Lean on Travel

This past year was very lean on travel outside of the DC area.  If you include going to southern Virginia as travel, which seems like going to another state since it and Northern Virginia are so dramatically different (sorry Virginia, you never should have taken the area ceded originally to the District of Columbia back through retrocession in the nineteenth century, because Arlington County along with Fairfax County usually provide statewide Democrats with the margin they need to win), I ventured forth a little bit more since I went to Hampton Roads twice.  (The room at Fort Monroe where Jeff Davis was imprisoned after the Civil War.)

The first time was for pleasure, as I visited my cousin at Buckroe Beach in late August as I recovered from surgery earlier in the month.  The warm, briny water of the Chesapeake Bay where it meets the Atlantic Ocean was good for my surgical cuts and, I believe, hastened my healing.  (My cousin Liz.)

The second time was when I went down in November to be an inside poll monitor in Newport News on election day.  To say that I was surprised when I got back to my motel and turned on the TV late that night after an exhausting 15-hour workday would be an understatement, but the next day I visited the Mariners' Museum where I observed restoration efforts underway on the gun turret of the famous Civil War ironclad USS Monitor, which sunk in a storm off Cape Hatteras and was raised a century later.  (A full size wooden replica of the USS Monitor which you clamber aboard is alongside the museum in the park.)

I went to Buffalo twice for work, once in March and once in May, and then I promptly retired.  No, the two trips didn't have anything to do with my retirement, except as they figured in how I prioritized my work (active litigation) and how a manager (since departed from the agency) who had 1/3 as much experience as I did thought I should be spending my time (dead-end investigations).  (Beef on Weck in Buffalo.)

I went to North Carolina to visit my college roommate in October.  That was a fun trip where I did a little sight-seeing, sailing, electioneering and fish-eating.  (Jimmy's front yard.)

And last month I went to Colorado to inspect some property.  That's it!  (The splendor of the Rocky Mountains.)

3d Bucket Trip Day 2.

Day two on the river got underway at noon, after we ate a breakfast of eggs and hash browns, packed up our campsite, manhandled the three boots up the steep, muddy bank, carried them 50 yards down the shoreline past the unnavigable diversion dam, put them back into the water and lashed all of our stuff onto them. Seven miles ahead was the supposed highlight of our trip, the three-quarter-mile long Stateline Rapids, rated a solid Class IV+.

The guide book said it was a mandatory scout location, walking the river from both banks. After we navigated Stateline, the book said, the rest of our 37-mile trip would be easy, with only a couple of Class II rapids downstream from there. (Left: The Southwest desert was starting to bloom. Photo by B.)

That was reassuring because everyone was nervous about Stateline. Us greenhorns were afraid the water would be too tall and fast and we might not make it, and the river men were afraid the water would be too shallow and slow and we might not make it.

It was assumed the women would walk down Stateline on the shore. The men were quietly querying each other as to what we would do.

It was known that J and G, our two expert river men, were intending to take each of the three boats down the long rapids, in turn. Would any of the other five men accompany them?

I have already stated that I had felt an unease about this Bucket Trip from the start, fearing that the Dolores river trip might be a wee bit unsafe. My disquietude, especially in light of the somber, serious discussion of Stateline Rapids in the guidebook, had been occupying my mind and I had put my finger on what was bothering me.

I had decided that the worst fear I had in this life was of dying by drowning, and I was facing my fears now. Actually, unbeknownst to me, I was a full day away from confronting this fear head-on.

Towering cliffs closed in upon the river on both sides as we made our way down stream. By mid-afternoon, we heard the roar of Stateline Rapids and could see the agitated water ahead. (Left: High cliffs crowded in upon us on the river. Photo by B.)

We put in on the west bank and walked down a dirt road that allowed us a view of the long expanse of rapids. The upper rapids were especially ferocious, and since from the left bank we couldn’t see the entire length of the preferred passageway down the right-hand side of the river, we rowed across the river and repeated our scout on foot on the other side.

The cautious captain of the 4-person boat decided to portage. Three-quarters of a mile is a long way to portage.

