Mouse House

When I was a little girl, about age 10, my parents bought a fun Christmas present for me. The Mouse Treehouse was a two-story contraption that included an elevator, a swing, and various treehouse furnishings suitable for a vinyl mouse family.

Mr. and Mrs. Mouse had a set of twins and were dressed in their pajamas. Maybe they were perpetually exhausted after raising two wild and rambunctious babies.

Many years later, while sorting through our family's cedar chest, I discovered a box with a young girl's long-forgotten treasures stashed inside: three thumb-sized dolls with brightly colored hair (orange, purple, green), worn out copies of Black Beauty and Little Women, a plastic statue of Guiseppe Verdi given to me at my one and only piano recital, and Mrs. Mouse. Not sure what happened to Mr. Mouse, the twins, or the treehouse for that matter, but for some reason I could not part with Mrs. Mouse.

So at least I know that somewhere in my past, mice were suitable companions. Not so much any more.

This year we have been fixing up the back yard. Due to the crazy renters behind us and their vicious dogs, we decided to put in a privacy fence. To accomplish this, we had to remove a tall hedge that was overgrown and difficult to manage. We also replaced our worn redwood deck with snazzy composite decking.

Sometime in October, we purchased our usual 40-lb. bag of dog food and stored it in the back of the pantry. Soon it was time to refill the easy-access tub we use for scooping out Tonka's daily meals. When Dave pulled out the bag, little dribbles of dog food followed along behind. He said there was a hole in the bag and slapped a piece of duct tape over it (always the best solution, right?). He figured it was a flaw in the bag; I suspected mice.

A few weeks passed and it came time to fill the tub again. I looked in the pantry and there was dog food strewn all about the floor in the back corner. We pulled out the bag and noticed the duct tape had been gnawed clean through. No question this time. Mice.

Day 1: The mice have been declared enemy combatants. I purchase a set of miniature mousetraps and assign Dave the unenviable task of capturing and removing the tiny interlopers.

Mouse #1 is clever, he manages to remove the bait without setting off the trap. Dave finds the little guy rooting around in the trash can, a Starvin' Marvin looking for something, anything, to replace the missing dog food. Dave quickly snatches up the trash bag and takes off for the dumpster at a nearby school, squirming mouse still inside. Mouse #1 lucked out; that dumpster probably held a veritable feast fit for a rodent king.

Day 2: Mouse #2 and Mouse #3 are sent on a mission to discover the fate of their missing buddy and to bring back dog food. They do not fare as well. Both set off the traps and head straight to mouse heaven. Dave purchases a second set of traps. That evening we both hear unidentifiable noises, probably nothing more than routine, everyday house noises we have learned to ignore. But now it's different, we have become hyper-vigilant. I find myself asking Dave repeatedly, "Did you hear that?"

Day 3: It's early, 4:45 AM. I'm in my comfy recliner drinking coffee, checking emails and fixing to surf the internet when suddenly a movement catches Tonka's eye. He darts across the room toward the laundry area; I immediately call for backup. Dave drags himself out of bed and sets a trap alongside the dryer. Later that day, Mouse #4 suffers the same fate as his two predecessors.

Day 4: This morning I hide in the bedroom with my cup of coffee and the laptop until Dave is ready to get out of bed. The rest of the day is uneventful, quiet. Some might say eerily quiet. After work, Dave consoles me by declaring that since an entire day has passed with no activity, he believes the mice have been vanquished. Later that night, I'm up the hall in the computer room and Dave is watching a sporting event of some sort. Suddenly I hear a loud "Shit!" from the family room. Although I have a somewhat unrestrained potty mouth, Dave rarely curses. This can't be good.

Mouse #5 scoots along the baseboard right next to Dave's chair and zips around the corner into the bathroom. Dave quickly pulls the door shut then returns to leave a trap inside. We work out an alternate plan to perform a live capture with a small bedside trash can, but Mouse #5 has already taken the bait and is snagged in the trap. Unfortunately, he is still alive. Dave takes the trap outside and releases the half-dead mouse over the back fence, into the yard of the renters from hell.

