Dave has been laying pavers in a part of our yard that has been an unusable eyesore for years. Now we have a small patio area next to our deck and it looks pretty good. He was longing for a water fountain so there it sits in the corner, an imitation rock waterfall with an almost human presence. Its shape and features appear somewhat like a stone extraterrestrial sitting cross-legged on the patio, spilling the sounds of a babbling brook in precise repetition.
This afternoon I sat in front of the fountain, eyes closed as Dave played fetch with Tonka. My sleep has been disturbed for so long, I often feel compelled to rest my eyes for a quick rejuvenation. The sounds from the fountain were blissful, reminding me of our latest excursion.
Then the backyard peacefulness was broken as a Harley roared around the corner, so I came inside to write a few words.
I have long preferred and sought out solitude. Over time I learned to incorporate the resulting loneliness into my life, finding ways to escape into imaginary stories through books and movies, sometimes by doing nothing more than writing a pretend screenplay inside my head.
Now that has become more difficult to achieve. The grind and drudgery of life, at least of my life, wears a soul thin. The only release has been to physically escape the place I have pegged as my enemy: the city.
We left on Thursday and returned on Saturday, hoping to avoid Labor Day weekend crowds. And we were successful. Our first stop was Browns Canyon, at a site where you typically would find rafting and kayaking activity. Except for three anglers planted in a peaceful stretch of river upstream, we were completely alone. A short hike took us away from even those quiet-as-a-mouse individuals, where the only sounds were the breeze rustling through the trees accompanied by the beautiful voice of the Arkansas River.
When we arrived in Salida, the motel was empty so we held a private happy hour in the courtyard to celebrate our eighth anniversary.
Next day we planned a trip southwest to find a place called Silver Jack Reservoir. There was a bit more traffic that day until we reached the Cimarron turnoff. On this leg of the journey, miles and miles over dirt roads, we encountered possibly ten or fifteen vehicles.
Away from the cities, I've noticed the custom in rural parts of Colorado is to wave at passing vehicles whether you know the occupants or not. A far cry from typical city encounters, which may involve waving a lone finger accompanied by yelling and honking. The country version is much more refreshing; I enjoyed initiating the friendly waves on this lonely but peaceful stretch of road.
Silver Jack Reservoir was low on water and not what we hoped, but we had many more miles to travel, filled with sunshine and scenery over Owl Creek Pass east of the tiny town of Ridgway. Some scenes from the 1969 western
True Grit were filmed in this area. It was easy to recall the movie's images along the way.
Early afternoon, in the midst of a lovely stand of aspen, we spread a blanket on the ground and enjoyed a picnic lunch. Our only companions were Chimney Rock, a silent sentinel in the distance, a lone bee with its sights set on our potato salad, and a screeching hawk flying overhead. The aspens quivered and quaked softly in the breeze; in a few weeks' time this land will be awash in a gorgeous yellow glow as the aspen trees shed their autumn leaves.
As always, we are happy to return home but I feel a sense of loss at having to leave behind the peace and tranquility of mountain solitude. Its siren song calls to me. Whether good or bad, out of necessity my life is in the city. I know my world will continue to be filled with the accompanying noise and din, the petty dramas inflicted by one person on another, the drudgery of a work-a-day existence.
Reluctantly I must accept that my life is not what I hoped, a life where bees and rivers and trees and hawks sing to me every day. Yet I am so thankful they are out there still, songs at the ready, waiting for my eventual return.