The long boiling rapid, with equally forbidding looking upper and lower parts, had gotten the attention of all of us. One of my trip mates said he wasn’t going down that tumultuous rock-strewn chute on the raft and that I shouldn't think that I had to, either.

That sounded comforting. Let G and J take the boats down the rapids, and we’d watch from the bank and help out somehow if they got into trouble.

But I couldn’t do that. I offered to crew with G and J as they prepared to shove off, and the three of us put the smallest boat, the 4-person paddle boat, into the river so we could paddle it partway down the rapids to a portage point mostly through the upper rapids. (Right: Wrestling a boat down the upper Stateline Rapids. Photo by B.)

Everyone watched from shore as G and I, following J’s commands, tore frantically into the river with our paddles as the boat spun round in the wild current and bounced off rocks like we were in a pinball arcade. My heart was in my throat as we hurtled down the rapids and then safely made calmer water in a diversion channel and paddled to the shore at a portage point.

The two bigger, less maneuverable oar boats waited upstream. Jy took his turn at crewing alongside G, and under J’s command, the largest boat put into the river and came down the rapids while we all watched from shore.

We had thought our problems at the diversion dam the evening before had been tough. The trip’s troubles were about to begin.

3d Bucket Trip Day 1

The first day on the river was very short and very hard. We didn’t get on the water until 5:30 in the afternoon of Monday, May 3d, and then we only went three miles down river.

It took forever to get organized at J’s house in Montrose, to gather all the equipment and drive to the put-in place on the Dolores River at Gateway in Colorado. The day before, our hosts had ferried cars around so that there were vehicles were waiting for us at the take-out spot in Utah, four hours away by road. (Right: The Dolores River in Colorado.)

Everyone had a lot of stuff, packed into waterproof bags. I had two duffel-bag sized drybags myself.

Lashed into the boats were three 70-pound metal bins of refrigerated food, dry foodstuffs and liquids, plus four 20-gallon jerrycans of potable water weighing about 80 pounds each. There also were several large metal boxes containing kitchen items, a fold-up table, chairs, propane tanks, stoves, charcoal, tarps, the latrine and various other sundry stuff.

Everything had to be rigged onto the boat so it would stay no matter what. There is a saying on the river that came to be proven absolutely true on our trip: Dress to swim and rig to flip.

(Left: The boat I rode in with Jy, middle, captained by G, who oared from the back. The life vest I was wearing absolutely saved my life. Photo by B.) There are some descriptive terms on the river that also came to be proven true. The way was "bony" which meant there were a lot of the rocks exposed above the surface which made for a difficult passage, and the water was "skinny," meaning it was shallow and likely to hang up a boat.

There is a dam upriver of our put-in spot, and our two river men were dissatisfied with its release, reckoning the purposeful discharge from the dam was barely sufficient for us to progress downstream. The river flow was 1200 cfs, or cubic feet per second, and they wished it had been 2,000 cfs at least.

More water means less danger, apparently, because less rocks are exposed. This was all pretty esoteric to me.

Down river we went in the late afternoon, the leaky rubber pontoon boats taking on water constantly and losing air continuously. The boats were so laden, overladen, with all the gear and everyone’s stuff that they rode low in the water.

For an hour the trip was idyllic. The three boats paddled and oared on a broad calm river through a wide canyon with high hills and towering cliffs defining the nearby horizons.

Then we approached what the guidebook said was a difficult Class III rapids at a diversion dam. I didn’t know what a diversion dam was but a far off din of roaring water down river that steadily grew to thundering definition garnered my attention.

The river was calm though, because we were in the pooled up backwater of the diversion dam. Finally we could see a tiny line of leaping foam running across the broad water horizon, signifying the trouble spot.

We put in to shore and got out of boats to take a look. The sight was astonishing. (Left: The Diversion Dam. Photo by B.)

In Colorado, ranchers own the bottom of the rivers which run through their property and hence, they can indiscriminately disrupt the water flow of the river. Here the rancher had bulldozed huge boulders across the river during the summer, when the river flow is minimal, and created a diversion wall for the water so that it would flow into an artificial channel the rancher cut into one bank leading into his fields.

