Colorado 2024 Day Seven

 

Blue skies and sunshine greeted us as we left the hotel at 9:30, a late start for this trip.  Our agenda is a light one today, it being Sunday and all.

We drove through a local Amish community on our way out of town.  The road gradually narrowed and eventually turned into gravel.  You’ve heard of washboard roads?  There’s no better description to give the one we were on for five miles or so, until it changed back to paved.  Beautiful scenery with farms scattered here and there, along with some beautiful homes, and some not so beautiful, were visible out both sides of the bus.  One house in particular I wished I would have captured with my camera.  It seemed that the home owners could not decide which architectural style they preferred.  Red tile roof screamed Italy.  River rock walls that rose from the foundation to within five feet, more or less, of the roof line, hinted at rustic cabin.  Nondescript siding filled in the gap.  Chimneys that looked like plain cement rose from the four corners of the roof.  A purple barn (or at least one side of it was purple) set out back.  And the whole place looked tired and sad.  I wonder what the story is on that place.  Someone speculated maybe the man and wife couldn’t agree on things.  Whatever the reason, it was rather unsettling to see the chaos.

We stopped for a picnic lunch at the Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado.  Adin spoke briefly for our Sunday meditation, followed by lunch prepared by Martha, our tour guide.  Several of our group that had not climbed the dunes on prior visits headed out to try a hike to the top.  I had done so last time and it was spectacular viewing from up there but I decided to forego such exertions this time.   I walked toward the foothills at the base but cut that short when the sunny day turned into gray skies and possible rain.  The prospect of finishing the day soaking wet on a bus did not hold much appeal to me.

Ernie and Lester had aimed for the summit but the wind was pelting them with sand and they decided after the half-way point to turn back.  They still saw some great views from there.  The size of these dunes reminded me of those we’ve climbed many times in Kitty Hawk, NC.  Orville and Wilbur Wright launched their flying careers from those peaks and today it’s a favorite spot for hang-gliders.

Paul got out his guitar and those of our group who weren’t into hiking stayed at the picnic shelter, singing songs and letting their lunch settle.  Barb suddenly stood up and was looking intently into the bushes.  So of course did everyone else, to see what it was she was seeing.  A mule deer had wandered to within a few feet of us and was motionless, listening to the music, not even moving when everyone pulled out cameras and began snapping away.  We told Paul not to stop playing and it wasn’t until he paused that the deer continued on its way.

We re-boarded just before the rain started to fall and the afternoon was spent driving through more beautiful landscapes, moving up and down mountainous terrain.  At one point I could see the road ahead and below moving in several different directions at several different altitudes.  When we reached Wolf Creek Pass the bus pulled over for photo ops and Paul broke into song with “Wolf Creek Pass, way up on the great divide. . .” and a discussion ensued about whether or not there actually is a feed store in Pagosa Springs.  It was decided that there is not.  So did Earl actually run into it with his load of chickens, destroying it, or was the feed store only a figment of his imagination?  No conclusion was reached but the discussion was entertaining anyway.

Whenever we have a long drive, the storytelling starts.  Today the subject was pantyhose.  It seems that Ernie was on the phone and was overheard talking about pantyhose and what size they were.  Well, Verna overheard him and the look on her face demanded an explanation when he was off the phone.  This led to much laughter from the back of the bus but only those in the surrounding seats could hear what was going on.  So, since we had a long drive ahead of us someone suggested he tell the rest of the bus what was going on with the panty hose.

It seems that years ago someone he knew, a relative I think, had purchased a house and was renovating it.  During the renovation plaster was removed and the innards of the old house was exposed.  One day a pantyhose leg fell from the ceiling, dangling there but clearly not empty.  Thankfully it wasn’t a human limb filling it up.  Upon investigation the builders saw it was filled with money!  Excavating further into the bowels of the house revealed the other leg, also filled with money.  The obvious question: did the finders keepers rule apply?  Well, no, unfortunately not.  When the home was sold it was stipulated that the previous owner had hidden money somewhere in the house but he could not remember where so if it was ever found it had to go to his descendants.

 The next obvious question: how much money was it?  Ernie didn’t know but said it probably depended on the size of the pantyhose.  Hence all the ensuing jokes about pantyhose, their size and the fact that the only good use for them, ever, is to store money in the walls of houses.  All the women on board agreed that there is absolutely no redeeming feature to them and true progress in civilization was the demise of those stifling, useless garments.  Kind of like Paul feels about neckties.  He insists they were invented by women to strangle good men.

We reached our hotel in Durango around dusk.  It was lovely as they have all been so far. Since our room on the fourth floor was just a few doors down from the laundry I thought it a perfect opportunity to wash some clothes.  We have another week to go so seizing the opportunity seemed advisable.  Well, not so much. 

