In Search of Snow

We went looking for snow yesterday and found plenty in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a free day too, with all kinds of visitors on a warm sunny Christmas Day. Snowshoers, cross country skiers, and other parched Front Range folks like us out hoping to catch a glimpse of that beautiful Colorado snow.


Storm Pass trailhead



Looking towards Bear Lake area from Storm Pass trailhead

Mountains above Bear Lake

A lovely little creek in the snow

The same creek

Whispy clouds overhead

Creek through Moraine Park

Same creek, up close

Snow dog!

Mountains above Moraine Park (big herd of elk way off in the distance--bottom left)

Looking towards Trail Ridge Road

Travelin' man

"The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere

is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

~ Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Dear Santa

All I want for Christmas is for someone to please throw my ball.

Thank you. Love, Tonka

Idling in Neutral

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

~ John Lennon

Today we spent some time reflecting on the past year. I asked Dave what he thought of 2010. His response: “Well, it was kind of shitty.”

Can’t argue with that.

It began with good intentions, plans and dreams galore, which kept us preoccupied for the first two months. Then came the news. Like so many others, Dave’s company was struggling and several employees would have to be let go.

Not a pleasing prospect, a still-sour economy coupled with the added hurdle of competing for limited jobs when you’re over fifty.

After we married we chose to live frugally, well below our means, so that we could maintain a debt-free lifestyle and save up for a wonderful retirement, perhaps move to our favorite little mountain town, maybe even a few years earlier than expected. We were well on our way.

But we quickly shifted gears this year, temporarily idling our Bus to the Future in neutral.

All was not lost. Our frugal lifestyle served us well. Dave was able to work part-time for a few months and supplement his unemployment income. The extra time at home allowed him to finish a multitude of projects, the kind you simply don’t have time to accomplish with only two days off each week. We even managed to squeeze in a few fun and relaxing trips around Colorado, making the very best of our new reality.

Tonka was delirious. His favorite person in the whole wide world was home nearly every single day. Together they perfected their ball throwing/catching skills.

I turned to writing, a creative outlet long enjoyed but always in private. Earlier this year I discovered a gleaming online warehouse for my journals. In this virtual space my silly little stories dwell in quiet, unassuming fashion, like so many wallflowers at a raucous digital blog party, afraid to be noticed.

I’ve also been fighting a losing battle with sciatica. Months into the war now--with acupuncture, chiropractic and physical therapy treatments under my belt, orthopedic shoes in the closet, prescription pain pills in the medicine cabinet, a nerve-stimulating machine that I use to perform electric shock therapy on my back--and I still hurt.

Yet we are so grateful for all that we have.

Merry Christmas  *  Happy New Year  *  Peace on Earth

Debbie, Dave and Tonka

 

(from our Christmas newsletter)

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