By now Dave is traumatized by all the carnage; he invokes the specter of the 1971 movie Willard. Okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but I share his concern. Tonka, on the other hand, finds all of this quite amusing and in fact thinks we may have invented a great new sport the entire family can enjoy.

Dave resets the traps in the pantry when along comes Mouse #6. He runs out the door, into the kitchen and under the stove. But how did he get in? Surely there can't be any more mice in the house. We blocked all the holes we know of. It's a mystery.

That night I can hardly sleep. I imagine mice scurrying around the bedroom baseboards, lounging on the living room sofa, smoking cigars and playing poker. It's all gone horribly wrong.

Day 5: Thanksgiving. We will be gone most of the day. Dave checks all the traps; the bait is still intact. Still no sign of Mouse #6.

Day 6: Time to take serious action. Dave contacts a professional pest control service. They perform an inspection, discover the nest, and set additional traps and bait. Apparently one bait includes a form of mouse birth control, to keep them from reproducing excessively. Word on the street is that a breeding pair can produce up to 200 offspring in a few short months. I can assure you, none of that hanky-panky ever occurred in my Mouse Treehouse!

We all agree that removing the back yard hedge disrupted a major mouse habitat. Also, it turns out the new deck was built in a way that allows for easy rodent access through the outside crawlspace door. We will work on securing the perimeter.

In the meantime, we wait. I feel sort of bad for the mice. Well, not really. They are not at all like my special friends from the Mouse Treehouse. Mr. and Mrs. Mouse were so benign, so friendly, smiling faces, cute little pajamas. These fellows are much more sinister.

And they will never end up among my keepsakes.

Oh, and Mouse #6? He's still on the lam...

Right Turn Only

As my mother's birthday approaches, I think of her more than usual. Gone from our world 12 years now, she would have been 86 this coming Monday. I miss her smile, her voice, her scent, her loving touch. The years march on and as the tangible presence of those you have loved and lost begins to fade, the memories become infused with a richness and beauty all their own.

Mom grew up in Waterbury, Connecticut, a proud "Connecticut Yankee." Her father moved the family to New Jersey when mom was a young girl. She missed her beloved Connecticut and disliked living in New Jersey.

For many families in those days, car ownership was a luxury well out of reach. Public transportation was the preferred option, they took trains and subways and buses everywhere they needed to go. Mom was in her twenties before she learned to drive; dad taught her while they were dating. Although she was grateful for the lessons, mom disliked driving nearly as much as she disliked New Jersey.

We moved to Colorado in a black 1952 Chevy Bel Air nicknamed "Old Bessie." Later dad bought a new Chevy pickup truck, his pride and joy. Mom and dad owned numerous vehicles over the years. Here in the West, especially in the suburbs with limited public transportation, a car was definitely a necessity. And even though she now lived in a less populated area, mom still hated driving.

Over time she devised elaborate routes through quiet neighborhoods and around town, routes that ensured she never had to cross a busy street without benefit of a traffic light or four-way stop, never had to make a left turn except at those safe and secure intersections where a turn signal was present.

Dad taught us to drive, mom would have none of it. And even though she was a nervous wreck every time her children drove her somewhere, secretly mom seemed grateful to be relieved of the burden of driving. Eventually I became the family chauffeur.

Unlike mom, I was unafraid of making left-hand turns or darting across lanes of traffic. This is not to say that I am some sort of wild and crazy driver, far from it. But mom could never achieve any real level of comfort in a car driven by anyone, especially in heavy traffic or at high speeds.

So whenever I pulled across a road or turned in front of oncoming traffic, mom would clutch the dashboard and stomp on the invisible passenger's side brake. Occasionally she would make hissing or gasping noises as she quickly drew in her breath. Once the scary traffic hurdles were cleared and we were safely on the other side she would exclaim, "I don't know how you can stand it!"

On days we set aside for shopping or errands, mom recommended routes for me to follow, explicit directions that had received Loretta's Seal of Approval. I usually thanked her for the suggestions, then went whichever way I preferred.