I told Paul to go eat and just bring me something.  I was very hungry but I neglected to inform him of that.  I got my first load of clothes in and running and went back to our room to do some writing.  By the time Paul got back with food, what seemed a long time later, I had the clothes in the dryer and I was ravenously hungry.  He handed me a cup of soup and when I say cup I am not exaggerating.  If it was eight ounces I am surprised. He said he ordered the same for me as he had, a generous bowl of soup for which he paid $9.00. “You paid NINE DOLLARS for this?” I asked, looking into the half empty container.  He nodded and expressed great regret that we hadn’t taken up Martha’s offer of leftovers from the picnic lunch.  The soup was delicious but mighty small.

I headed back to the laundry to get the now-dry clothes, only they weren’t.  So I popped in eight more quarters, pushed the ON button and . . .nothing.  I pushed it again.  Nothing.  Ten more times yielded no action from the dryer.  I unplugged it from the wall (ok, probably pointless but, hey, worth a try.)  Pointless. I checked the clothes. Still wet. (OK so my food-deprived brain was not in top form).  I slammed the door really hard. No reaction from the dryer.  Yes, I then gave the dryer door a good knee kick. Still nothing.

I saw a phone on the wall so I picked it up and without even dialing got the front desk where the very sweet, fourteen-year-old receptionist expressed her sympathy and suggested I haul my wet clothes to the second floor and try that dryer.  “I have no more quarters!” I said and I’m ashamed to say I did not sound like Jesus when I said it.  She promised to reimburse me so I spread out one of Paul’s wet T-shirts, piled everything on top, pulled up the four corners and headed for the second floor.

Yep, you guessed it.  The second floor dryer was in use.  So I left my pile on the counter, went down to get my quarters from the front desk and returned with book in hand to wait until the person returned for their clothes.  My imagination saw me sitting there for hours trying to decide if I dare remove their clothes if they don’t return.  I didn’t have the nerve so when the dryer stopped I waited and prayed for deliverance.

Within minutes a young fellow came in and jammed all his clothes into his bag and left.  I wondered if he was going to fold them later or just use them that way, then I realized I have bigger fish to fry and I didn’t really care if someone else’s child wore wrinkled clothes or not.  With the dryer humming along doing its thing on my clothes, I returned to the lobby to buy a microwave Campbell’s soup for five plus dollars, returned to our room to heat it and was all ready to indulge when I realized I had thrown away the spoon Paul had brought from the restaurant.  So. . . it was back to the laundry, where I had pitched my empty soup cup with spoon and yes, I dug through that trash, found my spoon, returned to our room once again, and washed it thoroughly before using it to eat my now luke-warm soup.

Eventually the clothes did dry and after repacking my neatly folded laundry, I fell into bed and passed out.  Paul’s words of comfort in the morning were to remind me that at least I didn’t have to hike a mile to the river to wash like some people on the planet.  I acknowledged the truth of this but couldn’t resist pointing out that they didn’t have to deal with our first world problems either.  Then I felt ashamed.  For a few minutes anyway.

Colorado 2024 Day Six

I promised to write about our time at the Chuckwagon Dinner Show at the Flying W Ranch last night.  It was great fun! We could hear a rodeo taking place up the hill but that’s not what we were there for.  We were there for supper and music.  Although the rodeo sounded like a good time too.

Since we were early we watched some Native American dancing by a Navajo/Ute/Cherokee family.  The main singer/drummer was the patriarch of the family and he told us about his ten children, all of whom have a college education, something he stressed numerous times: the importance of education.  His wife, who is in her sixties, did a hoop dancing routine that was impressive. His granddaughter did a sign language routine.  There was an eagle dance by another one of their group; it was fascinating to see the native costumes, hear a bit of their history, and watch the artistic expression of their culture. He expressed his love for our country, which I found rather profound, somehow.

When dinnertime rolled around we all went into the huge, timber frame building for supper.  Long picnic tables ran the length of the building from side-to-side with an aisle up the middle and aisles on both sides.  All the sides and the back were made up of garage doors, all of which were wide open so that it was more like a gigantic picnic pavilion than a building. At the front was a large stage with a full-wall video screen behind it.  The beams up above held hundreds (I’m guessing) of saddles and cowboy memorabilia lined the walls and the hearth on the giant fireplace up front.

It was hard to imagine the devastating fires that ravaged this place a few short years ago.  We were scheduled to visit on our last trip in 2018 but it had all been destroyed by the wild fires that took everything except a small personal library that is on the property.  The family rebuilt and it is now back in full swing.  The huge red rock formations that rise up throughout the ranch are a reminder that we really are in the wild west after all, the land of authentic cowboys and Indians.

A hearty dinner served on tin plates commemorated the trail ride meals from long ago. I’m sure the meal we enjoyed was much better than those from the hot, dusty cattle rides.  Our menu was brisket, chicken, baked potato, pork n beans, applesauce and cake.  We walked through the food line with our tin plates, holding them out to be filled. The host had cautioned us to hold the plates on the spot where the applesauce was plopped else our hands would feel the heat from all the hot entrees. Same with the hot coffee-he said we have ten seconds to get to our table before it’s too hot to hold.