The two Coloradans explained that by partially diverting the river, the rancher thus saved the cost of electricity that running a pump from the river would entail. The problem was that the diversion dam made the river impassable at that point for our three small boats.

From the bank beside the artificial dam, we watched the water pouring over the obstacle in a tremendous torrent, hence the roar, and falling three feet or more into a series of holes in the water below the dam. There were jagged rocks strewn about everywhere on any potential landing points amidst the tortured water underneath the dam.

The two river men, who had never been on this stretch of river before, saw the obstacle as a problem to be solved, getting the boats over that dam. They discussed using this or that tongue of water flowing over and past the dam to shoot over the barrier rocks, and then the quick actions that would be necessary upon hitting the boiling water in the boulder field below the dam.

The leader of the paddle boat, T, nixed that talk entirely. "Portage," he said simply.

It was 7 o’clock and we needed to set up camp soon. If disaster overtook a boat at the dam site, it could be dark before we could effect a rescue for the boat and its occupants.

The vote was to unload the boats above the dam, cart (portage) the contents and the boats below the obstacle, and re-enter the water after rigging the boats again.

This is humping! It’s a lot of work, especially with a full load of crap such as we had.

The beauty in T’s suggestion was that we would have to unload the boats anyway, to make camp. Why not do it there, camp, and proceed below the hindrance on the morrow.

The two river men took it as a bit of a defeat, I think, saying they had never portaged before, but they bowed to the popular will. The banks were steep and also muddy and sucked at our shoes and caused us to slip and slide as we unloaded the three boats.

We cooked a dinner of bratwurst sausages in the dark and slept under the stars beside the deafening diversion dam on a ranch road running alongside the man-made water-bearing channel. We didn’t know if the land was public or private, but I suspect we were trespassing. (Left: Looking back at the diversion dam as we left the next day. Photo by B.)

The night was very clear and very cold, just at the freezing point. We had gone just three miles and I was worn out already.

3d Bucket Trip Precursor

The Bucket Trips: In 1970, I entered the University of Colorado and was assigned to the first co-ed dormitory there, Sewell Hall. With the Vietnam War raging and the Haight-Ashbury District flowering, revolutionary sentiment and the smell of cannabis hung in the air.

I met a wonderful group of matriculating students there who became lifelong friends. We spent many hours riding Enduro motorcycles through the canyons surrounding Boulder and hiking in the nearby foothills.

During the day we attended some classes on campus and at night we imbibed 3.2 Coors beer at the Sink or saw performers like Country Joe McDonald and Leon Russell at Tulagis on the Hill.

Country Joe McDonald - I Feel Like Im Fixin To Die

Rab MySpace Video

Two years ago the Bucket Trips got started when Swell Hall alumni C organized a reunion for ten of us on a week-long professional rafting trip of two boats and twenty-eight persons down the Grand Canyon. Tragically, one person who wasn’t part of our group died during that trip of a heart attack.

Last year we sailed for a week in the Florida Keys. This year J and G, brothers who live in Colorado, organized a rafting trip in Gateway Canyon on the Dolores River for ten persons on two 3-person oar boats and one 4-person paddle boat.

In the run-up leading to the early-May trip, a sense of uneasiness developed among some trip members, myself included. It was going to be a grueling trip in a wilderness area with some significant rapids.

I called up one of the organizers and asked, only half-jokingly, if anyone was going to die on this trip. My friend laughed and said no, but added that we all better be in shape for it.

C wasn’t going on this trip but he loaned J and G some river equipment and one of the boats. He told G, in all seriousness, not to get anyone killed on the trip because he would regret it for the rest of his life.

The Gateway Canyon stretch of the Dolores River starts at Gateway, Colorado, on the western slope about 45 miles west of Grand Junction. It is 37 river miles from the put-in at Gateway to the take-out at Dewey Bridge on the Colorado River in Utah. (Right: The Dolores River is, well, beautiful.)

