Our trusty Subaru Forester on a gravel road in northwestern Colorado, laying down another “thread” across the landscapes we loved to explore.
Richard and I loved to take road trips. He drove, and I watched the landscape and speculated about the whys of it all: Why a ridge was shaped the way it was, why the lichens on one rock were orange and the other green, why that slope grew forest and that prairie….
Sometimes we talked, sometimes we were silent. Sometimes we drove for hours without stopping; sometimes we stopped to watch birds, look at wildflowers, gawk at a sky-full of stars, or pick up a rock (Richard preferred large rocks the size you could sculpt into basins, tables, sinks, or firepits). Often we wrote and edited haiku in our heads. Always we held hands.
When we moved home to Colorado 15 years ago, we were talking about the trips we had made across the state, and I said, “We’ve laid a lot of threads across this landscape.” Richard loved that metaphor; ever after, anytime we set out on a route we had taken before, he would say, “We’re following familiar threads.”
The West Elk Mountains across Blue Mesa Lake, a reservoir much shrunken by our long drought. (Note the telltale bare “bathtub ring” usually covered by the reservoir.)
Over the weekend I followed one of those threads west on US 50 over Monarch Pass, down Tomichi Creek and through Gunnison, along the Gunnison River and then around Blue Mesa Lake with its wide bathtub ring from the drought, and then up and over Blue Mesa Divide, down to follow the Cimarron River, up Cerro Summit and finally down into Montrose, a bustling town on Colorado’s West Slope.
I admired the landscape, silently pondered some “why?” questions, but didn’t stop.
I was eager to get to Montrose in time for a massage with my friend Ginny Anthony, followed by dinner with Ginny and her husband Mark. I made it, the massage was heavenly, and their dog Tyler was delighted to play tug-the-hedgehog. I admired Ginny and Mark’s garden, was treated to a yummy dinner of Nepalese food at Guru’s, and was back in my Subaru before dark, headed for a place to spend the night under the waxing moon.
Chokecherry turning scarlet and serviceberry dull gold, a drought-induced early fall display of color.
As I drifted off to sleep I told Richard that I loved him, and that I had traveled one of our threads. I felt good; I slept well.
The next morning’s drive, back over Cerro Summit and Blue Mesa Divide, along shrunken Blue Mesa Lake, and up the Gunnison River Canyon, was lovely. I stopped to shoot photos here and there, amazed at the color in the chokecherry, currant, and serviceberry, a beautiful but eerie drought-induced display a month early.
As I passed through Gunnison, an ambulance screamed past from behind me. I said a quick blessing and hoped all was well. A few miles later, I topped a hill and found a line of vehicles stopped in the highway from both directions. At the bottom of the hill, lights flashed: the ambulance plus a sprinkling of patrol cars. A motorcycle lay on the shoulder near a small car.
I turned off the engine, got out, and joined a small knot of people from the other vehicles. One guy had his binoculars out and said it looked like a head-on between the bike and the car. Just then the ambulance screamed up the hill, headed back to Gunnison. We voiced our hopes that whoever was hurt would be okay, and watched the officers at the bottom of the hill measuring and photographing. The talk turned to distracted drivers and the perils of motorcycles versus cars–several of the stopped vehicles were pulling trailers with dirt bikes or road hogs. Eventually the official vehicles dispersed, we wished each other well, and headed back to our vehicles and drove on.
I saw the landscape through tears the rest of the way home, grieving at it all: Richard gone and me here without him; the motorcyclist in the ambulance, the driver of the car with the bashed in front-end and the responsibility for someone’s life.
None of it made sense, and it likely never will. Life is what life is, and we do our best to live it with love and compassion, thoughtfulness and generosity.
Sacred datura blossom unfurls slowing as day deepens to evening.
At home I unpacked the car and went outside to water the kitchen garden. And saw that the sacred datura I had planted right outside the bedroom door in Richard’s memory–those huge white trumpets were a favorite of his–was opening its first-ever blossom.
Beauty & death, grief & blooming time…. Emerson had it right:
Our lives are an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn. That there is no end in nature; every end is a beginning.
Onward.
Susan, your story gave me a chill up the back of my neck. The datura blooming was the icing on the cake.
It also reminded me of our honeymoon trip, almost 23 years ago, where we rode Rudy’s motorcycle to New Mexico, up into CO, and back home to Austin. We no longer ride, thank goodness.
Bobbi, I am glad you had that honeymoon ride, and that you and Rudy came home safely. The group of us waiting there for the highway to clear were a motley crew, from tattoed Sturgis types and the retired middle-school teacher hauling his trail-bike back from a weekend riding in the desert, to me. We all agreed on one thing though: drivers today are more distracted than ever, and that makes riding a motorcycle dangerous. (Or a bicycle, or walking.) It’s sobering, that’s for sure. I agree, the datura blooming was the icing on that particular cake….
Yes, I was going to mention the distracted driver thing. I personally blame cell phones for a lot of that.