The after dinner show was filled with music, jokes, and stories and highly entertaining. I’m not a big country music fan but this was different.  As one of the entertainers said, country music is singing about women and failed love lives.  Cowboy music is singing about your cows and horses. Great harmony, instrumentals, audience involvement, high energy and lots of talent brought new life to old classics.  Their rendition of God Bless America almost brought tears to my eyes.  While they sang the screen behind them came alive with scenes from the old west and the spectacular scenery from then and now.

After a good night’s sleep we were ready another day filled with adventures.  We left the hotel at 8:15 with the prospect of beautiful weather ahead.  

Last time we were at the Royal Gorge it was too windy for the zip line to be functioning.  So Pearl, Merv and I went on the big swing on the edge of the cliff. To say that was an adrenaline rush was putting it mildly.  This year we were hoping to do the zip line if the weather cooperated and it did. We three decided to do it first thing in case the wind decided to whip up again and it was beautiful, skimming above the canyon.  Quite a few of our group ended up doing the zip line before the day ended.  One lady got stuck over the canyon (not one of ours) and someone (again, not one of our group) had to saddle up and go out to pull her in.  They told us if a crosswind hits just right, or just wrong, it can bring you to a stop.  Several of us thought that would have been rather exciting.  Several others were not of the same opinion.

Crossing over in the tram car, one lady clung to her husband in stark terror for the duration of the ride. I sympathized with her because, although heights don’t bother me, the memory of those nasty few minutes in the tiny pod at the arch helped me to empathize with her fear.  Interesting how each of us, or most of us, have an irrational fear or two. And I’m of the personal opinion that those who claim they are above such weakness have simply managed to hide it better than the rest of us.

Paul and Sam are both still struggling with elevation issues.  The headaches are gone but the dizziness remains.  Paul said he almost passed out going up some steps today but he managed to hobble into an air-conditioned café at the gorge, where he stayed until we left.  Sam told us he went into the restroom at the top of Pike’s Peak and met a man moving toward the door.  He moved left to let the man pass.  The man likewise moved in the same direction.  Sam moved right, so did the man.  This went on for another five rounds or so and Sam said he was wishing the man would make up his mind which way he wanted to go. All of a sudden he realized the man was himself, in the mirror!!!! So I think the oxygen deprivation was real. And I’d give a lot for a video of Sam trying to dodge himself.

After we left the Gorge we went to Canyon City to pick up Martha.  She started the trip with us but left  about twenty-four hours later to fly back to Ohio.  Her sister Sharon had been battling cancer for a decade and was not doing well.  Family called and recommended Martha head back if she wanted to see Sharon once again before she was gone.  She flew out of Hutchinson, Kansas and arrived in time to say her final goodbyes.  The next few days were spent with family, grieving their loss, celebrating Sharon, and laying her to rest.

At her family’s urging, Martha flew to Colorado Springs to rejoin our group, something she knew Sharon would have wanted her to do.  And we are all happy to have her back.  We met her in Canyon City (the relative of a family member lived nearby and had picked her up at the airport) where she rejoined us as we headed for our hotel in Alamosa.  Our drive this afternoon and into the evening passed through much beautiful scenery to which no pictures can do justice.  We arrived early at our hotel, went our separate ways for supper, and spent a relaxing evening unwinding.

Colorado 2024 Day Five

 

It’s Pike’s Peak Day today.  When we were here in 2018 we rode short buses up the mountain and experienced the brutal wind and cold temperatures which are the norm at 14,000 feet.  As I recall, the skies were not clear, therefore the view was limited.  Today was a different story.

The weather was perfect with blue skies and mild temperatures down at 5,000 feet where our hotel is located.  Having been duly warned, we all had plenty of layers for our hour at the top where the temperatures were almost freezing and the wind frigid, even with the sunny skies. 

We rode the train to the top this time and it was beautiful.  Our tour guide, Brian, was enthusiastic, informative, and had an endless wellspring of Dad Jokes. He asked if there are any Texans on the train.  A rowdy bunch of cheering ensued.  “So,” says Brian, “Is it true that everything is bigger in Texas?”  They responded with loud exclamations to the affirmative.  “Well, “says Brian, “Look out your windows.”

We looked.  A large area covered with rocks ranging from baseball to beach ball size were piled everywhere.  “In Colorado that’s what we call gravel,” Brian told us and we all had to laugh.  Yes, that was one of his better jokes.  But he was so friendly and mixed in just enough facts with all his malarkey to keep us interested. 

Brian told us it takes 63 gallons of fuel for the train to reach the top and only 1 and ½ gallons to return to the bottom. He talked about the annual Hill Climb race won by Frenchman Romain Dumas in a Ford F150 electric truck.  He beat his own previous record by a few seconds with a time of 8 minutes and 53.553 seconds.  The distance is almost 13 miles and has 156 hairpin curves – without guard rails. We heard about the brave, or crazy, or both, souls who hike to the top.  And there are runners who compete in a foot race.  The record for that is 2 hours and 20 minutes. 