Soon mom's driving behaviors became legendary among friends and family. We laughed at the image of her making perpetual right turns, adding miles to her travels simply to avoid a busy intersection. She didn't care what we thought and was not about to change. Because the reality was that this quirkiness, which seemed downright silly to the rest of us, made driving less stressful for her. And it allowed her to maintain a sense of freedom and mobility for as long as she was able.

After mom's memorial service, a longtime family friend recounted a story. Apparently her mother had taken a trip to a place where she knew the traffic would be awful. So she found a way to get from Point A to Point B by maximizing the use of right turns. They laughed together as her daughter said, "You're pulling a Loretta!"

A couple of weeks ago Dave and I were headed to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants close to home. The normal route has been closed for months due to a bridge reconstruction project. Traffic is horrible on the detours, and here we were heading out during rush hour right into the thick of it. As we drove off, I chuckled a bit while explaining to Dave how he could get to the restaurant and back home using only right turns.

Oh no, I was pulling a Loretta!

Mom would have been so pleased.

Footfalls

Touch the Earth with your feet, lift your face to the sun, breathe the air, listen to the birds and the wind through the trees. See the glory in the creation that surrounds you.

Do you ever listen to the sound of your footsteps? There is a rhythmic thud each of us can call our own. My left foot seems to hit the ground harder than my right; a recent x-ray revealed an unusual skeletal abnormality that confirmed my suspicions.

Our footfalls also take on peculiar tones depending on the surface they touch or the foot coverings we choose. Listen to your feet land on a squeaky hardwood floor, or on a soft padded carpet, or when sporting flip-flops or wet sneakers or a brand-new pair of shoes. Each sound is unique.

How about in the forest?

We were in the Flat Tops Wilderness at the end of September, following narrow trails here and there alongside a beautiful body of water called Trappers Lake, the second largest natural lake in Colorado. It was quite a journey. We often select routes to and from our Colorado destinations not because it is the shortest distance between two points, but rather based on what we hope to see along the way.

Neither of us had been to the Flat Tops Wilderness, and Dave had never seen North Park. We drove to Fort Collins and through Poudre Canyon, a winding road that follows the Cache la Poudre River, the only river in Colorado designated as Wild and Scenic. After what seemed like an eternity twisting first to the left, then to the right, then back again, we finally emerged from the canyon and began the climb to Cameron Pass where we stopped for lunch.

Behind our picnic table, I spied a trail meandering off into the woods and suggested we take a walk after lunch. Apparently this trail is popular with cross-country skiers and snowshoers. Along the trail were high metal poles with directional signs and symbols located about eight feet above ground, which would be just about right if you were tackling this trail in the deep snows of winter.

We passed a rundown old homestead beside the trail and laughed as Tonka attempted to jump a gully, underestimated the distance and fell into a big hole. This dog is fearless; he popped right back up and continued on, giving a look as if to say, "I meant to do that!"

Tonka is a medium sized dog, sturdy, stocky, with boundless enthusiasm. I marvel at his footfalls, the energy he expends as those four paws pound the earth mercilessly. Close your eyes and imagine the sound of a horse galloping on a dirt road. To hear Tonka run is to bear witness to the miniature horse hiding inside this happy little creature.

Colorado's North Park is a vast, open range sprinkled with ranches and teeming with wildlife. We zoomed along through this stretch of country, stopping briefly in the town of Walden before heading over Rabbit Ears Pass towards our new home base: Yampa. In the small town of Oak Creek, we celebrated Dave's birthday with dinner at a cool little restaurant called Shorty's.

A fierce wind woke us in the middle of the night. Outside our window stood two nervous female mule deer, one grazing, the other scanning the perimeter for signs of danger. Surely there were more deer in the darkness beyond the motel lights. We stood in the window watching our silent visitors, whose footfalls would never be heard above the howling wind.

Dawn arrived and we packed the car for the main attraction, a trip along the Flat Tops Trail Scenic Byway. The morning light followed behind as we drove west into the wilderness, stopping at random locations along the way to gaze with reverence at autumn's glorious golden hues.