Rudy was always a safe driver, but stopped riding when he started having inner ear problems that affected his balance. I couldn’t ride on the thing for long without dozing off, either–probably from exhaust fumes. That trip to NM was crazy–we went through every imaginable weather from here to there, including a hail storm. THAT was a trip I’ll never forget! LOL
Texting is the worst. How could anyone imagine that they could look at a keyboard and type while driving? If you were dozing off from exhaust fumes, it’s a good thing you’re not riding anymore regardless of Rudy’s inner-ear problems! Exhaust fumes means carbon monoxide, and that’s dangerous. I’m glad you had the trip to remember though, hail and all….
Susan, it wasn’t very long ago I made the same drive, but continued on to Grand Mesa, for a morning workshop at the library, led by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. That evening, she did a reading as a sorta fund-raiser for Western Colorado Writers Forum, which I also attended. Either event, by itself, was worth the 7-8 hours of driving. Both together?…
Alas, it was a long day, and I didn’t get home until just before two o’clock the next morning. There are “gaps” in my memory, concerning the drive, beginning from the top of Monarch Pass. I don’t recall several landmarks, but fortunately, I did make it home in one piece, and didn’t have anything close to jarring nor shocking. *whew*
The other day, I saw one of our local police officers talking on a cell phone while driving on patrol. (And I thought it was illegal, or at least a no-no for Salida police, to do so…)
Anyhoo, that Blue Mesa/Montrose drive shows a different Colorado than where you and I live.
ps I like how your sacred datura pic is making the rounds: Facebook, your e-newsletter, this blogpost.
Eduardo, I’m glad you were able to take Rosemerry Trommer’s workshop and take in her reading, but that made for a very long day, if a very rich one as well. I think I would have broken the drive by spending the night sleeping out somewhere and loved watching the panoply of the stars wheeling through the night sky away from town lights…. I don’t think talking on a cell while driving is illegal, but texting is. And I see people texting while driving through town all the time! I agree that the police should set a good example.
I’m sorry for those who were involved in the accident. Motorcycle vs car is always bad, no matter who is at fault.
Your drive reminded me of our one trip through Salida, across to Blue Mesa Lake and then to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. That was a magic place!
(Then I had to drive us home all the way to Fort Collins. We got back at 11pm after driving for six hours straight…)
Lynne, The Black Canyon is a magical place. It’s where I spent the night on the way home from Montrose. The stars were astonishing, even with the haze of forest fire smoke hanging over the West Slope. I hope you’re enjoying exploring Western Washington as much as you did Colorado….
I am growing sacred datura for the first time in my life. While still baby plants, with the rains and heat now, they will grow fast and bloom in fall. When they bloom, I will have yet another daily reminder to think of you and Richard. Onward, dear Susan.
Bobbe, I love that you are growing sacred datura there in Florida! May those baby plants bring you the magic of their night-time “moonflowers” and thread their healing energy through your dreams. Be well….
I’m delighted to know that Guru’s is worth a try! It’s been there seemingly forever, but we’ve never ventured in. We’ll do our best to help the indies in the face of the franchises in town. And about your dad’s impending move, Susan, please take it easy and know you can’t do it all yourself. It’s a lesson we’ve learned ourselves these past months. As confirmed do-it-yourselfers, we truly did try to do it all. We’ve had to admit that we just can’t. I keep thinking about your post about third gear (or was it second gear? I’m clearly not ready to drive in the mountains!)
Mary, Guru’s may look shabby, but the food is very good, and the family that runs it are just lovely people. My friends Ginny and Mark eat their as much as they can afford in order to support Guru’s. I’ve enjoyed it every time I’ve been in there. Thanks for reminding me that I can’t do my dad’s move all myself. He’s open to hiring people to pack and move him, but I do have to be the one who helps him sort through what he takes and also to transfer his bank account and all that. (Not to mention sorting through all the mail that has accumulated while he’s been away at the VA training program for the blind. That alone is formidable.) He’s eager to move yesterday; I’ve convinced him to be more or less patient. And when he’s moved, my brother takes over at the Washington end. So it’ll all work out. Oh, and that post was about middle gear, so it’s probably more like third gear. Take the mountain driving slowly at first!
susan, being a dabbler in threads myself, i enjoyed this metaphor, this story, and i thought how the thread of those injured on another thread, the highway, were following their threads…so it rather became a cocoon. (ha, the brain of a fiber artist.) but that amazing flower– richard does check in on you!
Velma, I hadn’t thought of a cocoon as a metaphor for the complexity of the threads in this story, and it’s an interesting one because of the connotations of “place of shelter” and “place of transformation.” Thinking of our lives as threads makes me contemplate the idea of making a map with colored “threads” to show the major journeys of my life, with and without Richard, and then I start thinking metaphorically and wonder about a map in 3D that shows not just literal journeys but emotional and spiritual ones too. It’s fun to imagine the forms such a creation could take…. And yes, Richard does keep in touch.