If you have ever climbed the normal size staircases in the welcome center at the summit you can more fully appreciate how amazing a feat it would be to run up this mountain.  I am fortunate I don’t suffer from the high altitude maladies that some others do but I did get short of breath climbing those stairs. One poor lady from our train didn’t make it to the buildings after disembarking before losing her breakfast.  Last I saw of her she was hugging a support pole and retching repeatedly.  Paul chose to stay below after his experience on our last trip up.  He didn’t throw up but he wasn’t right for days after. 

Today the views were amazing in all directions.  A slight haze from the California wild fires wasn’t thick enough to hide the mountain peaks, valleys, and lakes spread out below us.  My imagination runs wild thinking about the first humans to see this sight.  We saw several weathered and broken down shelters that, at one time, someone called home.  What are their stories?

Brian told us about Mr. Mann, a donkey that helped the crews working on the mountain years ago.  Legend has it that they even shared their whiskey with the donkey and all became fasts friends.  One day, Mr. Mann was loaded down with dynamite when something went wrong and he blew up, pieces of him raining down upon his devastated companions.  So they gathered him up and buried him, marking his grave with a pickaxe marker, which Brian told us lay just ahead.  I never did see the marker and I’m not sure if he was telling the truth or weaving another tall tale but it made for an entertaining story at any rate.

We returned safely to the bottom of the mountain and rejoined those who hadn’t gone up, traveling a few miles up the road to a picturesque little town whose name I don’t know.  It was filled with small restaurants, tourist traps, smoke shops and a very nice little coffee bistro.  We ate lunch with a few of our group at a lovely little place with outdoor tables covered with colorful umbrellas.  The food was good and the company better.

I decided on my way back to the bus to stop at the aforementioned bistro for a cold, fancy coffee.  The nice man behind the counter told me they have a drink, ice-cream with coffee poured over it, that sounded like just what I needed.  So I plopped down an exorbitant fee and hastened on my way, mouth watering in anticipation of the drink I could sip at my leisure on the bus.  Can I just say that I think the curbs in Colorado are a tad too high??!  I misjudged the last one before reaching the bus and down I went.

They say you can tell if you’re old or not by the reaction you get from witnesses when you fall.  If you’re young they laugh.  If you’re not they all rush up, with great concern, to help.  In case I didn’t know before, I no longer qualify as young.  People came out of the woodwork.  Out of the grassy park.  Off the sidewalks.  To help the old lady up. 

“Are you okay?!” They said in one accord and someone who looked less fit than me wanted to help me stand.  I assured her I was fine and clambered to my feet, my now smashed drink leaking ice-cream and coffee all over my hand.

I wailed in dismay, telling them I was so sad I lost my drink and one kind lady told me to go get another.  Well, I didn’t have time for that so I rushed on to the bus, sticky fingers and injured pride along for the ride.  I’m thankful though.  The same lady told me she fell down once and broke five bones.  I’m pretty sure all my bones are intact but I will have some road rash on one elbow and some bruises on my legs.  But that drink!!  I’m going to mourn its loss for awhile.

Tonight we go to the Flying W Ranch for a Chuck Wagon Dinner Show.  I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.

Colorado 2024 Day Four

 

Colorado 2024 Day Four

Today it’s Colorado Springs, Cave of the Winds, Garden of the Gods, and Seven Falls.  Paul and I were here before, at least once.  Might have been twice.  It never ceases to amaze.  How exactly did those red rocks that weigh 700 plus tons get stacked and balanced on top of each other? How did the labyrinth of caves form far below the surface? I overheard snippets of a conversation two of the guys were having today about all the tour guides saying these were formed millions of years ago.  Bible history only goes back about 6,000 years when it is recorded that God created the earth in six days.  So how is it that scientists are dating rock formations back much further?  There are several possibilities.

There is nothing impossible for God.  So maybe He created the earth in six days, brand new but fully aged. Or maybe the planet has been here for millions of years, but “without form and void” and with rocks already in existence deep within its depths.  Could it be that millions of years ago this place was inhabited by other life forms, destroyed and left vacant, until God brought it back to life again?  Or maybe, all the most brilliant minds with their carbon dating and geological theories are just plain wrong.

Kyle, our tour guide at Cave of the Winds, enthusiastically told us the current theories on their formation.  Supposedly, millions of years ago, this was the site of a lake.  Also at some point an underground river.  These make sense since evidence of water creatures have been found here.

The caves were discovered by two small boys. Bored by the group activity they were involved in, they snuck away and went exploring.  They found holes barely big enough to squeeze through and, with only candles for light, they wiggled on in and crawled through tunnels until the wind whipping through blew out their candles.  The found their way to the outside again and declared they had found “haunted caves” because of the eerie sounds the wind made as it passed through the caves.  I never did hear how the wind found entry.

Tours have been given since 1881, costing one dollar, with only candles for light and many of the tunnels accessible only by crawling. NO WAY.  I was less than thrilled with the narrow spaces we walked through today and the 200 man-made steps that eased our journey were still a bit hair-raising.

