At Least They're Committed

I’m traveling backward. Funny when you see where you’ve been rather than what’s up ahead its easier to appreciate than dread. The axle creaks and chassis shakes as sienna rocks and mud answer the question of what tossed me a moment before. Good one! Jarring. My back is pressed to the cab as the truck slams down into a shallow ravine and bounces forward, my butt bounces eight inches off the ridges in the bed and comes down hard between; my cheeks taking the brunt of the blow. This literally and metaphorically kicks ass! I laugh and Dante looks back through the window of the cab. “You OK Mom?” Hell yeah! He’s jealous because I made him and his friend Kevin sit in the cab with Grandma. Too dangerous back here, at least heading up the mountain.

The afternoon August rains of days before have enlivened Red Creek: Colorado mud courses down the trails as columbines, bachelor buttons and larkspurs dance among the wild grass in stark contrast to blackened pine corpses that stand testiment to the ravages of Missionary Ridge. It is beautiful up here . . . it’s different, but it is beautiful. This is the first time I’ve been up here since the fire that I haven’t cried. SLAM! The front right tire strikes a bolder, levitating me not only above the truck, but to the other side of the bed. Again the laughter, again the look from Dante.

Near the mountain top, at the 100-year-old cabin etched with hunters’ names and stories who’ve long gone passed, we check out the muddy bear pawprints on the windows. Unhappy with the lack of reception from knocking, they broke through to gain entry. Photo op. With my four-legged 20-pound refugee, I walk to the top of the mountain, constantly looking back on kids and grandma as they grow smaller then disappear, Mina, the refugee, constantly looks back at me. There’s elk crap and bear crap and I lean against a burned tree branch and it crumbles and I fall. I hope that wasn’t poison ivy I just fell in. I don’t even know if there’s any up here.

Darrell and Tommy (Grandpa) have caught up with us on the ATVs, but it’s afternoon and the sky starts to spit. “You can do better than that!” I challenge, but we’re taking heed of the warning. The trip down seems to take longer and we’ve agreed to let the poutty, anxious boys sit in the back on the flats. The boys, the refugee and me, are pelted by finger-sized raindrops at Big Unit speed, cutting into our hair, clothing, stinging our flesh. The sky above Cool Water Ranch has answered my challenge in wicked force and the truck shifts the growing puddle we’re sitting in from one side to the next, me watching to ensure no 11-year-old lips are turning blue.

Sitting at the laptop, looking out the window at nature’s intense cleansing, purifying, nurturing. Nice. We’re high in the mountains and the mist and clouds flit like ghosts amidst the rain. (Kinda cliche, but can’t think of any other parallels that come even close.) The boys are bathed, warm and dry; the refugee is curled at my feet, quivering a bit because there’s no such rains in Mexico, my hair is still damp despite three hours passing and there’s corn on the cob boiling on the stove.

Happy vacation!