 am. Hugs ensued, and we met the cat, Ernest Hemingway, who likes to stick his feet into Emily’s mouth when she is asleep. Yuck. But he makes a good study buddy for her, when he is not howling to get into or out of her room. I should mention: this cat is not Emily’s. He really belongs to Em’s roomie. And I have had a heck of a time remembering his name. I spent most of the semester calling him Herman Melville. Come to think of it, maybe that is his name.
Herman Melville is not my name!
We made the short trek to the Loop. Avid readers of this blog (if there are any!) will remember that the Loop is the center of student social life within the city of St. Louis. It’s replete with restaurants of every ilk, but if you are really hungry and you walk within 75 feet of the door to Salt and Smoke, it is impossible to eat anywhere else. The aroma of the barbecue is irresistible. Pulled pork sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, delectable.
After lunch, Emily somewhat casually mentioned that she had a meeting that afternoon with the Superintendent of Schools for the City. Could we maybe give her a ride? I was wondering how she was going to get there otherwise, but sure, no problem. Oh, and could we give Charlene, her research partner, a ride, too? Absolutely. We picked her up in the shadow of the world’s largest Amoco sign, on old Route 66.
It’s so cool that undergraduates get a chance to do real world stuff. While the two students pondered a five year spell without a teachers’ contract and the effect that might have on morale and performance, Laura and I sat in the car, painting each other’s nails in overbright shades. After an hour or so, the researchers emerged, relieved and excited; the interview apparently went well. Then we three Haseltons headed downtown, just to the foot of the Arch, and trooped toward the stadium in the gathering wave of a sellout crowd.
It took the U.S. team a while to get into the groove, and it was thrilling to watch St. Vincent and the Grenadines get the opening goal. Their small contingent of fans was over the moon about it, waving flags and scarves and in fine voice. Eventually, the U.S. took control of the game, and the final score was something like 6-1. We left just a touch early to beat the stampede out and grabbed a quick dinner on the Loop, before bidding farewell to the youngest Haselton around 10 pm.
It’s hard to capture the elusive Emily on film. Here’s to a successful selfie!
We figured we would try to log some more miles, because the next day, I needed to be in Topeka. I wanted to bag Kansas. Laura drove until she was too sleepy to continue, and I navigated and made sure she was awake. We stopped at a dingy Super 8 just east of Columbia, Missouri, pulled the covers over our heads, and slept.
Day 4- Saturday, November 14- weather, perfect
I was up early as usual and dragged a cranky Laura down to the breakfast room, tattered carpets infused with crumbs, but the coffee was decent. I trundled her into the passenger seat and took the wheel, high-tailing it the 3 or 4 hours to Topeka and the Brown versus Board of Education National Historic Site. This museum is a fantastic place to immerse yourself in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s, when “separate but equal” was the modus operandi in education. Separate is not equal, as ruled by the Supreme Court in 1954, after suit was filed by the NAACP, and the case was argued by Thurgood Marshall, who would later take his own seat on the highest court of the land. Marshall contended that separate but equal taught blacks that they were inherently inferior, and he showed the Justices studies proving that black children chose white baby dolls. One such doll was on display. The expression on this boy’s face says it all.
Zoom in on the child. You need to see this.
Many of the exhibits left a profound impression on my soul, especially the corridor where visitors walk a gauntlet of jeering whites, an experience that mimics what students in Little Rock, Arkansas went through when schools were desegregated there.
Since my Selma March, my interest in this period of US history is much deeper, and I was happy to be able to explore this special place while simultaneously delivering Laura to Colorado and working on 50 in the Fifties. Before leaving, I visited the gift shop and bought a copy of Up From Slavery, by Booker T. Washington, on the 100th anniversary of his death. And now, in March, as I write, with Donald Trump rising and black students being shoved and taunted by his supporters, I feel we are going backwards in history.
Back outside, I shed a layer of clothing and got ready to bag Kansas. The Landon Trail runs right past Brown v Board, and I picked up the trail 200 yards from the entrance and picked up my comfort pace for a distance run. I have not been doing a lot of running this fall, outside of soccer games, so I felt that a reasonable challenge for me would be to take an hour’s run on this major rail trail. The terrain was flat, the temperatures cool, bright sunshine, a Saturday. I trucked along, the trail nearly empty. A little girl and her dad were enjoying a bike ride, and as I ran past their picnic, she said, “You run very fast!” That made me feel good. Half hour out, half hour back, and I ran past the start point, missed the car, circled back round. I guess I finished faster than I started. Not a bad effort, 6.5 miles in just under an hour.
