After witnessing lives altered in such a dramatic fashion, we skip on our way. It is what we humans do when we can. It is only those whose daily lives are turned upside down by such a tragedy who cannot do this. It seems harsh. But it is what happens. After a few deaths in our own immediate family, we have come to realize that cards, flowers, hugs and casseroles are as much for the closure of those giving them as for those receiving them. The family finds themselves as much in the position of comforter as comforted. For the flower and casserole and hug givers, closure can be found in doing, in being involved and helpful. But of far more meaning to the family is the card, the casserole, the flowers and hugs that happen long after the fact, after they begin to wonder in anyone even remembers their loved ones anymore.
The week before the deaths, B and I made a weekend trip to Cedaredge, where B's cousin lives. We spent the day with Wendell and Michelle. The guys played golf, us girls hiked Crag Crest, up on Grand Mesa. Sorry, I forgot the camera. But take my word for it- a breathtaking hike. In more ways than one, if you are a flatlander. The top of the Mesa is about twelve thousand feet elevation. The views are incredible.We did take the camera when we went to the Black Canyon the next day. The photo is of B
and me, with a several thousand feet deep hole behind us.On to more recent events, B and I did take our first portion of or vacation- two days, three nights in Moab, and a day in Fruita, the Western Slope's up and coming mountain biking destination town. In Moab, we dragged into town later than anticipated, courtesy of a tanker spill on I70, did our small part to help out one of the local fast food franchises, and stumbled back to the motel, hitting the sheets early in order to prepare for an early morning bike ride. Our first day in Moab, we did Slickrock Trail, all 10.5 miles of it, for the first time. Other times, we have dabbled, but we have never ridden the entire loop. A summer of biking actually showed, I was pleased to discover. Drops and ledges that I have hiked over other times, I was able to ride over this time. Part of it was being clipped in- it was not an option to bail, so it was fall or ride over it. Most of the time I chose to ride over it, except for the time I tried to bail on a wicked steep up the side of a mound of slickrock. The Stumpjumper is rugged, bu
t all of me coming down sideways on the back wheel caused a bit of damage. I bent my rim, loosened brake calipers, and took out a spoke. Since we were several miles down the trail, I threw the spoke under a rock, so nobody could accuse me of littering, a helpful local helped me fix my brakes, and I have ridden with a wobble ever since. But it was a Ride. The trail humps, jumps, and winds itself through an optically endless field of petrified sand dunes, and swoops close to the edge of the Colorado river canyon, to provide an eagle's view of the wide, muddy ribbon of river far below, then follows the same rim as it curves around and towers over town. We stopped to look down on the distant roof of our motel, with it's rustling cottonwoods and aqua kidney shaped pool, so near, yet such a grueling, hot ride to reach it.Back at the jeep, we endured a bit of well-earned taunting from the "old guys" who finished first, and rejected the idea of another ride until the next morning.
But the next morning, we were back in the saddle by mid-morning, grinding our way over the layers of the Morrison Formation's loose entrada sandstone on a relatively new trail known as the Sovereign single
track. It was a fun trail, although not for beginners. A few of the climbs nearly killed us before we succumbed to walking our bikes. But the downhills were so sweet, if a bit loose.The next day, we hit Fruita on our way back to Grand Junction. We blundered into Over The Edge Sports, a quintessential bike shop with worn hardwood floors, the smell of an old building, and bells on the door handle. I didnt see the gearheads with long hair, but I am sure they were about. The staff has been largely responsible for designing a major part of the trail system as well as, apparently, an ongoing sibling-type squabble with the Bureau of Land Management over multi-use trails in the area. They also print their own guidebook. Referring to it, we found ourselves in the Book Cliffs, on trails built for mountain bikes by mountain bikers. Banked turns, rhythmic flow so carefully planned that one hardly noticed one was climbing. And one scary, exposed downhill- a steep, harrowing ride down an eroded dirt ridge about two feet wide, in a howling sidewind. Yep, yours trulies put their feets down, the hundred foot rolling tumble in the event of a williwaw was just a bit too much of a threat. By the way, a williwaw is a sudden, unexpected gust of wind. Look it up. (Grandpa Jim would have just called it a "puffa wind", as in "must have had a puffa wind through here last night, to pull off the bin roof like that."...never mind that the wind was a consistent forty-fifty miles per hour, all was fine till the puff came along.)
We spent the night in Junction after salad, steak, and endless dinner rolls. I bought a hat. Forgot to shave my legs for the third day in a row. Fell asleep long before B did. Slept like a baby in a pillowy king sized bed. In the morning, we drove home, unloaded the jeep, loaded my bike back onto the rack, and drove to Keystone. Ahhh, loam sweet loam. The Colorado trail, damp, soft and cool under the trees, the smell of rotting leaves and needles, a breeze that carries the bite of fall. An hour and a half
up to the top of West Ridge, a full hour of downhill. Cool off in the stream crossings. Such bliss, to be back. After a week of biking world famous desert trails, it is just so wonderful to be home, where it's ME that's the local, it ME that knows the trails. It's also ME who leaves the trail, climbs to the top of the ridge, and uses my cell phone to call B, who tells me to go north when the trail makes an unexpected Y, because that is the spur which will connect me with the trail which will connect me with my jeep in an hour. Funny how whole portions of trail can be erased from one's memory in between rides. At least for the directionally challenged. In case of disorientation, I always have a plan B. Because B remembers the name of the street corner on which the most insignificant things might be found, and can give anyone turn by turn directions.I wonder sometimes if all is as it should be with that man. He can find anywhere, is never lost (and i am not even using sarcasm) and when he balances his checkbook, it comes out to the penny. I have a treasured memory from before we were married. I am perched on his tractor seat, a tea stain down the front of my white sweatshirt, tomato stain on the waist, and notice some grease under one of his nails, so I grab his hand to dig it out. He is nearly beside himself with adoration (it's my story, so i can tell it how I want) at this dirty creature next to him who seems not to care that her clothes bear witness to the
fact that she gets more food on herself than in her mouth, and does not think twice about digging dirty grease out from someone's nails with her own. I am just so cute and unorganized, he tells me. He would rather have me outside playing in the dirt than in a spotless house, slaving for him, anyway. I take an evil delight in repeating those statements to him five years later. When I do, he says he would have said anything back then, but saying I DO significantly increased his freedom to be honest. And that he likes clean laundry much more than dirty. My mother was wise when she told me to prepare myself, because the very things that bring us together can just as easily drive us apart. And then, you've just gotta love 'em anyway.