Finally we made it to Trappers Lake. We did not realize that the forest surrounding the lake had been devastated by wildfire, sparked by a lightning strike eight years ago. The stark, ghostly remains of a burned forest appear sad, forlorn. But look closely. Underneath the charred trees you see new shoots, tiny trees, grasses, groundcover, all making a slow comeback. Eventually a new forest will arise and reclaim the land.

Along the Carhart Trail around Trappers Lake, I mentioned to Dave how I love the sound of footfalls in the forest. He began to stomp his feet loudly with exaggerated steps and we both laughed. Seriously, I do love the sounds.

Natural, soft, whisper quiet steps in the dirt, a muted snap as you land on a narrow tree root grown across the trail, the crunch of dry leaves beneath your feet, a gentle sucking sound as the muddiest spot on the trail pulls a foot into its grasp, the hushed murmur of pine needles being crushed into the dirt.

I can hear them still...

See the pictures here: Flat Tops in Autumn

About Those Birthdays

Today is Dave's birthday and we are leaving for another trip through our beloved Colorado Rockies, this time to the Flat Tops Wilderness. Neither of us has spent any time in this area of the state so it will all be brand new. I'm hoping we are able to catch the beautiful aspen trees at the height of their autumn loveliness. So far, we've been lucky and timed our Colorado fall vacations just about right. But an unexpected snow or windstorm can send those glorious golden leaves scurrying to the ground in a hurry, and the moment is lost.

A few weeks ago I sorted through a big wooden box of Dave's family photos, looking for a specific one that remains hidden. In the process I found many more that sparked my interest so I set them aside for scanning. Dave will most likely cringe, then laugh at these pictures from so long ago. I'm sure they will evoke certain memories for him. Since I don't share those memories, I'll tell him that what I see is a handsome young fellow who would someday become the wonderful soul I fell in love with.

Birthday celebrations in Dave's family were probably not much different than my own. My brother and I have many birthday pictures from our childhood just like these. I also seem to recall that my brother had an unusual aversion to flash bulbs. We always share a big laugh whenever we stumble on a photo showing Ted with both hands over his eyes!

My parents were never extravagant yet birthdays were always fun: a special home-cooked meal, a party with neighborhood kids, a favorite birthday cake with candles and, of course, presents!

Our celebrations now are likewise simple. We don't exchange gifts or bake cakes; instead we try to plan an event the other would like. My birthday is in the cold slumber of winter, so Dave may warm the occasion with symphony tickets or a fancy dinner out on the town. And since Dave's birthday lands at the start of our favorite season, we often plan a mountain getaway to celebrate.

Last weekend on a shopping trip, I suggested Dave look for some new pajamas. Later I told him those pajamas would be his birthday present. He seemed okay with that until he remembered that I promised to take him out to dinner.

"Okay, but... we're still going out to eat on my birthday, right?"

Maybe our birthdays now aren't what they used to be. Still, the little kids roaming around inside us cling to the notion that this one day really is our own personal holiday. And we do our best to oblige.

The Siren Song of Solitude

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.

See the pictures here: Sunshine and Solitude

Confessions of a Golf Widow

Let's start with the obvious: I married a golfer.

I'll admit to having precious little knowledge about golf. I recall learning the game in our high school gym class, the teacher demonstrating how to throttle the end of a golf club in a bizarre grip while hunched over in an unnatural position, then admonishing the students that didn't produce a sufficiently relaxed swing. Occasionally my dad could be found watching a weekend tournament on television. But after sitting through five or ten minutes of the sport, I'd wander off and leave him to watch alone.

Never could I understand the attraction of chasing that little white ball over hill and yon, dragging along a heavy bag of clubs, half of which you may never use, scribbling on a tiny scorecard with a miniature pencil.

Then I met Dave.

He and his longtime friend, Keith, played every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday. Even in winter, if the course was open and there was no snow on the ground, they headed out bundled in thick clothing that I imagine would prevent you from making even a halfway decent swing. Yet they never missed an opportunity.