We walked off my run by taking a stroll around the quiet area near the museum, and we found a friendly little Mexican restaurant with futbol on the telly and very good food for very little money. Regretting our lack of time (and in my case, energy) to do a walking tour of other important civil rights sites in the neighborhood, Laura settled herself behind the wheel, sun low and in her eyes, and we headed west into the proverbial setting sun. One more turn at the wheel for me, and we stopped, 8 pm, Colby, Kansas, the dinosaur nearly over the plains, Colorado in spitting distance, and I was thinking, maybe, that we needed to push for Crested Butte the following day. Blizzard warnings up, and the Continental Divide to cross, and all that stuff.
Day 5: Sunday, November 15, destination, Crested Butte, weather…
Yeah. Weather luck runs out. I wanted to make an early start to get across the plains of Colorado and in view of the Rockies, where we planned to get Laura some powder skis, but I couldn’t see the gas station next door. So we waited it out, and I bought some emergency supplies for the CRV. Jumper cables, flares, safety triangles. With the blizzard bearing down, and a winter of Colorado living ahead, it was the Mom thing to do.
Eventually, the fog lifted to reveal a picture perfect day.
Wind up toy!
Drawn by the beacon of a pink Cadillac in the sky, we exited the highway at the Route 50 Diner, an old silver bullet style establishment hard by the train tracks. We needed pie. The waitress wiped her apron and brought us coffee and strawberry rhubarb. Turns out the diner was shipped to that location by the owner ten years before from old route 66, then reassembled. A regular customer was chatting us up, and our waitress tactfully redirected our attention. She was watching out for us. Apparently, the gentleman was a con artist who had a history of bilking customers of cash for a phony charity. Thus assured of the friendliness of small town (no town!) Colorado and with bellies full of pie, we hit the highway.
All roads lead to the I70 Diner, and the Loaf n Jug
I will never forget the moment when the Rockies first loomed into view as we rounded over a hill:
Closer and closer we came, until we hit the base of the range at Colorado
Springs. We found a ski shop, and Laura found skis and arranged a terrific price, all within an hour. The storm was due to arrive that night, so we struck out with a full tank of gas for the Continental Divide. Winding along the river on Route 50, with our stegosaurus.
Canon City
Then up, up, up. There were skiers at the highest elevations and snow hugged the sides of the road. Down, down, down. I showed Laura how to use the engine to slow the car, knowing that even if we didn’t hit snow today, she would, soon. Penultimately, over to Gunnison, the last major town before Crested Butte, then north along Route 135 as the light waned.
The approach to town treated us to vista after vista of rock formations, desert plants, steer, and looming snow capped crags.
Home Stretch!
And after 2000 miles, 5 days, a bit of altitude confusion, and a slow cruise down historic Elk Avenue, we arrived at our home for the next 4 nights, the Love Shack, a HomeAway rental, a cute little miner’s cottage right in town.
When I needed 2 extra nights at the last minute, the owners were really accommodating. The price is right, too.
I felt a bit breathless at 8,885 feet, and I was breathing hard as I climbed up the ladder to my loft bed, but we had arrived safely, beating whatever weather might be coming our way overnight.
Crested Butte Commute
Day 6, Monday, November 16, Weather: Snowed IN!
We awoke to twelve inches of fresh powder and temperatures in the single digits. Silent, lovely, flaky. Laura’s job didn’t start until Tuesday, so we had the day to ourselves. We slipped and slid along the snowy sidewalks, soaking up the homey atmosphere of this old mining village and gazing up at the crested butte.
After the plows
We lingered at the bookstore that also sells coffee and tee shirts. I bought the softest tee shirt ever and it has become my favorite sleep shirt and the one that best describes who I am at this point in my life. It says, in big letters
Hike.
Bike.
Read.
The local museum was closed due to the storm and because the winter season hadn’t yet begun, but when the proprietor saw us gazing in the windows, she opened the doors and we blew in on the wind and explored it at our leisure. Next, we hopped the free town shuttle bus to Crested Butte Village, which is located well upslope on the butte and is the base lodge area for skiing. With the season due to open at Thanksgiving, the base was crawling with workers, but there were no guests, as yet, in the condos, and we decided there was nothing really for us to do there, so we hopped right back on the shuttle. Hungry for a late lunch, we found a soup and sandwich shack on a side road. The owner was crazy busy with some construction next door, but he had two vats of soup on the stove, and he left the door open so people could help themselves, paying on the honor system. Crested Butte is like that. Disarmingly charming.
It seemed we were not accomplishing a lot, but we were working hard anyway, acclimatizing. We continued our slow wanderings, found the cross country ski center, and decided to rent skis the following morning and hit the groomed trails. There are miles of them all over the area. After an early dinner at The Last Steep, we fell into our beds.
