Road Trip

Off of highway 17, between Antonito, Colorado and Chama, New Mexico and across the Conejos River, lies a small mountain meadow at near 8900 feet. It has been 35 years since Bob and I have camped here at the trailhead to Duck Lake. Not much has changed in all that time. Open for dispersed camping, fire pits have been spread around at respectable distances to maintain some privacy. Vault toilets have been installed at the trailhead to Elk Creek.

Finally leaving home for a 10-day road trip toward Escalante, Utah, we arrived here around 4 PM. Best to stop early since it is a Friday before Mother’s Day. With the official campground a quarter of a mile away still closed until Memorial Day, some folks, mostly in the know, will be pulling in for the weekend. The winding flatwater of Elk Creek offers great fly-fishing.

It’s been a hectic 3 days cooking food, gathering clothing, figuring out which pots and pans to bring and packing everything into the van. Last night it froze, temperatures dropped to mid-twenties, so filling the water tank was held off until departure. Checking to make sure the water system was working, Bob discovered a leak that had to be repaired if we were to have any water at all. ‘Coincidentally’, Bob had bought a fitting for another project the day before that turned out to be the wrong size for that but the correct size for the water leak.

The biggest boon was finding a house sitter who was more than willing to take care of 3 horses, one who is 33, a dog and a cat, as well as watering indoor plants and outdoor gardens. A blessing indeed. A capable horsewoman, she just about begged to ride the horses while we were gone.

Now, there is time to take a deep breath, a pause away from the routine of living ‘the Good Life’ to discover something new, to experience the unexpected.

For the moment, I sit in afternoon sunshine. Water sounds from a stream draining snowmelt from La Manga and Cumbres Pass create a steady rhythm behind me. Hundreds of dandelions decorate short meadow grass. They are young and plump, not having turned to grey seed heads. Although characterized as weeds, their blossoms add gaiety to the atmosphere. Chirping sparrows, little grey birds, flit around picking up what? Seeds? Bugs? A robin earns its songbird title, singing its distinctive melody. Aspens edge parts of the meadow. Their tall reaching trunks, white tinged with pale green skin, exhibit a striking vibrancy, flushed out by rising sap. South-facing groves are just beginning to sprout leaves, while others hold buds still wrapped up tight. The first shiny, yellow-green leaflets, shyly tentative, take a chance that their timing is right, not to be caught in a late hard freeze. From a distance they form a faint hint of green canopy that would not have been noticeable a week ago.

I sit gazing at the palisade cliffs, water-worn vertical walls, that are visible a couple of miles away. Many summers were spent horse-packing, and fishing in that high country of rolling tundra and forest, dotted with over 30 lakes. Bob and I have visited most of them.

When I close my eyes I clearly see our 8-year-old son, now 45, in his element out in the wild. I picture the young biologist sent to get a bucket of clean water from the nearby lake or stream. He returns with all kinds of specimens: a captured tadpole, a caddis nymph wrapped in its home of glued-together gravel, maybe a caterpillar tucked in the tail of his shirt. Cherished memories of a younger age.

Returning here, my spirit feels welcomed home by this place. My body-mind joyfully refreshed, thrills to drink in the nourishing nectar of abundant aliveness offered. A rekindled curiosity asks what wonders might be discovered next as we continue on this journey.