Dave's father was a golfer, and his grandfather before him. It was on those annual trips to Sun City, Arizona, to visit grandparents where Dave learned the game of golf. His grandfather remarked that of all his grandsons, Dave was the only one with any natural talent for the game.

A few times I accompanied Dave on golf outings, where I was given a cushy assignment as golf cart driver. I paid little attention to rules and statistics, but rather spent most of my time observing how the players interacted with one another.

It is a calm, quiet, nearly serene environment until something goes horribly wrong. Next thing you know a frustrated player, cursing loudly, tosses aside the unholy club involved in a ruined shot. Or an even more heinous breach of golf etiquette may occur: talking while someone concentrates on the final putt of a complicated par 5. At this point otherwise happy, fun-loving people suddenly turn deadly serious. It was all I could do to stifle the giggles and steer the cart, without laughing, to the next tee.

During the early years of our relationship, Dave continued playing every weekend, often both days. Once I complained to his mother about the prolonged absences, especially what I considered excessive time spent on the Nineteenth Hole. I mentioned to Marge something along the lines of, "Sometimes I wonder if he's ever coming back." Married to a golfer more than 50 years, she informed me in that calm, quiet way of hers, "Oh, they always come back."

Dave tried to teach me the basics of golf. We ventured out to the driving range where on the few times I actually connected with the ball, it never went far. We played miniature golf together. But these pathetic attempts to learn how to play the game he loves made it painfully obvious that I have no latent golfing skills.

Just as well. Over the years I came to appreciate and understand his love of golf. We have many common interests but there really is no need to share this too. It's something I believe Dave should have all to himself.

More recently I have begun to savor the days when he is golfing. On those days I have a chance, briefly, to live as a single woman again. My golf-day activities might include shuffling about in my pajamas for as long as I like, watching favorite tearjerker movies for the umpteenth time, writing silly stories like this one, or engaging in any number of unproductive pursuits.

Being a golf widow has taught me a few things about the game of golf. The rules may be complex but the rewards are sweet. It is less about competing with others and more about competing with yourself, learning to achieve success in areas that have proven to be your downfall in the past. It's a game that requires patience, concentration, focus. Although at times Dave may seem a bit like an absent-minded professor at home, he does well on the course because deep down inside, he has those qualities in abundance.

As for my confessions, they are really quite boring:

• Sometimes I really enjoy watching golf.
• It's nice occasionally to have the house all to myself.
• I'm proud of the man who made me a golf widow. He is a good golfer and committed to his game. And in my experience, golfers are quality individuals.

Wonder how he played today? I'll find out soon enough. Because, as a wise woman once told me, they always come back.

A Fine Day for a Road Trip

Saturday was a "free day" at Rocky Mountain National Park, along with many other national parks around the country. Instead of opting for the usual mundane weekend activities such as grocery shopping, yard work, and laundry, Dave mentioned the free day and suggested we take a trip to the Park.

Now I'm not one for big crowds. Rocky Mountain National Park is a beautiful place and its proximity to the most populated area of Colorado makes it crowded all summer, especially on weekends. I couldn't even imagine how many people would be there on a "free day" but after the past few hectic weeks at work, I was definitely ready to escape.

We passed through Boulder on the way. Just north of the city, everywhere you looked were people dressed in their finest spandex outfits, furiously pedaling expensive-looking bicycles along the shoulder. At first I wondered to myself if this was some kind of bike race, then realized this was nothing more than a typical Saturday morning in Boulder, one of the country's most bicycle-friendly cities.

Our ride was filled with lots of banter about such fascinating subjects as whether Allenspark is one word or two (we saw signs spelled both ways and agreed: one word), which summit is Longs Peak and which is Mount Meeker (Dave is always better at identifying mountains), and where we went for sixth grade camp (mine was at a beautiful location just outside the Park).

The Park Ranger greeted us with a handful of brochures but as we pulled away he yelled "Wait!" ... he had seen Tonka in the back and wanted to make sure we knew that dogs are not allowed on the trails. Yes, we knew. He gave us a flyer just in case we were tempted to turn Tonka loose and let him chase after elk or some such nonsense.

