Since Monday's post was indirectly/directly about Aurora, I thought that Colorado needed some good press...as if the the mountain ranges, ski resorts, national parks, and awesomely liberal/artsy/progressive cities don't do a good enough PR job as it is. Here is one of my favorite memories from the Rocky Mountain State:
* * * * * * *
There was to be a family reunion.
But this wasn't going to be just any typical family reunion, with awkwardly posed photographs and khakis and backyard volleyball (which everyone sucks at) and adults slurring their speech from too many drinks and cousins racing off to secretly test the flammability of household objects. No, this was going to be a reunion...in the mountains. Camping. In the mountains. Whoever had concocted this idea was clearly insane. It would be both epic and a trainwreck. We couldn't wait.
Of course, my family, living in the Midwest at the time, needed a way to transport ourselves to said reunion, and for whatever reason, flying in an airplane - like normal people who need to cover great distances do - was out of the question. Perhaps it was because our golden retriever Tex, who undoubtedly had a fear of flying (as all dogs do), was an inextricable member of the family and could not possibly be left behind that my dad decided the best way to travel was to drive there.
But no, not in just any old van! PSH!
(I can see the conversation now):
Dad: Hey Jane, we need a way to get to Colorado. Don't you think the kids would have more fun if we went in the minivan...or a MOTOR HOME!?
Mom: I'll get my checkbook.
Thus, seemingly on a whim, my parents purchased a 1980's era Winnebago, complete with brown and beige accents, an "over the driver" sleeping loft (which I claimed as my own), and a non-functioning shower and rarely-functioning toilet. My sisters and I were ecstatic. This was going to be the best vacation ever.
[While writing this and other posts, I am slowly beginning to understand where my impulsiveness and sense of adventure comes from. My parents were maniacs.]
And so, on a hot day in mid-summer, my parents loaded up their newly purchased motor home with a week's worth a bags, their three grade school-aged children, and our golden retriever, and set off across Missouri and then Kansas, driving through the night to save time. I still remember waking up in Limon, Colorado - though the topography still looking very much like Kansas - as my dad was pumping gas, rubbing his stubbled cheeks with one hand, his eyes looking tired. The sun was rising over our shoulders to the East, and as everyone else slept I rode shotgun and we listened to one of three Jimmy Buffett cassette tapes dad had brought along for the trip. I refused to blink as I stared straight ahead, hoping to be the first one to see the faint outline of the mountains in the distance...
Jimmy Sang: "and that's why it's still a mystery to me why some people live like they do..."
We arrived in Colorado Springs sometime that afternoon. I can't remember how long we stayed, eating deli sandwiches and catching up; all I know is, when it was time to set out for whatever park/campgrounds my uncles had chosen as our destination, the motor home was the desired method of transportation for all of the cousins - nine of us in total (and, of course, Tex). It was like Chuck-E-Cheese on wheels, but without the ball pit. I'm surprised my father didn't drug us all with prescription sedatives slipped surreptitiously into our cans of Mountain Dew. At one point I think he was wearing his green pilot-grade, noise-cancellation headphones, possibly imaging himself driving a bus full of criminally insane primates.
Finally, after hours climbing on everything, "Bago-surfing" (wherein you try to remain standing without touching anything while the RV cornered sharply around narrow mountain passes), playing Uno and eating lots of string cheese, we made it to our campsite. It was gorgeous; high up in the mountains, surrounded by trees with the brightest shades of green, everything looking ultra-saturated with color and wet, new, alive. Behind our camp a mountain rose up above the trees, looking down at us like the face of God, inspecting our tents, making sure the fire was properly hedged to prevent escaping. If we listened closely we could hear the notes of a nearby mountain stream as it tumbled over dark grey rocks on its way to somewhere unknown. The sky was bright through the leaves overhead, unsure of whether to be blue or grey. It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.
And this was just the beginning of our adventure...
[Some of us died. Maybe. Probably not. But you should read Monday anyway to just to be sure.]
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