Mountain Joy, Part 2

August 15, 2016:  New York City

The next day, we are up early…our bodies are still on Eastern Time.  We wait for the office to open at 6:00 am for coffee, fruit, and bagels.  I am not well rested.  My toe hurt all night, and Aspercreme did nothing to touch the pain. The toe is visibly swollen as well as fluorescently colored.  Bruising is seeping down my foot: along the edges of the adjacent toes, and along the side of my foot.  The top of my foot and ankle are also swollen.  Every step hurts.  I can only wear the water shoes I was wearing during the accident.  At least they’re pink and won’t look completely ridiculous with the pink and peach dress I am wearing to the wedding.

We are anxious about getting to the top of the mountain on time, so after a short, hobbling foray around town to buy a replacement for the hat sacrificed to the river gods, I purchase a bright peach solar hat.  When I hobbled into the sporting goods store and told the smirking sales clerk I wanted a lightweight, crushable, waterproof, fully brimmed hat, he is taken aback.  He takes me over to the rack of Indiana Jones inspired hats, where all but one hat is tan or beige. When I grab the only brightly colored one in the lot, I can see his stereotype of me is confirmed. “Well, that certainly is a fun color,” the unspoken (for a fat tourist like you) unsaid, but clearly heard.  I smile sweetly, and tell him, “All the better to stand out in a crowd.” He visibly blanches, knowing that I got the sub-text in his snide remark.

We are dressing by 10 am for a 1:00 pm. wedding. We make our way to the bottom of the gondola by 11am.  For reasons we can’t explain, we are unusually anxious about the wedding, and snipe at each other as we make our way through the winding confusion of empty trophy homes and globs of flashy trash Western styled condominiums.

When we get there, my mother is already there with my nephew and his family. He is dressed very formally, in a black suit, dress shirt, and polished black shoes.  They are on edge and concerned because my younger sister, my nephew’s mother, has not yet left for the wedding and she is three and half hours away.   He and she are texting back and forth.  He is upset with her, and it is clear she is also frustrated and angry.  Something wrong at her end has delayed her departure.  My nephew is trying to keep my mother out of it.  No luck.  She joins the anxious and unhappy circle.

My younger brother arrives, wearing a Hawaiian shirt.  His mate and her daughter, both rather shy, are dressed in summer frocks and stand to the side.  Always ready with a joke and hug, he tries to raise the positivity quotient, and somewhat succeeds.  

My eldest brother arrives, giant camera in hand and starts taking photos.  No one wants the snappishness of the previous moments to show up on the official record, so everyone gives their best fake toothy smiles.

A college friend of my 2^nd brother (the father of the groom) arrives.  He greets my mother effusively and announces, apropos de nothing, “I have become a Democrat!”. My mother, still sharply political at the age of 87, immediately takes the bait.  “Why?” He replies, “We moved to Utah and I just couldn’t stand be a Republican anymore.” My mother, “What, you couldn’t take any more of Jason Chaffetz?” And then they are off to the races, doing a micro analysis of various Utah politicians.  They spar, and enjoy sparring; spouses, children, and grandchildren lost from view.

My younger brother whispers to me, sotto voce, that the party conversion was a big deal.  The big blonde man dressed in chinos, dockers, and blue linen sport coat, is the son of the former Republican Speaker of the House in the Wyoming legislature.  My mother and recently deceased step-father had served as representatives during his tenure.  The son (and father) were solid businessman Republicans, who didn’t really care what people did in their private lives, as long it didn’t interfere with their right to make a profit.   Like my step-father, and now this former scion of the Republican party, they find it hard to stay in a party so pre-occupied with divisive social issues.

When a group of about 20 wedding goers have arrived, we go to board the gondola to the top of the mountain, where the wedding will take place.  At first, the attendant won’t let us board, saying they are not ready for us, and to come back in an hour.  The group begins to disperse, and the same attendant calls us back…”Oh you CAN go up…just wait in the bar on the top while they get the wedding site set up.”  We call about for the now scattered group to come, but they have left the hot and breathless courtyard, where there are no benches and the only entertainment is watching pre-adolescents attempt bungee assisted flips on rented trampolines.   