At Garden of the Gods our step-on guide wore a name badge emblazoned “Queen” and she did order our bus driver around as if she was accustomed to instant deference.  As we drove through she filled us in on the history of these red-rocked hills.  Pike’s Peak was visible far off in the distance as we listened to Queen tell us the names of all the unique rock formations.  The weeping lady, the screaming witch, the kissing camels, the Scottish man, and so on and so on.   She pointed out a single-seed Juniper tree and told us it was 1100 years old.  And that it takes 75 years for that kind of tree to germinate. I don’t know whether that’s true or not but it sparks the imagination anyway.  Oh, and it turns out Queen’s name is Marti.  Maybe her name tag was a commentary on her self-esteem or her aspirations.  She didn’t explain. We didn’t ask.

Our next stop was Seven Falls.  Last time I was here I was six years younger and so were my knees. Two steep stairways led up the sheer rock walls to balconies overlooking the falls It looked to me like several hundred steps in each set for the brave and able bodied to make their way to the top.  Last time I climbed up both sides with minimal trouble.  Today I took the elevator.  These days I continue to have rude reality checks on aging.  I don’t like it but I am reminded to be thankful of how healthy I am compared to so many others.  Our hike up to the falls was half a mile on a paved roadway at over 7000 feet elevation and the thin oxygen probably had more to do with the heavy breathing than the physical exertion.  The weather was perfect, the scenery spectacular and the falls as beautiful as ever.

The return walk down to the bus was still half a mile long but all downhill which had its advantages.  Another delicious meal at a nearby restaurant, more stretching the capacity of the pants, and we were off to our hotel for the night.

Colorado 2024 Day Three

 

Colorado 2025 Day Three

Today we visited the salt mines in Hutchinson, Kansas, the ones we drove past yesterday with our Amish tour guide.  He told us the elevator will take us down over 600 feet below the surface.  In the pitch dark.  I decided I have tempted fate enough already during this trip with my pod ride up the arch and I opted to wait above ground while everyone else in the group, except one, went down under for the tour. 

I would have liked to see the salt mines, but the trip down and the knowledge that I would be so deep underground. . .well, I’m good with just hearing about it from the others.  Should a nuclear attack have happened during their tour, it would have been the two of us up top who would have been goners since, supposedly, the mines are deep enough and secure enough that even a nuke can’t do any damage. 

A developer drilling for oil in 1887 found salt instead.  Official mining began in 1888 and the Carey Salt Mine opened.  It now runs 2 and ½ miles north and south by 1 and ½ miles east and west.  As of 2015 over 980 acres of usable space and over 150 miles of tunnels are the length of two football fields below the surface.  27,000 square miles rock layer lies under central and south-central Kansas with the purest salt vein 650 feet down.  Those who went below today had 300 feet of salt above them and 80 feet below, enough to “never run out” according to Myron yesterday.

Gift shops serve the tourists below and there is ample space to be used for weddings and social functions as well.  The film industry owns a large amount of square footage used to preserve films and movie memorabilia from across the years.  Legal and statistical records are also kept in the environment the mines provide with the humidity level, or lack thereof, ideal to keep things in mint condition for hundreds of years.  And in the event of a nuclear blast or a natural disaster, things so far below the surfaced should remain unaffected. The guide claimed if you’ve ever had a speeding ticket, a record of it is probably here in one of the mine storage areas.  What a relief.  Thousands of years from now I want people to know I got stopped for speeding in 1989.

We ate lunch at a nearby buffet with pizza, home cooking, and salad bar available for whatever our appetite dictated.

Still no hills anywhere, but large fields of wind turbines turning determinedly in the constant wind lined both sides of the road.  The white spinning monstrosities did nothing for the scenery other than break up its monotony.  We were doing some calculating here on the bus and with the cost of construction for each turbine and the monthly amount paid to the farmers for the use of their land it is unlikely they will ever break even. 

Mid afternoon found us in Dodge City, the faint smell of manure permeating everything. Dodge City has advanced from way back in its lawless days when one saloon was available for every twenty citizens. Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Bat Masterson were the only forces, back then, able to restore some sort of order to this wild west town, known for its “wickedness” and disdain for law and order.  Today it seems no more threatening than any other town its size. 

Surrounding the town were miles of stockyards from wence the aroma, much stronger now, came wafting on the breeze.  The acres of fenced in pens with cattle waiting to supply protein for the nation, huge slaughter houses nearby, double-decker cattle trucks coming and going; everything moves in sync like a well-oiled machine.  I’m rather glad a medium rare steak, swimming in its juices, does not have the same smell as beef on the hoof.

We passed through Lamar, Colorado, an unremarkable town, with mostly single story buildings, boxy and plain.  Here and there a three-story structure poked up, some with brightly painted graffiti splashing color into an otherwise gray and unattractive collection of shelters. 