Day 7: Tuesday, November 17, weather, clear, very cold. Perfect weather for Nordic skiing, and there is no better place to do it than CB. Crested Butte Nordic Center, www.cbnordic.org is the gateway to trails suitable for everybody, beginner to expert. They have a wonderful junior racing program and also sponsor a dizzying array of social events ranging from recreational skiing to yurt parties and bonfires. This early in the season, they only had one trail fully groomed and ready, especially after a major storm. It was the 5k loop known as Ruthie’s Run. We set out to make it our own.
The trail wound through the woods and foothills on one side of the Nordic Center. It was just perfect for us. I am not a confident Nordic skier, though I am proficient at downhill. I can’t make turns on Nordic skis. There is no way this old body can drop down on one knee and make a telemark turn! It was fantastic fun to dig in and work hard on the uphills, then snowplow on the way down through dappled sunlight and shade amongst the pines. We both worked up a good sweat and brought up the color in our chapped cheeks, laughing and whooping our way round. All before 10 am!
The view from Journey’s End Road
Laura had work in the afternoon, so I set out on snowshoes on one of the ungroomed trails that lead off in every direction from town. I wanted to build on my morning ski and capture Colorado for my list, but mostly, it was such a beautiful day, there was no way I was going to sit on my butt.
Off to a blurry, bleary eyed start
I started off around Meadow Drive and paralleled County Road 4 for an hour or so, then turned back as I reached the end of a lake, unsure how long daylight would cooperate. I got out past the crested butte and found other views, such as
Thoroughly pleased, starting to blister, and just a trifle tired, I returned to the Love Shack and awaited Laura’s return from work, so we could plan my last full day. We conducted serious negotiations over serious margaritas.
I must have been dehydrated because I needed two.. Laura was very impressed.
Day 8, Wednesday, November 18, weather: clear morning, snow afternoon
Laura and I set out for the morning workout, thinking, “We don’t need no stinkin’ snowshoes.” We drove over to the base of the butte to do some hiking and were immediately faced with drifts hip deep, snow caught between two snow fences. That was worth a lot of laughs, but we trudged on, and made our way up the lower slopes of the namesake Butte. I have zero pictures of this hike. Laura must have been in charge of photos. But we were out about an hour and a half before she needed to head towards work. The winds shifted, and light snow was falling, as I headed out to the trailhead for my solo snowshoe adventure, destination: the Oh Be Joyful waterfalls. At the Slate River winter access point for snowmobiles and skiers, I learned I was in avalanche terrain and also mountain lion habitat. That’s a bit more adventure than I hoped for, but I trusted to my luck for a brief day hike. I noted that this fellow hiker seemed to be having a fine time.
Though I did remark that he was, in fact, running fast in the opposite direction.
Light snow cooled me as I entered the natural area, with no snowmobiles and only two other snowshoe enthusiasts in sight. On and on, past aspen trees piling up with snow, in a stiff headwind, getting cold now. I was on a mid level ridge, the river below me, and finally, I came upon a steep cutback road downhill, no tracks there at all, and through virgin powder 18 inches deep, I trundled my way down to the Oh Be Joyful Recreation Area. I went all the way to the riverbank, but with the water as high as it was and the temps so cold, I could not cross and continue to the waterfalls, still some distance away.
Oh Be Joyful in Solitude
I turned to go back up the hill to the main trail, and I saw that my tracks were completely gone, refilled by blowing snow. It was time to head back. The snow continued all through the evening, while Laura filled me in on her work day, and I regaled her with tales from the trail. Seems like Crested Butte will be a wonderful fit for her, and I feel so very lucky that we could share the adventure of her fresh start in a new and exciting place.
The next day, Laura drove me back to Gunnison to catch my flight home to New Jersey. I had a Thanksgiving dinner to host, and Emily was due home, and my excellent adventure was over… for now. Steggy and Laura are still out there, working, playing, making friends. I sent a little plastic horse named Enterprise out to keep Steggy company. I played with Enterprise 45 years ago. I look forward to playing in many more states in 2016. Next up- Florida.
The trail wound through the woods and foothills on one side of the Nordic Center. It was just perfect for us. I am not a confident Nordic skier, though I am proficient at downhill. I can’t make turns on Nordic skis. There is no way this old body can drop down on one knee and make a telemark turn! It was fantastic fun to dig in and work hard on the uphills, then snowplow on the way down through dappled sunlight and shade amongst the pines. We both worked up a good sweat and brought up the color in our chapped cheeks, laughing and whooping our way round. All before 10 am!