There are no roads near the river for most of the way except for dirt trails that service ranch vehicles. There’s no cell phone service either, and we didn’t encounter any other boats.

It’s remote. We were on our own with no ability to call 911.

I flew out to Denver on Saturday, May 1st and drove to Durango that night to visit my octogenarian uncle who lives there with his daughter, my cousin. I visit him once a year as he is the only relative I have left who is of the World War II generation as all of the rest have passed on.

Since I was too cheap to pay $25 to check a bag on the airlines, I went to Walmart when I arrived and bought a sleeping bag for $9, good down to 45 degrees, and a sleeping mat for camping out under the stars for four nights. I brought along a tarp and some rope with which to fashion a tent in case it rained.

My visit with my uncle went well and then on Sunday I drove through a snowstorm to Montrose where J lives. We were leaving from there to go to the river to put in the next day.

Everyone else was already at J’s house, six other men, B, G, H, J, Jy, T, all Swell Hall residents in the seventies, and three women. A was T’s wife and a Boston Qualifier, Ju was B’s S.O. and C was the sister of both H and Jy.

Everyone except for C, who was in her sixties, was in their fifties. G and J were veteran river men and would oar two boats and T would direct the paddle boat with the two couples in it.

Except for G and J, and maybe T, who is generally an excellent waterman, we were all inexperienced, if not novices, at river rafting. Except for the Grand Canyon trip, where we went through several Class V rapids in a motorized boat, I have been along as a paying, paddling passenger on at least a dozen day rafting trips through some Class II and III rapids.

I have been instructed several times on what to do if you fall into a rapids. To the best of my memory, I have never been told what to do if you get trapped under a capsized boat in a rapids.

A happy Mother's Day.

The cute blond two-year old was babbling and banging his plastic cup on the table at the restaurant where my friend and I were having brunch this morning. My friend was glaring daggers at the toddler's parents who were sitting unconcernedly next to him.

It's Mother's Day you know. My friend is not a mother.

"It's only a baby," I said to her about the noise machine two tables over. Trying to distract her, I asked her how her blintzes were.

"They could give that baby something soft to play with, or take it outside," she said. "Oh, so you got out of a bad predicament on the river and now you're going to be 'happy' for the rest of your life?"

"Maybe," I answered.

A lot has happened in the past two weeks. Three weekends ago I went to Kansas City on this year's Field of Dreams trip and saw the Kansas City Royals play the Minnesota Twins twice at Kauffman Stadium. It's the thirty-eighth ballpark I've seen a major league baseball game in, leaving six stadiums remaining on my checklist. I sampled some authentic KC barbecue while I was there.

Last week I went to Colorado for my third annual Bucket Trip with my college freshmen dorm mates. The theme of these trips seems to be water.

Two years ago we rafted down the Grand Canyon for seven days and six nights with professional river guides. It was the trip of a lifetime.

Last year we spent a week on three boats sailing the Florida Keys. What a trip.

This year we rafted for five days and four nights on the Dolores River on the western slope, starting in Colorado and finishing in Utah. Ten people went down the river on three boats.

I don't think I'm being overly-dramatic when I say I had a near-death experience on the trip. In an incredibly fast sequence, I suddenly found myself alone in a cold, dark place with maybe a minute to live. Obviously I'm still here; it wasn't my time yet.

But I saw how it could be. It didn't freak me out then but it's become a major head-trip since I got back. I arrived home last night and and I have never been so glad to return from a trip.

Already I'm calling my memory of that stark moment on the river "my cold dark place." It puts life in perspective.

Everyone finished the Dolores River trip safely. Stay tuned.

Stormy 'n me.

Colorado high country near Durango, October 10, 2009. I'm wearing blaze orange because it's the first day of rifle hunting season for elk.

Watch the Sky

Last week when I was in Colorado visiting my 85 year-old uncle, I went with my cousin Liz's husband Bill and his son Jimmy, the professional bull rider, to Roswell NM where Jimmy competed in a two day bull riding event. It's a seven hour ride to Roswell for an eight-second bull ride. That is, if you're lucky (and good) and don't get bucked off.

