Cleanses of the Soul

Last month, in what has become a yearly tradition, I replenished my soul in the Rockies.  Climbs along trails, falls along paths, and miles alone, and one hike with a partner all brought me endless doses of vitamin D and countless moments of elongated breathes and moments that will bounce in my mind's eye for days and years to come.  Sometimes the weather, the gods, and the universe align.  As I've alluded before, the Rockies and Colorado tend to bring out the universe aligning for me. 

That being said, along the way I'm reminded of things.  Well, more than just things per se.  A couple of years ago I published one of my favorite pieces.  Yeah, I know . . . I shouldn't play favorites with the writings, so please don't tell the others.  But, my little piece on the transcendence of the soul in Turkey still rings true on many levels.  Even more so, or more of a side note, every time I head to the Mediterranean it turns into a comedic sideshow of international calamity. 

In Greece, a man was chasing me around the deck of a ferry, which was probably more of my own doing as I was stupid enough to smile at him and look him in the eye.  And . . . There was the fashion statement of draping two mismatched scarves on me as I was cold and using what I had.  My friend T called me a homeless person, and I volleyed that homeless in Greece would suit me just fine.  She didn't laugh as she had just coaxed me back onto the ferry to Turkey.  I also got kicked out of Duty-Free that trip.  Well, to be more precise, T and I were asked to leave after having started a moderate perfume war amongst ourselves.  Looking back, we were a stench sitting on the bench waiting to go back through customs. 

On another Mediterranean trip, to Italy, there was the car driver who jammed his tongue down my throat on the way to the airport.  That was before I even left the states.  While in Rome, many things that went to the side of humor.  A great example of the calamity of that trip: marzipan shaped like penises and a priest on sight when me, being me, pick up two cherry shaped marzipan candies and placed them by the phallic shaped candy.  The priest cut off a piece of his own marzipan candy he held in his pocket . . . Well, let's just say that leave it to me to create a circumcision when there isn't one. 

Mediterranean calamities aside, Colorado typically has its rounds of hilarity.  Last year I had that whole cellulitis in my jaw and allergic reaction to the napalm strength antibiotics.  This year there was no Lupus induced hell.  Okay, well, to be precise there was a Benlysta infusion the day before I flew.  Those unicorn tears did me well for about two weeks.  Then aches slowly came back, and my spine decided to say fuck you.  All in all, though, Colorado did me well. 

Four hikes in six days say something.  Yes, yes it does.  Though, people . . . Don't hike alone.  It was beautiful and filled with transcendence, but in the end when you find yourself hiking for hours alone--with nary another soul in sight except for the cattle at the trailhead--and you hear that distance rattle you'd rather not be alone.  Or so I hear.  Yeah, I know.  But, Pawnee National Grasslands was worth it.  Every moment, every step, every slide when I slipped (more than once) crawling up the side of a butte. 
 

There's the solitude, for sure.  There's a solace.  There's a slice . . . A slice of God, as my Grandfather would have said.  Of course, the two and a half hour drive from Denver, with more than an hour of that on dirt roads, is part of the adventure or sheer insanity.  Either way, it was a good day, a good afternoon, and that copper head didn't find me so to speak.  Kismet loved me that day.  The endless sunflowers, springing like weeds, along the roadside could be a sign.  Or they could be a marker of late summer in Colorado and some of my favorite things: from bike rides, Palisade peaches, to those god-like blue seas of the Mediterranean I long for more than I should readily admit.  

Though, hiking around Denver would not be complete--for me--if I didn't hit up Rocky Mountain National Park.  In my book, Mount Rainer National will hold my first love for parks.  Why? I started out life there.  But, the Shenandoah comes a close second . . . A close.  Why? Rocky Mountain National gives Shenandoah a run for its money.  