As we go to board the gondola, I misread the red warning stripe and smack my injured toe on the edge of a stair I took to be a ramp.  I grab Wes with one hand, and, to keep from screaming, stuff my other fist in my mouth.  With tears rolling down my cheek, I board the 6’x6’ glass-encased gondola.

We ride up with my mother and nephew’s family.  My grandniece is excited and offers her four year old commentary on the scenery as we are pulled up to 10,000 feet.  “We're high.  Don’t jump out!  Can we see our car?  Don’t be scared!”. The gondola is hot and airless; Wes and my nephew are red-faced sweating in their formal jackets.

On top, we are surrounded by an alpine wonderland where we can see for many miles.  The sun is piercing in the thin air, and those people who have foolishly forgotten their sunglasses are squinting in the bright light.   Both my mother and I stare balefully at the task at hand: climbing three flights of stairs to the restaurant deck, adjacent to the mountain meadow where the wedding will take place.  Suddenly a middle aged man in a jaunty straw boater materializes by our side and offers us a ride in the elevator.

We snake alongside him, through numerous twists and turns, barely able to keep up with his hurried stride.  He opens two greasy doors and we slip into a service elevator.  He says, “Don’t be alarmed when you get out in the kitchen, just turn to the right and go through to the bar.” 

We step out into a wreck of a kitchen in the midst of a huge rush: mostly Latino cooks and tall, tan, Anglo male waiters rushing in and out.  Abashed, we apologize and scoot out as quickly as possible; right into a big hangar of a bar blasting out 80’s John Bon Jovi  My mother, for reasons unknown, sits at a long empty table at the far end of the cacophonous empty hall.  The rest of us, including my puffing husband and nephew who just made it up the stairs, go out to the large deck to stare at the mountains and blink at the sun. 

We find a table under an umbrella, see the nervous groom swarmed by his groomsmen, and try to pack as many family members as possible at the tiny table.  I ask my nephew about my mother.  He grimaces, “She says she is fine where she is.”  She isn’t.  She is sitting alone in a dark, rock-racked hall. I know better than to take her at her word.  I send a rescue party and soon she is sitting with the family at the table, relieved not be left to her own self-destructive devices.

We drink overpriced frozen drinks and complain about brain freezes.  Every so often someone goes to the edge of the deck to report on preparations on the wedding grounds below.  When at last we are released, there is an audible sigh, and 200 people in frocks, t-shirts, formal suits, spike heels and sandals make their way to the white seats sitting on the fragile high altitude grass.

The Wedding Party
W. Nethercott photo

The traditionalists ask “Which is the grooms’ side?”  There is no answer, but when the groom’s maternal grandfather, a tiny athletic 80 year old man with a New Wife, sits in the second row on the left, we all follow suit. My mother joins the row.  We sit behind them.  My brothers, nephews, nieces and attendant family move to the back rows.

The ceremony begins with cello and violin playing sweetly, but the sound is soon lost in the immensity of air and mountain.  The attendants arrive; first- nine youngish men in dark pants and light shirts, followed by four female attendants wearing sage or tan dresses.  My brother and his wife, clutching my nephew on either arm, bring him to the front.  Soon, the bride, in a long formal sleeveless white gown arrives with her father. 

Love on the mountain
C.Frankovic photograph

The service is short, but beautiful, personal, and heartfelt.  I start crying when my nephew began his vows, throwing his hands in the air and shouting “I love this woman!”  I sense Wes crying next to me.  As the simple statements of “I promise to…” continue, I hear sniffles throughout the crowd.  Right before the exchange of rings, there was a bit of silence, into which Wes sent a wracking sob, much to his great embarrassment.  

The whole ceremony ends with the new spouses tying their climbing ropes together, the belaying knot both a metaphor and nod to the start of the relationship and shared passion for technical climbing.  Their honeymoon, if an 8-months of living in a van to climb in South America counts as such, is dedicated to this shared love of high places and hard physical and mental challenges.

The bride and groom soon disappear for pictures, which include them climbing a small cliff in their tuxedo and gown, and the rest of the party makes their way back down to mountain.  In a few hours, we will meet again in a small hall at the base of the ski-jumps, where the food is plentiful (including a whole dark brown roast pig split from stem to stern laying on plank), the drinks flowing and the music loud.  There’s no room at the long tables where my family is sitting, so we sit against a far wall and visit with the brides’ cousin from Iowa.  After a while, we rescue my mother again, who has somehow found herself sitting amongst strangers in the loud room.  