Speaking of chasing after elk, do you know how to tell when a tourist has spotted wildlife in a National Park? Just look for all the cars parked in crazy fashion along the roadway, usually in a place not designated for parking. Near the summit of Trail Ridge Road, where many elk can be found during the hot summer months, we saw a few such parking configurations.

Sure enough, at one location we witnessed tourists traipsing across the delicate tundra, running to snap a picture of four bull elk sporting impressive antlers. Never mind that the pretty tundra flowers can take years to recover from human activity. Never mind that the elk might not take too kindly to the whirring noises coming from your camera and decide to gore you in the backside as you attempt to run away, breathless, at an extreme altitude. In my mind's eye, this imaginary scenario had me secretly rooting for the elk.

Trail Ridge Road, which runs through the Park, is the highest continuous highway in North America, with a maximum elevation just over 12,000 feet above sea level. We stopped in a parking area not far from the summit to take some pictures of our own. It's always blowing a crazy wind on top of Trail Ridge Road and this day was no exception.

A small group of flatlanders (our affectionate term for folks not from the mountain states) were huddled together in their jackets listening to a Park Ranger explain the geology of the Never Summer Mountains. The clouds coming over the mountains were beautiful and fortunately didn't seem threatening. The weather on Trail Ridge Road can change in an instant, transforming a beautiful summer day into an unexpected taste of winter.

The western side of the Park was less busy as we descended in the direction of Grand Lake. Once more we spied a group of cars doing u-turns in the road and pulling over haphazardly; I predicted this time it would be a moose. Sure enough, there was a female grazing in a wetland meadow. Fortunately, this group of people were smart enough to keep their distance. Good thing, because moose can be quite cranky.

Dave and I had not been on this particular Colorado journey in about four years. We could not believe the devastation from the mountain pine beetle that had occurred in that period of time. Basically the pine trees in forests throughout the Mountain West are being starved by this voracious insect. Rocky Mountain National Park has not been spared. The worst case scenarios have all of Colorado's lodgepole pine forests being completely wiped out in as little as five years.

We stopped in the charming town of Grand Lake to eat our picnic lunch at the park on main street. Everywhere we go Tonka seems to be quite the rock star. People come up to us and say "What a cutie!" and "Isn't he cute?" and "That sure is a cute dog!" Yes, we agree, a bit nutty but cute nonetheless.

Next stop was the lake itself. Grand Lake, originally formed by glaciers, is the largest natural lake in Colorado and serves as the headwaters of the mighty Colorado River. We walked down to the marina and strolled along the boardwalk. Our destination was the pier where dogs are allowed to swim. Dave threw sticks to Tonka; he had a blast playing in the cold mountain water.

Have you ever noticed that ice cream seems to sell itself? After Tonka's water party was over, Dave announced that it was time for an ice cream cone. When we first arrived in town, it seemed that nearly everyone had ice cream. It was our turn now. As we sat on the boardwalk licking our yummy treats, we overheard passers-by exclaim to each other "look, ice cream!" The local ice cream vendors obviously have a booming summer business.

The trip home was quiet, peaceful. Tonka slept on his doggy bed in the back as we listened to CDs. We were all tired, in a good way.

It was a fine day for a road trip.

More pictures here: Rocky Mountain National Park

The Weakest Link

Over the 4th of July holiday weekend, Dave and I took a trip to Guanella Pass, near the Continental Divide west of Denver. The highest elevation on the pass is 11,669. The summit is a staging area for hikers planning to climb Mount Bierstadt, a "fourteener" (Colorado mountains 14,000 feet or more above sea level). Its closeness to the Denver area, plus the fact that it is considered one of the easier climbs, makes Bierstadt quite popular.

I have long dreamed of climbing a fourteener but will never possess the type of physical condition required for such a feat. The only fourteeners I have been on are Mount Evans and Pikes Peak; both mountains have a road to the top. Realistically, those are the only fourteeners that will ever know my presence.