The bus pushed on, the road straight as an arrow, stretching out ahead as far as the eye could see.  Occasional dwellings, faded and worn were scattered here and there on the brown, unending fields.  Occasionally some green growth with irrigation equipment in evidence broke up the landscape.  A few scrubby trees provided scant shade for the houses and small fenced-in corrals kept horses contained.

With the wide open spaces we could see a storm coming from miles away.  A brief rain wet us down along with some of the fields but much of what we passed remained dusty and untouched.  The storm moved on and skirting the horizon it did not approach us again. We’ve been gradually gaining altitude, so slowly it has been completely unnoticeable.

We stopped for the night in LaJunta, Colorado.  A nice enough town and a very nice hotel with several places to eat within walking distance.  Paul and I heard there was a Mexican restaurant up the way so off we went.  Happily we discovered Barb and Verna were already there and they graciously invited us to join them which we did.  The food was great, the proprietor friendly and the company interesting and invigorating.  It brought back memories of another meal we shared years ago in Colorado with Verna and Mary, out behind a hole-in-the-wall bar.  Those back water places are often real gems in the food department. We talked about the loved ones who have gone ahead to the great adventures still waiting for us.  Mary has left us and so have both Barb and Verna’s husbands.  It’s been long enough that talking about them brings joy and laughter, but they are and always will be missed. We look forward to seeing them again! 

When we stepped outside the restaurant well-filled and satisfied with an evening spent well we discovered it had rained.  Everything looked refreshed although it brought with it the faint smell of cow manure.

Colorado 2024 Day Two

 Yoder, Kansas

I woke before the alarm sounded and before the sun showed itself. Last night after an incredible meal at the Bandana BBQ restaurant, walking distance from the Pear Tree Inn, St Louis, we all enjoyed brisket, turkey, burnt ends and whatever else our palates desired.  Since it was close to 9pm Ohio time I thought it prudent to restrain my own hearty appetite. It was an epic fail; my loaded baked potato and side-salad proved to be enough for two people and in spite of my best efforts and the mouth-watering fare, I left half of it on my plate.

The whole bus load was so tired we all disappeared into our very nice hotel rooms without delay.  No card games materialized, or if they did we weren’t awake to join.  I showered and collapsed on a very inviting mattress, falling asleep in minutes.  I woke shortly after to see a bare, hairy leg rising toward the ceiling from somewhere on the floor beside the bed.  It startled me into semi-alertness and I asked Paul what in the world he is doing.

“I thought you were asleep!” he said and I think I scared him too.  He said his sciatica was threatening so he was staving it off with therapist-recommended stretches.  I sank back into bed and was promptly asleep again, never finding out when Paul finished his calisthenics.  He looked pretty functional this morning so it must have worked.

After a continental breakfast in the hotel we boarded the bus for another travel day headed west.  We hope to arrive in Yoder, Kansas in time for supper.  Lunch was a pleasant affair at Red Robin in Olathe, KS.  After naps on the bus, all except for Laverne, our driver, and me who was writing this, we spent time passing around the mic, sharing stories about our lives.

An early arrival at our hotel with a half hour to freshen up and we re-boarded the bus for a tour of Yoder, Kansas.  We picked up Myron, our Amish tour guide, an auctioneer by trade, and he gave us an interesting history on the area as we drove slowly through the country roads and city streets. 

The first Amish moved into the area in the late 1800s and farmed the land until the US army moved in and took away much of the “ground” as Myron called it.  Four Amish church districts were decimated as they left their confiscated fields for other states in which to start over.  Years later the army abandoned the area moving to what is now Fort Riley. The practical Amish farmers who have returned to these plains make use of the cement airstrips crisscrossing their fields, a perfect place to keep the huge round bales of hay produced on these acres and acres of flat, uniform, unvarying landscape.

It’s easy to see why crop farmers would find these flatlands ideal for their purposes but the sameness, the wide open exposure, the unchanging view stretching for miles, make me feel like an exposed bug, vulnerable and unprotected.  I prefer the rolling hills of Holmes County or even the sheer mountain peaks of Appalachia but then I’m not dependant on the land to make my living.  We passed a herd of “Oreo cows” - black on both ends and white in the middle.  Fascinating and comical, they did indeed look like chocolate cookies filled with white cream frosting.

We passed through the streets of Yoder, a typical tiny town with neat-as-a-pin streets, a burger joint, a thrift store and several small retail shops.  A few blocks of residential buildings and we were suddenly in a different place where silos, granaries, and elevators dominated the landscape.  A collection of neat, nondescript buildings lay at the foot of a huge elevator, a wheel turning slowly at the top, methodically filling rail cars with salt, 24/7 our tour guide said.  One of the buildings housed the elevators that take the tourists down into the mines. We passed a huge cement structure called the Half-Mile Wheat Elevator.  As its name indicates it is a half mile long, a collection of over 1000 silos, filled with wheat.  18.2 million bushels.