After dancing one painful (oh my toe!) dance with the cousin's tiny blonde daughters, Wes and I excuse ourselves from the noisy, hot, and increasingly drunken festivities.  We join the throngs of tourists and locals packed at the free concert adjacent to the hall.  The smell of legal marijuana hangs in the air as the Robbie Robertson band rolls through rambling Grateful Dead-esque jams.  We don’t last long, but hear the next day from my exhausted brother that the party lasted well into the early morning and that the bride and groom were called onstage at one point.

The next morning, we make our way to a final family gathering celebrating numerous birthdays and anniversaries.  We're surprised to discover most of my siblings have already left.   We better get ourselves down the road as well. 

We are pensive as we make our way back to Glenwood Springs, sad that we couldn’t have had more time to just be with family in an environment where conversation was possible, but also glad that we witnessed the joy of a true love match glowing and shining in the brilliant blues and delicate greens of a high mountain meadow.   

Mountain Joy, Part 1

Mountain Joy, Part 1.

(August 4, 2016): Eastbound Amtrak, near Kalamazoo, MI

When we finally get off the westbound train in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, we are tired and smelly.  The ride through the midsection of the country during the night was smooth, but it was hard to sleep.  The air conditioning was blasting cold air, and I was grateful for the fleece my mother had sent me.  Wes used his linen jacket for the wedding as a pitiful blanket and both he and I struggled to sleep in our seats without straining our necks. 

We were not rested as the train climbed into the mountains, then made its way through the deep, rugged, majestic canyons carved by the ever-growing Colorado River.  We were to pick up a rental car just a few blocks from the train station, then make our way to our room.  We would drive the 120 miles to Steamboat Springs the next morning.

We called the car company to let them know we were coming.  No answer.  We called the 800 number. No answer.  We spoke to a representative in a different time zone who confidently told me they were closed for the day and was genuinely shocked when I told him they were supposed to be open for the next two hours.

Bemused and hungry, we call the only taxi in the region, who promises to arrive in five minutes.  25 minutes later, a young woman picks us up.  As we are driving to the motel, we see that the car place is open, and drop Wes off.  I should have gotten out as well, as the 1.5 mile ride to the hotel costs $20.  Sigh.

The first room we are shown is hot, small, and substandard.  We can upgrade for an additional $10.  Sigh.  We do.  Crawl into our room, take showers, and fall asleep in what proves to be very high quality sheets and blankets.

Up early the next morning, we take a nice exploratory walk into Glenwood, the highlights of which are seeing two bald eagles and finding an apricot tree full of fruit.  Along the way to town, for more than mile, we see dozens of business cards strewn along the path. This, of course, provokes speculation and storytelling.  Did Les Durkee “Get more with Les” at Defiance Auto Repair, quit his job and throw his cards out the window in a fit of pique?  Perhaps his four color cards with a sports car curving around a highway were blown from his dashboard as he flew down US 40 just outside Glenwood Springs.

The wedding festivities will not begin until tomorrow, so we want to take the long way through the back country to get to Steamboat.  When we ask for a backcountry map of the Flattops, the tourist agent is apologetic. When we tell her what we want to do, she runs over to the big map on the wall, and tickled, points out a small dirt road going from New Castle to the White River valley settlement of Buford.  She gives us detailed verbal instructions to get to this forest road, and promises we will love it.

We do. The Flattops are anomalous volcanic mountains in the northwest corner of Colorado.  Unlike the peopled, touristy, granite massifs of the rest of the state, these mountains are isolated, pristine, and untrafficked.   Up top, we are reminded of the parks and upland spruce/lodgepole forests around Fox Park, Wyoming—with one major difference.  The trees are alive here.  The miles of grey and red trees, killed by pine bark beetle and now burning in multiple fires in Wyoming, are not here.  It is a joy to be in a healthy, living forest. 

Even though it is almost August, the meadows are full of arrowroot balsamroot, lupine, brown eyed susans and many more flowers we cannot identify.  In this high flat country, there are few streams.  The snow must sit late into the summer to support these miles of yellow, purple, blue, and white.