Roswell is where the aliens landed in 1947. Or rather, crash-landed. There's been a massive government cover-up about it ever since. Just ask anyone in Roswell. They'll tell you. (Left: The UFO Museum in Roswell.)

The three of us on the long drive to Roswell decided that probably the coolest thing for Obama about winning the presidency was that on January 20th "they" took him aside and told him all the secret extra-terrestial stuff. About the autopsies of the four little green men (one was big) and the metal that never tarnishes or crumples and the technology the Air Force got from the crashed ship. Why do you think American fighter jets are so much better than everyone else's? Because we're smarter? Have you talked to a Tea Party member yet? (Right: Jimmy and Bill react to discovering the truth in the UFO Center.)

(Left: The bulls were waiting for Jimmy.) Anyway, Jimmy's been in a slump. He got bucked off of all of his bulls. But going to the Roswell UFO Research Center on Main Street was fun. Inside, the curator was telling the folks ahead of us that there had been another sighting that very morning but it was already being covered up. All of a sudden the five police cars I saw go screaming down Main Street at 7 am with lights and sirens made sense. I wondered if it was maybe another crash. Of a flying saucer.

I also liked the county fair that was at the fairgrounds in conjunction with the Professional Bull Riding Competition. There were a lot of 4-H animals being displayed there. Here's my favorite.

Colorful Colorado

When I was in Colorado last week, I drove from Denver to my cousin Liz's house, which is in Bayfield, outside of Durango. It was snowing when I traveled over Wolf Creek Pass.

Here's how the mountain valley looked on the other side, pointing westbound towards Durango.

Here's the sky over Pagosa Springs.

Here's my cousin Liz, the one I went horseback riding with. She runs a program up there in the Colorado high country, a house of sobriety, where she oversees drug dependent teenagers and gets them to go straight through animal therapy. She shows them how to take care of horses as part of their treatment for their dependency, including riding the horses.

Stormy

Suddenly breaking into a run, Stormy took off at a fast clip up the hillside. I held on as well as I could, bouncing up and down in the saddle while I maintained a death grip upon the pommel with one hand. I held the reins with my other.

Branches from the close-in spruce trees on both sides of the trail lashed my face. I was reviewing my life as it flashed before my eyes when I remembered the advice my cousin Liz gave to me before we left the meadow of her Colorado high-country home about turning Stormy in a circle if he started to get away from me.

You see, Stormy has attitude. He doesn't brook fools or tenderfoots. I might be a fool too, but I clearly was a novice, not having been on horseback for thirty years. As passing evergreen limbs threatened to sweep me off of Stormy's back, I pulled back on one rein.

Before the ride, Liz had saddled Stormy for me and offered to get a footstool so I could use it to mount the gelding. That's western-speak for, You're a dude, man.

I declined the stool but I did take Liz's advice about demonstrating who was in charge to Stormy. Before I climbed aboard, I spent a minute pressed in close to the big horse, leading him around in a tight circle by gently pulling his halter to one side and forcing him around with my body. Now as the hilltop loomed, I viewed that as a minute well spent.

Stormy's head came around in response to my pressure on the bit and he went into a turn. He slowed down to a walk.

Liz, who rides every day, trotted up on her horse and said, "Well done, Peter. Stormy tested you and now he respects you." I just beamed for the rest of our slow and peaceful ride through the beautiful and quiet National Forest, observing deer and wild turkeys and passing over bear scat.

More Bull

I'm on vacation in Colorado, currently in Bayfield in the high country, where it is threatening snow. I drove here yesterday from Denver through snow flurries along the front range and snow on the passes.

I am here visiting my 86 year old uncle, a hero of the Fast Carrier Strikes on Tokyo oh so many years ago. He's doing well enough. Today I'm driving to to Roswell, New Mexico with my cousin and his son to see two days of the Professional Bull Riders (PBR) Tour. Us two old guys will "see" it, the son, Jimmy Anderson, will "do" it, two days of bull riding, the longest eight seconds on earth, He's 111th on the circuit.