I hit up Deer Summitt again, as I did have plans to do Twin Sisters.  TS is the park's highest peak, the only one you don't have to shell out 25 bones for park entry fees, but it's remote as hell and so not meant to do alone.  I started up that way, and the roads went dirt and the compound signs started.  When I saw the sign saying that we believe in the teachings of Mathias, I was unnerved.  Scenes from HBO's Big Love were coming to life, and I took my friend's blue Prius with equality for all and anti-hate stickers down that mountain as fast as I could go before I ended up washing clothes over an open pit, with scraggly hair, and dead eyes.  Oh, wait, that last part was just my own thoughts unnerving the bejesus out of me.  Upon that, I hit up RMNP and went back to Deer Summit.  This year I made it up, well except for the last stretch of a quarter mile that is wickedly steep and you need someone there for safety and support.  A couple of inhaler hits later, losing the trail a couple of times, sliding down said path on my rear (and front), the views were breathtaking, and the result made me dirtier for the wear and better for the long run.  

The power of it all comes down to a few things.  There was the fuel of those aforementioned unicorn tears, but then again there's something about the air up there.  This year the Denver air was worse than air quality in China, as the western parks raged with fire and wind.  The air up there, in the mountains, cleared my head and my soul.  I may have been taking two Clariton a day and huffing Flonase twice a day, to stay breathing while in Denver, but the air up there . . . The air up there was like it's own billowy cloud of romance and escape.  While at Pawnee I saw no one, at RMNP I ran into a few (at the beginning and near the end).  There's a saying: go hiking and try to be in a bad mood.  Okay, if you are in the military . . . That's a different story and kind of hike.  

The soul breathes, and the heart heals, as we all know there was drudgery of the masses this past spring.  Life, Lupus, and  . . . 

Breathing on a vista.  Self-aggrandizing enough to use the timer and a rock to capture myself. 

Among all that, there was Staunton State Park--a tiny park--that I spent another two hours alone in as I saw people upon entry and exit to the trail.  I saw the mountains; I saw deer, I saw slices of God that day.  Was it then or later that I felt cracks start to heal and realized that if I don't go back to taking a day a month to go hike, breathe, or escape I'm going to lose myself? 

Along the way, there was also El Dorado Canyon, which is no joke in case you are wondering.  There I met up with my cousin, and we hiked and hiked.  Of the three trails: being death by the canyon, Rattlesnake Gulch, and a light trail we opted for Rattlesnake.  The trails were the happiest I'd ever been on, and along the way Shane and I prattled on about life and the moments along the way,  We climbed to the top, looked at the ruins of the Craig Hotel, and the climbed a second more and gazed upon the continental divide.  Somewhere along the way, he remembered that letting inhibitions go suits life well, and he kept me from falling along the rocks.  At trail's end, we ran to the river to frolic like kids, I ran through the chilly waters to find a rock calling my name, and he promptly fell off the rock next to it.  Comedy and beauty have a way of crossing paths.  

You give me water, and I'll dive.  You give me a mountain and water, and I'm like an inland mermaid at home with the closed sea.  

My agnostic daughters returned from vacation, they were fascinated with my hiking (even though they spent a week doing it themselves), and the youngest fell in love with bikes rides right before she left as she and I did one.  The simplicity of a bike ride.  The endless conversations her sister and I had in the hammock.  The simple things.  The best life things.  The things to keep you active.  Memories made, with nothing spent, as experiences mean more than possessions and endless piles of goods.  

Thus, while there were no inappropriate commentaries made in front of holy men, no tongues down my throat my strange men, no touchy-feely tour guides, or . . . Well, those that know me, or read around here, know the Lifetime Movies of my life are endless.  Instead, Denver was a quieter Lifetime Movie.  Instead of drama, it started out as such--with the previous two months in the rearview--and then blossomed into a coming to yourself and center story.  Thus, the beauty and magic of it all still reside in the things I see.  The mountains, the sky, the colors.  The moments made stationary with the capture of an image.  The feel of excitement as a ten-year-old rides her bike in the park.  The comfort of conversation in a hammock on a late summer afternoon.  The peace of solitude along the grasslands.  The strength in the climb.  The power of the fall.  In the end, they symbolism reassures and awakens the soul to remember that the paths along the way may bend, but if you nurture the journey, they unfold and work out to kinks and quirks instead of landslides and raging fires unable to be quelled.