NEWSLETTERS

January 2004

"Every moment of one's existence one is growing into more or retreating into less." Norman Mailer

"Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect." Margaret Mitchell

"Ever notice how it's a penny for your thoughts, yet you put in your two-cents? Someone is making a penny on the deal." Steven Wright

Before I can properly begin a year's worth of goat notes to you, I need to finish what I started with in August 2003's newsletter http://www.terrihendrix.com/aug03.html ... regarding my adventure through the mountains of Colorado in a Chevy Malibu rental ...

So there we were, en-route to Florissant, Colorado, on Lloyd's birthday, at the tail-end of June, driving for what seemed like an eternity, twisting our way up, up, up and more up Rampart Range Road. For the record, those that named it a road had a great sense of humor. Any "road" at least 5000 feet above sea level, without guardrails, composed of more dirt than gravel and with pot-holes the size of empty swimming pools is *not* a road. It's also not fit for a Chevy Malibu. But being an optimist, I thought, "Ahhh, this 'road's' only 40 miles long. How much worse can it get ? Besides, I'm kind of enjoying the shocked faces of those whizzing past us on their dirt bikes, four wheelers, and off road vehicles." Being the *only* car on Rampart Range "Road" had an up-side: It meant that we got the right-of-way when we approached sections big enough for only one to squeeze through at a time. Keeping clear of the edges that dropped off into God-knows-where, our car would inch vertically alongside the mountain until we safely passed the other individual. In retrospect, had the wind blown while doing this, we would have tumbled off the mountain.

Luckily, two hours later from when we started our 40-mile trek through the wilderness, we no longer ran into mankind. However, soon (60 minutes later) we encountered deer the size of elephants. Lloyd said they were elk. Who cares? They were huge, looked mean (like Texas deer on steroids) and had the right of way from that point forward. Soon, what I thought was mountain mist turned to fog, and then to rain. Thunder broke, rattling our teeth, and blades of lightening sliced open the heavens, creating a downpour with such a wrath that our Malibu slid sideways. "I think we missed a turn," Lloyd said. "Lloyd, any turn off this 'road' would be suicide!" I shouted. "No," he said, "we were supposed to make a turn off this short cut a ways back to get to the highway." By now four hours had passed on our "short cut," so for me back-tracking was not an option. Luckily, the heated debate came to an halt as we rounded a corner and saw ... People! Wow. People! I was ecstatic to see civilization, even at its most primitive. Lloyd, father figure that he is, locked the car and made me stay in it. He stretched his legs, stiffly awakening each one as he did so, and approached the natives. I saw him speak to them and point wildly back in the direction from which we came. Then, he looked at me, bewildered. As he did so I wondered why these folks were camping on the side of a mountain. I mean, their jeep was propped sideways on trees. A few limbs were all that kept that jeep from a plummet into oblivion. Rather than pointing to the sky, the tops of their tents pointed to the mountains on the other side of the ravine. Were they camping up so high that the blood was too thin to rush to their heads as they slept? One of their kids, covered head-to-toe in dirt, picked scabs through his ripped jeans, and as they bled, got his dad's map out for Lloyd. "Blah blah blah blah until you come to a boulder in the road," the boy's dad told Lloyd as I strained to listen through the car window. Soon a woman - I think, as she kind of resembled an elk - climbed out of the tent and scrambled up the mountain to put her two cents into what was quickly becoming our geographic nightmare. Lloyd listened, laughed, shook their hands, and ... ran to the car. I had it unlocked and ready for quick departure. As he turned us around, our car wheels spun in the mud, and in a panicky I-think-we're-about-to-get-stuck kind of way, Lloyd punched the gas. We popped out of the squishy pot hole as my bladder exploded in pain, reminding me that I hadn't seen, much less used, a toilet in eight hours.

As we drove away, Lloyd said those campers, by the smell of their breath, had been going through their whisky like logs in a freeze (might explain the position of their vehicle and camping technique). In spite of that, he said that they'd told him to look out for a boulder. When we found the boulder, there would be a sign to direct us towards the main road. The REAL road. Great. But ... a damn *boulder*? You've got to be kidding. Boulders were *everywhere*. We'd been narrowly avoiding them the entire trek. But sure enough, an hour later we came to a large boulder in the middle of the road. There, on a crooked wooden sign, wedged in between two trees, illuminated by our headlights in the dusk, was an arrow with some illegible words scrawled on it. As to where that arrow was pointing, I'll never know. But Lloyd guessed which way we were supposed to go and we lucked ourselves back into finding the main road (it was dirt! Actually, it was mud because of the rain) that eventually led us to the REAL road to the Thunderbird Inn, located in Florissant Colorado. We arrived just before showtime, some 12 hours after our departure from Gold Hill. I can still hear the residents of Florissant laughing about the two crazy Texans who took a *short cut* through Rampart Range Road in a Chevy Malibu.

Happy trails, and thanks for your support!
Terri Hendrix
© (P) THM Music January 2004
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