Cargill, the turkey giant, has a massive elevator complex on the outskirts of town as well. We passed so many types of elevators and storage complexes I couldn’t write their descriptions fast enough.  Prairie dogs poked their heads out of grassy patches of “ground” and semis rolled past headed to their various pick-up places among all the granaries.  Railroad tracks, dozens of them side by side, led to and from the salt mines.  Forget Texas, it appears everything is big in Kansas too.  And the unending flatness!  One can see for miles in every direction with a constant wind blowing, no hills around to interfere with its course.  Scrubby grasses, lots of brown, the occasional wash, and very few trees.

Without warning a Walmart, a Lowes, and every chain restaurant and retail outlet normally present in any US midsize city sprang into view.  When we left Yoder and entered Hutchinson, I don’t know.  It almost felt like they were adjoining. With all the granaries and silos, it was impossible to determine where the country left off and the city began. In front of the Walmart, in a grassy strip between the parking lot and the four lane highway, hundreds of prairie dog mounds filled the area.  Myron told us the city of Hutchinson is very protective of its prairie dogs, although I fail to see why.  They looked like potential pests to me.  And the farmers feel no love for them either.  Their holes cause injury to cows and horses when they step into them unintentionally.

We crossed a river on the edge of Hutchinson and entered South Hutchinson.  The two cities run together except for the dividing river line but I noticed fewer elevators and granaries and more manufacturing in South Hutchinson.  Just as suddenly as we entered the urban sprawl we were back to grass covered land on both sides of the road.  To our left a massive refinery was visible with hundreds and hundreds of railcars on miles of parallel railroad tracks moving refined oil out and across the country.  Hutchinson has around 60,000 residents with a staggering amount of industry spread across the miles of flatlands in and around it.

Kansas is rated third in the nation for its crop farming acreage. As for dairy, one area farm alone milks 17,000 registered Holsteins. And then there’s the slaughter houses with thousands of cattle prepped for the freezer every day.  The sheer scale of all this made my head almost spin. 

Supper was waiting for us at the Amish Community Building in Yoder, Kansas.  Like a taste of home, the Swiss steaks drowning in gravy, creamy mashed potatoes, hot green beans, and fresh salad were followed with a selection of delicious cream pies, all of it made by the local Amish ladies and served with welcoming hospitality.  How in the world am I going to fit into my clothes for the next two weeks?

Colorado, 2024, Day One

 

This year has been crazy busy.  I feel like every year I say that but for real, 2024 has kept me running in panic mode more than ever before.  Since Paul has signed me up for Social Security, I’m thinking it’s probably time to slow down and I plan to. . . as soon as my next project is done.  Until I get seriously intentional about rearranging my obligations and priorities there will always be another project.

 As we’ve watched friends struggle with health problems Paul and I have had some serious talks about what we have on our bucket lists and how to start the process of doing them before life throws us a curve ball that makes it impossible.  My cousin Wes, only in his forties, left us early this year, only days after playing cards with Paul and appearing to be in relatively good form.  A shock and a wake-up call.  It’s time to stop running like hamsters on wheels and to move toward retirement. 

I should explain what Paul and I envision when we think of retiring.  Paul has been on Social Security for several years and has called himself “retired” but in reality he has remodeled a kitchen for friends, built a deck and screened-in porch for other friends, remodeled an office and completed many other projects. He has also spent countless hours doing maintenance and grounds-keeping at our cabin rentals and helping at the store that I manage. I don’t think he could stop working cold-turkey unless forced to do so, which was exactly what happened for three months last year. 

If you’ve never experienced severe sciatica, I highly recommend you take the word of someone who has, rather than requiring first-hand knowledge of its debilitating effects.  Paul and his recliner became inseparable and I was wondering if this was going to permanently alter our future but, praise the Almighty, he has recovered. He came through with a much more cautious nature and an increased willingness to hire out the physical aspects of his construction endeavors to younger backs and stronger muscles. Watching one of our incredible neighbors repeatedly mowing our lawn was not an easy thing for Paul, during the recliner days, but Don didn’t ask permission and we are forever grateful for all the work he did for us, waving aside our thanks with an attitude that helped to defray our feelings of helpless unworthiness.  Our excellent long-time neighbors keep any thoughts of moving at bay for the foreseeable future.  Can one add their existence to the home appraisal list of luxuries, I wonder?

Meanwhile I have been busy trying to prepare for my own retirement, planned for February 2025.  I hover between anxiety and anticipation at the thought of not having somewhere to race off to every morning, with an agenda to accomplish throughout the day.  Frustration with my increasing physical limitations has caused me some irritation as well.  I feel like the tin man when I sit for more than a few minutes; running 10 to 20 thousand steps per day (yes my Fit Bit has confirmed this!) keeps my creaking knees from protesting overly much. But there comes a time when, for the health of your marriage, your body, your mental state, and your business, it’s time to back away and let fresh blood take care of the heavy load.  Even thinking of it as a heavy load signifies it’s time to move on.  What once was highly anticipated and inspiring - the aforementioned agenda - has gradually become a “heavy load” that is wearing me down.