It's a tough business. Last night Jimmy was talking matter-of-factly about his injuries; three broken noses, a broken leg, a broken elbow, strains, sprains and numerous dislocations. He happily said, "At least I still have all my teeth."

When Jimmy's balky chronically dislocated left shoulder (a bull stepped on it. or rather, stomped on it), the free, swinging arm, finally wouldn't easily pop back in for him on its own accord ("the emergency room could barely get it back in, they had to use massive amounts of muscle relaxants and hang weights from the shoulder") he had it operated on. My injured left ankle, done in by ten hard miles of running on it at Army (although not swollen, it still pains me greatly and I can't run on it) pales in comparison.

Jimmy's left shoulder is fine now. and he's ready to climb back aboard a ton of bucking, spinning raging fury tonight. We can't wait to see what happens.

His mother isn't coming with us to watch because she's out of town helping out with caring for her daughter's new-born baby. The last time she watched Jimmy ride in person, he was knocked out cold upon being thrown off the bull. He lay motionless on the ground for many long moments before stirring. How would you like to be a parent whose child did this for a living?

My Mother's Older Sister

Good bye Aunt Betty. I'll miss you.

I remember visiting you as a boy at your work in Denver at the local Selective Service Board, and you giving me as a gag a mock Selective Service letter that started out with "Greetings." I used it a few years later as proof of age to purchase beer on Staten Island when I came home one weekend from boarding school. Those were simpler times. (Below: Aunt Betty bought me dinner in Denver in September. And she bought herself a drink.)

Thanks for helping me out when I went off to college in Boulder by giving me a place to stay in Denver whenever I needed it. Thanks for helping me out with Jimmy when he was a baby. Thanks for coming to visit me in Nantucket, Louisville, and Falls Church.

I loved visiting with you and Uncle Bob in Parachute in August 2001 with my three boys, the last time I ever had my sons all together with me. I loved visiting you last September in Denver, and in February in Parachute where you lived by yourself. Thanks for taking me out to lunch then. I hope you chuckled over the funny birthday card I sent you the next month for your 91st birthday. (Above: The view outside Aunt Betty's door in Parachute. How about you? Got view?)

My life was better for knowing you. We had a lot of fun together. I could always count on you. I loved you. (Right: You wouldn't believe how much fun you can have with a 90-year old. Love Peter.)

Louisville Colorado

At 8 a.m. on Thursday I met my friend P, whom I hadn't seen for 22 years since I moved out of Colorado, atop Davidson Mesa in Louisville, a bedroom community for Boulder. Tiny Louisville has been ranked for years by Money Magazine as one of the top two or three places in which to live in the country.

When I called up P to say I was coming out west and would like to visit with him, I was delighted to hear that he had taken up running a few years back as he approached the half-century mark, to stay in shape. Now he loves it, running five miles three times a week. He ran the Boulder Bolder 10K last year and intends to run it every year from now on.

I immediately set up a running date with him, for my last day out west. I looked forward to it all trip.

We ran six miles at a 9:37 pace. The first half of the run we did on the mesa top, overlooking the front range. Those are the Flatirons behind me in the picture above, the distinctive rock formations which characterize Boulder and CU, where I went to college. As we ran atop the snow on the paths cutting through the tall grass in the open space, we talked about mountain lions, which were becoming prevalent along the front range. One had been spotted in Louisville.

A big cat attacked a boy in Boulder in 2006. I said it sounded like a problem for an Animal Control Officer with a telescopic rifle. Naw, this is Boulder County, P informed me. They're protected. We're encroaching on their environment. You know how liberal Boulder is. I did indeed, having been a State Trooper there for years. I lost lots of court cases, good busts, on technicalities. That judicial attitude bothered a lot of the Troopers but not me. Hey, it was part of the culture in that college town.

The last half of the run we did on trails that wound through the town itself. They were clear. I wondered if they plowed paved running trails in Boulder County.