Over the past few years I suggested Dave find us a relatively easy "thirteener" to see if we can make it that high. On our trip to Guanella Pass, we discovered a thirteener, Square Top Mountain, that seemed like a possibility. So on Monday we took an exploratory climb.

Our goal was to make it to the Square Top Lakes, somewhere above 12,000 feet in elevation. Comparing our pictures, satellite imagery and topo maps, we felt confident we knew where the lakes were located: just over that ridge in the distance, at the bottom of that rock chute.

Off we went.

We estimated the trip to be about 2.5 miles one way, a fairly easy hike until it came time to climb the highest ridge. Dave and Tonka set out ahead with me bringing up the rear. This is the best place for the weakest link, as I require more frequent oxygen breaks. And I usually have an excuse handy, something along the lines of "time for a drink" or "just admiring that pretty little wildflower" or "might be a rock in my shoe, better sit down and check." At each stop Tonka circles around, growing impatient with his slow hiking companions.

Eventually the boys abandoned me as we approached the steepest part of the hike. By now I was taking halting steps, counting out 15 to 20 paces, then stopping to rest. I encouraged Dave to forge ahead and let me know what he could see. He and Tonka found a nice flat rock near the top of the ridge and sat to wait for the weakest link to catch up.

After a few minutes I joined them on that comfortable flat rock as we watched two hikers descend from the ridge. Having just returned from where we were headed, the hikers assured us the lakes could be found just beyond the rock outcropping above. That last bit of trail was steep; I told Dave I wasn't sure I could make it. I handed him the camera and told him to take some pretty pictures.

But... it was so close! I watched Dave trudge up the path, Tonka weaving left and right in serpentine fashion, until they both disappeared from view. I pulled myself up and struggled to follow, now stopping after each set of 7-10 steps.

Nearing the top of the ridge, I looked up and saw Dave returning. "There are no lakes up there!" he shouted, frustrated. I couldn't believe it. I had to see for myself.

Standing on the ridge, we realized the lakes must be in the bowl beyond the next ridge, previously hidden from view. Another 30 to 40 minutes on the trail might get us there but we were already tired. Plus we did not bring nearly enough water for such a hot day. We decided to return to the car.

Gravity is an amazing thing, an incredible force that you barely notice from day to day. Yet the way it pulled and dragged us on the way down reminds me how firmly the earth holds us in its grasp.

The sun is hot at that altitude and we were running out of water. Nearly there... almost there... when my legs began to cramp, succumbing to the effects of dehydration. Muscles barking at me like an angry dog, I took deep breaths to help ease the pain. One last steep hill remained before we reached the parking lot. Dave held my hand as I limped back to our car and its bounty: a cooler stashed with ice cubes and a picnic lunch.

Despite my secure, unchallenged role as the weakest link, I always manage to have fun.

But maybe we should look for an easy "twelve-er" to climb. Then tackle it on a cool, cloudy day. With extra water.

More pictures here: In Search of the Square Top Lakes
and here: Guanella Pass

Haircut Remorse

I was blessed with a thick head of hair. Mom was surprised by that fact. According to her my baby hair was thin, fine, nearly non-existent. Mom brushed and brushed and brushed, but she could do little more than massage my baby scalp with the soft bristles.

Eventually my hair grew in. As a child I had a shock of white hair, resembling that of an albino. In early pictures my hair was often unkempt, sticking out wildly in any number of directions. Mom was crazy about a hairstyle known as a "pixie cut" and swore that was the finest look for me, ever. This was the hairstyle she resorted to when it came time to tame her little girl's icy mane.

Looking back now at the hairstyles that were my mother's patio inventions, I have to laugh. When I finally reached an age where I was allowed to be master of my own hair destiny, I let it grow. Thick and straight as a poker, my hair either hung down my back, was bound in single or double ponytails, or was woven into Indian braids. During my flower child days, a string of leather or colorful yarn was twisted through those braids.

Yet mom still preferred short hair. "You looked so cute in that pixie cut," she would reminisce. No way, mom.

A few times I relented and cut my hair. Mom raved; I felt ridiculous, naked, exposed.