Retirement for some might mean moving to Florida and living in The Villages or some other pleasant sounding place where one can play golf, cards, Bingo, shuffleboard or pickleball 24/7.  While all these activities sound entertaining, the prospect of these and nothing more feels like biding time till the grim reaper comes to fetch me.  Now before anyone from The Villages gets all up in my face and offended I want to clarify.  There’s nothing at all wrong with spending your golden years in an attractive collective of other like-minded retirees.  It’s just not ME.  So when I said I’ll retire in February I felt a mixture of panic, anxiety, and fear mixed with a tiny dollop of relief. And I realized that my retirement will, hopefully, look more like Paul’s (minus the sciatica) than like one of the Villager’s. No, I don’t plan to go into the construction business.  But I am looking forward to whatever the next season in life brings. I’ve always liked change.  And this is a big one.

I’m writing this from the seat of a Pioneer bus, heading west once again because, as I've mentioned, Paul and I have come to the conclusion that we need to do things while we still can, which  we hope will be for many years to come.  I have adventured with most of my fellow-travelers before.  Actually, I think there is only one new face on the bus and by the time this trip is over I’m fairly sure he will feel like one of us. Our destination is Colorado.  Yesterday we made it to St Louis.  I’ll confess, I do not have fond thoughts and warm feels when I hear “St Louis.”

A number of years ago, my brother Jonas succumbed to the ravages of congestive heart failure, something he had fought valiantly for years.  Four of us remaining siblings carpooled from Ohio to the funeral in Missouri.  Navigating a packed expressway around St Louis, we somehow invoked the rage of the driver of a bright blue and expensive-looking sports car. After following us off one exit and onto another freeway, horn blowing all the way, he started ramming us repeatedly, moving among four other lanes crowded with high speed commuters.  It was terrifying.  I immediately called 911.  He saw what I was doing through the rear-seat window where I was sitting and pulled across the lanes to the shoulder where he stopped.  We did not stop.  I explained to the 911 operator what had happened and told her that he had now pulled to the side of the road and was on his phone where “I am sure he will call you and say we hit HIM.”  That is exactly what he did.

The operator said we were to pull off an exit when we felt safe and to let her know where we were and she would send the police.  After all was said and done, our minivan showed nothing except some blue paint on one wheel while the front and side of our attacker’s car showed thousands of dollars in damage.  The police escorted us to where the now not-so-shiny blue car with Psycho-man awaited. There were words exchanged mostly by me and the angriest male I have ever beheld, my three siblings with me being much more mature, controlled and polite than I am. The kind, weary-looking officer told us it’s clear to see who hit who and we can be on our way while he deals with Angry Man.

It left us all shaken and to this day I feel a knot in my stomach when I hear “St Louis.”  To see such uncontrollable rage over. . .what?  Did we pull in front of him closer than he liked?  Did we not signal soon enough?  Did he have an unreasonable hatred of minivans? On such a crowded highway at such high speeds how is it possible not to irritate anyone?! I’ve often thought of him especially when I see a bright blue vehicle. I’ve wondered what his life is like.  I’ve wondered what it’s like to know him personally.  Dangerous, frightening and unpleasant I imagine.

I faced another one of my fears today in St Louis. I faced the shuttle to the top of The Arch.  Those of our group who had been to the top before said each shuttle only seats five so they aren’t crammed with as many people as can physically be shoved in, unlike the gold mine I refused to go into during  another  trip several years ago.  I thought, “How bad can it be?”  After all, they limit the load to five at a time. And I nervously agreed to go. By the time tickets were purchased and we had been lined up and moved slowly down to the shuttle loading area, like cattle in a holding pen, it was plenty late to back out. Even so, the only thing that kept me from running away when the teeny tiny fully-enclosed MRI machines opened up to suck us in, was my pride. Seems it was even greater than my fear. My heart was pounding and felt strangely out of rhythm.  With hyperventilation  threatening and not a paper bag in sight I shouted inside my head, in a voice no one but me could hear, “I CAN DO THIS I CAN DO THIS I CAN DO THIS.” At least I don’t think I said it out loud.

I was with four others from our group.  My head bumped the low curved ceiling and I knew the only way I would survive this was to shut my eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening. It was beyond my comprehension how my four fellow inmates could calmly laugh and talk as if nothing horrible was happening.  I was so thankful for Carolyn who told us about her exciting time paragliding.  I’d always been told I have a good imagination and I decided it was time to put it to good use.  I mentally clambered in under that parasail, alongside Carolyn, deep inside my head, and I made it to the top of that arch without freaking out.  I enjoyed the views along with everyone else, capturing pictures of the city over 600 feet below.  Heights I have no problem with.  But the dread within me was a reminder of the looming return trip down in that coffin of a shuttle.  Thankfully Pearl kept to herself the knowledge of five shuttle cars getting stuck en route several weeks ago. I requested Carolyn to talk about open air adventures all the way down and she agreed.  I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my mind far away from oxygen deprived cocoons and I survived once-again.  Never again though.  I came.  I saw. I survived.  End of story.