When we leave the highlands down a twisting turning track, we enter the wonderland of the White River valley.  The settlement of Buford is marked by a tiny dot on our Colorado map, and we hope to get a bite there.  We don’t find any town, but are surprised by the number of mansions edging the valley.  The closest place for services is Meeker, twenty miles away, in the wrong direction.  What the hell, we say, and follow the river down lush hay fields and historic ranches.  This is the Colorado we remember from our youth, when it was still cow country, long before the days of spandex and endurance fitness races.

After a quick stop at a grocery store, we turn around and follow the river back into the mountain valley.  After about 25 miles, the road turns to dirt and we track higher and higher into theseremote mountains.  The two peaks we see, Pyramid and Pagoda, point to these mountain’s volcanic heritage, as does the incredibly fertile black soil around us.  We find out that White River National Forest is the 2^nd named reserve in the US.  After a while, even the massive ranches disappear and we are winding our way through primeval, uncut forest. 

Two passes later, we curve into the funky little mining town of Oak Creek, where the small houses and the barefoot children remind us of West Virginia.  However, just beyond Oak Creek, we feel the backwash of Steamboat Springs.  Trophy houses dot the path and the traffic is faster and more aggressive.  The ski town in packed; it takes 20 minutes to go 3 miles from the condo-maxium sprawl around the ski hill into the downtown of the former cowtown.

We are in a small motel on the north side of town, run by a gregarious Pole, Greg and his American wife Emily.  We settle in quickly, then go to meet the family for lunch on the banks of the Yampa River, at the local favorite SunPie Café.

The backyard is full of pre-adolescent boys in full baseball uniforms.  The majority are wearing soiled red and white uniforms bearing the logo “Oklahoma Fuel.”  As I wait in the long line to order a drink, I visit with a couple who tell me their son is participating in a fast pitch tournament with 25 teams from around the country.  They are using their travels (to eight locations this summer alone) to scope out schools and build the possibility of their son receiving a college baseball scholarship.  The softening, brown haired dad remarks, somewhat ruefully, “We might be better just saving money for his college.”  His pert, blonde wife, with a twangy Oklahoma drawl, objects, “Oh, now honey, at least we get some sort of vacation this way!”

After mountainous plates of fried food and sticky drinks, the wedding party, now numbering around 30 people, goes next door to take a tube ride down the rocky, low, quickly flowing Yampa River.  Wes and I make our way to the river, where the first thing I do is fall attempting to get into my tube. My older brothers’ family stare at us, as we fumble and stumble our way into the tubes.  They pop right in and wait for the two flat land idiots to achieve the simple task.

The river is both very low and very crowded.  The ride is punctuated by collisions with other tubers and numerous rocks.  At one point, my tube becomes high centered on a rock and I make a strategic error.  I get out of the tube to free it, lose my balance, fall, and watch my hat slip away.  While reaching for my hat, my tube slips away and starts floating down the river without me.  Our group is out of sight and I am in a precarious position.  Walking among the slippery rocks and swift flow is difficult

I am relieved to see that some kind soul has secured my tube on some high rocks about 50 yards downriver.  I stumble along, fall several times, and work hard to keep myself calm and focused.  My water shoes have come undone and I struggle to keep my feet in the soles.  When I finally get to the tube, I step on a submerged rock to to reach the perching tube.  I slip off the rock and hyperextend my left big toe backwards in a searingly painful move.  After several tries, I make it back into the tube and back into the flow of the river. 

After some time, I am surprised to see Wes and my brother’s family waiting for me, worried and wondering what could have taken me so long.  I tell them I had lost my tube and it took a while to get it back.  They are surprised, as am I when I realize it, that I have never been tubing in my entire life.  My 30 year old niece can hardly believe it.  What have I been doing with my 60 years on this earth?

The rest of the ride is uneventful, although there is one nervewracking moment when the river jumps a small rapid near the outflows of the mineral springs.  Numerous 13 year old boys are playing in the rapids and one decides it will be funny to jump under my tube as we go over the 2 foot drop.  He gets caught, but jumps up free and gasping, a few feet below the rushing dip.

At the end of the trip, my toe is visibly swelling and already turning purple.  Every step hurts and I wonder if I have broken my toe…just what I don’t need a few weeks before beginning our hike on the Camino de Santiago.

To be continued….