P has three grown children. We talked about the problems and heartaches children present to their parents. P is a realtor. He knows all about divorces because he is always selling couples' houses so the entire proceeds can go straight to the divorce lawyers, as the man and woman glare at each other. He knew about my situation, the estrangement of my three children, and was a good listener.

I told him I had done a lot of introspective thinking on this solitary week-long car trip. People tell me to move on, get over it. How do you get over losing your children? But I was freshly working on something that was liberating. Forgiveness. Accept the past and forgive in your heart those that caused it. Then move on. Don't let yesterday take up too much of today. This attitude was really making me feel better. It's a work in progress. David once told me to look inside myself in relation to my bitterness and hurt, and this is a derivation of that good advice, I think.

This third magical run in six days came to an end. My friend stood for one last pose (even in DC, I am such a tourist!), with Louisville sprawling over the plains as the backdrop. I said goodbye and went back to the real world.

Going to New Mexico

A week ago Saturday I drove out of Montrose enroute to Durango and had a knee-knocking experience driving over Red Mountain Pass in snow flurries on the Million Dollar Highway between Ouray and Silverton, two old western mining towns. It is a two-lane roadway that clings to the side of the mountain (no guard-rails) in the best of times, which is July and August. In the worst of times, like when I was on it, it is a one-lane plowed path through a wintery white landscape where a driver keeps on the roadway by driving alongside the reflectors lining the side of the road, if they aren't buried in the six-foot high snowbank. Bring sunglasses for the reflected glare (which I didn't have). This roadside icefall greeted me on the way up.






Once I got to Bayfield, Colorado, where my cousin L lives, we went to see her Dad, my Uncle Harry, in Pagosa Springs. He's 88 and doing really well.

It snowed the next day of course. L stays fit by walking in addition to spending hours taking care of the animals on her small ranch before she goes to work each day. I walked with her a couple of miles in the fresh snow on her forest-access roadway at 7200 feet and she wore me out!

That night we watched the mighty Giants slay the Patsies in the Super Bowl, going outside several times to make sure the TV-dish was clear of snow. L's husband, W, a great guy, allowed me to choose watching the big professional football game over watching a Professional Bull Riding meet which he wanted to watch. That's the way it is in the mountains.
I was going to drive to Santa Fe on Monday to see my sister who lives there. It was snowing and all the passes were closed, although the back road into New Mexico via Chama was open. Here's what my car looked like on Monday morning. Those two white blobs in the background are the cars of L and W.

Here's what the main highway looked like.



So we "moved snow," as W calls it, for a few hours, using shovels, the snowblower and the snowblade on the tractor. (W hard at it so we could get the door open at least.)

And then I drove away. Here's what the road into New Mexico looked like. I went slow (doh!) and the drive to Santa Fe wasn't too bad. I arrived there mid-afternoon on Monday.

Ventura Highway.

Last Friday's six-mile run at Washington Park in Denver with Cew Two was thoroughly enjoyable. Any glance to the west showed off the awesome beauty of nature in the form of a majestic view of the towering Rockies. What a backdrop for any run. A run at mile-high! (Left: Charlie and moi.)

You were a masterful host, Charlie. I owe you a great run on the National Mall. Come get it sometime.

Don't ever pass up a chance to run with a RBF.

Not even an hour later, I was negotiating these road conditions west of Denver. Yay for the Colorado State Patrol, out there in harm's way. (Below: The view around Vail Pass.)

Once I got past the pass, I visited with my 90-y.o. Aunt Betty in Parachute. She took me to lunch. (Below: Aunt Betty and moi.)

Here's the view outside her front door.

So I made it to Montrose on Friday night, and ran 2 miles in the deserted downtown at 3 am on Saturday in 23 degree weather. A real driving adventure awaited me later that day, on a shelf-road in a white-out on a mountain pass at 11,000 feet. My knees were knocking and I feared for my life.

But guess what, I made it. I even made it home eventually to DC. I had a couple of nice runs in the meantime, including Monday's night-time run on Sun Mountain in Santa Fe with my brother-in-law, which I already tole you about. After that, there was one more run before I left the west. Check out the preview of Thursday's run.