Like most women I attempted an occasional perm; most made my hair look like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. I have vowed to never again do such a thing.

Over the past two decades I have alternated between long and short hair, letting it grow until the weight and thickness becomes nearly oppressive. Then it's time for a trip to the salon where I boldly pronounce: "Chop it off!" Not surprisingly, I wake up the next morning barely able to recognize the image in the mirror. Each time I have spent countless months growing out layers--in between planned hair trimming sessions--all in an effort to regain the same amount of hair I had whimsically paid someone to remove from my head.

What is it with women and their hair? All I know is that somewhere along the way, the mop on my head had been transformed into this tomboy's feminine touchstone, my only source of attractiveness, my one saving grace. To this day when I look in the mirror, I rarely look at much else beyond my hair. From my perspective, the rest is not worth more than a passing glance.

Increasingly the forces of middle age have come to dominate my life. Last week I could no longer tolerate the combination of summer heat and the heaviness of my hair, waking up in the middle of the night with the nape of my neck bathed in sweat. So I was off to the salon where I informed the stylist with unwavering confidence, "I need to lose this mop!"

She cut my hair exactly as I requested. During the process I could feel the wet, weighted whisps dropping from my head, could feel myself becoming cooler. At the finale I ran fingers through my hair; they were quickly released to the air, nothing left to hold onto. "Perfect!" I exclaimed.

The next day in front of the mirror I was overcome with remorse, nearly in tears, mourning the loss of my one saving grace.

It's silly, really. My new hairstyle is not bad at all. It has just been a long time since my hair was this short.

Even now I can almost hear mom: "I love it! You know, it's short enough that you should have gone ahead and asked for a pixie cut....."

No way, mom. Starting today I'm growing it out. Again.

Little Dog on the Prairie

Time to share a little bit of history and a few pictures of the resident four-legged creature that shares our home, Tonka. He has been with us just over a year now and last week we celebrated his imaginary birthday (imaginary in the sense that it was borne from the depths of our imagination). We have absolutely no idea of his real birth date so we selected June 11 based on a smidgen of algebra, a hint of sorcery, and a quick game of pin-the-tail-on-the calendar. With our vet's concurrence, we believe him to be three years old. Tonka's not sayin'.

A cattle dog/aussie mix, Tonka is a "prison dog" we found through the Colorado Prison Trained Dog Program. This program rescues, trains, and adopts dogs. They save both pure and mixed breed dogs from humane shelters and other animal rescues all over Colorado and surrounding states. Each dog is adopted by a team of inmate handlers who socialize and train. The dogs live in the cell with an inmate but also are exposed to the general population and daily institutional living conditions.

Knowing we wanted to adopt from this particular program, we made arrangements to meet three dogs that seemed to have what we were looking for. As we were walking Dog #1 (Olive), we strolled past the crate that held Dog #2 (Tonka). We knew right away it was him; the black masks on his face were a dead giveaway. Dave remarked, "Tonka's pretty cute!" We held off making a decision until after we met Dog #3 (Doc). In the end, Tonka won our affection.

Tonka was a stray found on the eastern plains of Colorado near Lamar. He was given to a local rescue organization. The woman who fostered him said a ditch rider discovered Tonka. The poor dog was thin and covered with fleas but he was smart, willing to learn, and so eager to please. We have often wondered how he came to be a stray out on the plains and what his life was like. Our main speculation is that he was dumped out on the prairie, a common occurrence in the rural parts of our state. Nor do we know how long he had to fend for himself. He is quite focused on birds and once caught a dove in mid-flight in the back yard, so we suspect birds may have been a source of food for him.

Our little Tonka-man now leads a privileged, happy, comfortable life filled with lots of love, lots of toys, his very own swimming pool, and frequent hiking trips in the mountains. Much like his predecessor, Raven, we believe Tonka grabbed the brass ring on the dog adoption carousel.

When they could not find him a forever home, the rescue group turned Tonka over to the Colorado prison dogs program, where we picked him out of a lineup. And the rest, as they say, is Tonka history...

The Tonka Movie from Deborah French on Vimeo.