Day 49 plus Part 1 of 6 of "Mountain Stirrings"

Day 49

 

Anna Marie (Annie) May 25, 2003

 

Oh! Boy! Oh! Sacred Joy! My little Miss Anna Marie! Our “pistol”! Our Love! Our girl!

Blessed with Adonis-handsome Z. Tyler, beautiful Lauren Victoria and “Curly-lox” Lexi “Lu”, we could have never guessed that “perfect” lives could be further enhanced: Anna Marie!

Beautiful children, all! They developed into “Quality” people, beautiful on the inside as well as in good-looks. Four winning-hand  “aces” in any poker game--anywhere…ever! Awesome!

And, thirteen years later another miracle, Anna and elder sister, Lauren, look like---twins! Wow! And surrogate-sister Lexi fits right in, Z. Tyler, too. They all dearly love one another!

Our Miss Lauren, fifteen (going on twenty-three) is now driving with a “learner’s”
permit; she has chauffeured me several times. I told her that she drives so good that when I win the “big” lottery, I’ll gladly hire her to convey my old bones in the limo; she just laughed.

What is noteworthy, in spite of my inane yammering attempted jokes, is what Miss Lauren told sister Anna: Annie! In six months I’ll have my official license and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go! There is not a selfish bone in the bodies of any of these “saints”! Wow! Surely, they must all get their Christian-generosity from---you guessed it…their Nanny! You go! Girls!

Our Annie Rie rides horse like the wild wind; if old Bapa could just figure out how to saddle that wild beast-wind, Anna would ride it to a standstill. “Zorro” is her love, a four-legged sixteen hands tall equine straight out of Argentina. They are a beautiful pair to view. He loves Anna, flies over the jumps with Anna urging him on as we hold our collective breaths. Ah! Fun!

Each of our progeny is exceedingly blessed of person and extreme intelligence. Through the years, I have been urbanely enamored by female talent in the “looks” persuasion; lately, maybe just due to my growing eon lineage, I have come to equate “brains” with “physical” attractiveness. Probably says something about an immature “old” man finally growing up!?

Should I somehow be enabled to make changes in these lovely children, I would not and could not improve upon them. Perfection! Is a conclusion which requires no adjustments.

Anna Marie displays a “sense-of-humor” not unlike her maternal grandfather’s (God! Help the girl!); Annie Rie sees things in a different light from a different perspective and “humor” interlaced in all of it. This active lady has a perpetual smile; her focused mind is always going.

What these young girls will do with their lives is playing out, day by day. They have aspirations, but, time has a way of softening self-imposed “ideals”; they will each do just fine!

I can imagine them as astro-physics scientists; they sure enough have adequate intelligence for it. But, I do not interfere in the challenges and desires of others; no matter what they conclude or where they go or what they do, I’ll love each of them to the eternity of my spirit and do my very best to encourage them, stand by them and celebrate their fantastic choices in this life.

I love you! Children! Always have; always will! Amen!

 

Thank you! Our loving Miss Anna Marie!

 

Ah! Cookie Jar Sweet “Precious” Memories!

 

 

Plus: Part 1 of 6 of "Mountain Freedom"

from "Station Master" book of short stories

by Carl Schuler (Amazon books)

 

 

 

Mountain Freedom

 

Under a luminescent alabaster pale full moon orb, an incongruent faded red stuck out like the proverbial “sore thumb” among a verdant, lush evergreen-drapery backdrop. Two hours earlier, Logan had unobtrusively parked the old Jeep as far back in the copse of evergreens as he dared to challenge the steepness of the granite mountainside, carefully sliding the once red hood under low, overhanging pine-needle branches which reeked pleasantly of alpine-scented freshness in the quickly descending dusk of purple-haze shadows gathering like wraiths called from the grave at midnight haunting time. Lengthening greyish fingers touched the lower limbs of one tree after another as the tenacious reach slowly deepened to black, ensnaring the evergreens and finally devouring their proud existence in impenetrable dark obscurities, the entire forest becoming one in drab, melancholy gloom. The early risen orb already stood directly overhead, its brightness obfuscating a usual star-studded display in the black velvet abyss above the serene narrow valley setting. A silver sheen reflected the eerie moonlight on the surface of the secluded small lake.

Upon arrival at the southern entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park just above the town of Granby on the Colorado River, Logan had driven to the tiny lake situated at the base of the towering peaks which could be seen from the road but whose far side disappeared into a deep ravine offering security and solitude from any prying eyes of the public at large. On that far shore, he had secreted his trusty transportation in the trees, hidden from the roadway. Also, arriving late in the day precluded interruptions by the park’s city-dwelling visitors as almost all had vacated the common for a night’s lodging in Granby or had ascended the summit to retreat to the eastern edge of the forest in the town of Estes Park. He had vacated Breckenridge about mid-day taking the interstate from Frisco eastward until reaching Highway 9 on the Blue River, then traversing north to his intended destination for a rejuvenating night’s respite.

Before full darkness settled in, coming quickly to the deep crevasse, the man had retrieved his tent and sleeping bag from the Jeep, chose a camp location close to the small lake, gathered stones to surround a tidy fire, ate a Granola trail-mix bar while water from the pond came to a boil and had then enjoyed a delightful pot of strong tea as the night shadows swallowed the dusk.

Long before the heavenly searchlight above had covered half its allotted sky space between the two towering mountains above him, Logan gave way to solitude in deep, restful slumber. He would awaken with nature’s own alarm system at the very first hint of a new-born day.

Sometime during the darkness, long after the silver orb had vacated the dark opening of sky on its westward journey to the blue Pacific, a clinking sound of rock sliding and striking another stone stirred him to wakeful senses. Beyond the lake, across the highway, somewhere a few hundred feet higher than his own position, on the slope of the opposing mountainside, a nocturnal animal had dislodged a rock causing it to cascade downhill. The errant sound brought Logan to immediate consciousness; he listened intently. The slight disruption should offer no immediate hazard or threat to his present location, but, it always paid to be cautious. The man was savvy, filled with mountain expertise, no novice and certainly not a tenderfoot greenhorn to nature and her independent ways; experience had honed his skills to a razor’s edge.

Laying quiet and breathing shallow and slow, Logan strained sensitive ears to the area of the unanticipated sound. Then, further up the slope where the disturbance had occurred, he detected the very faint “clink” of another stone upon stone and heard the distinct yelp, ever so slight, of a coyote. Chuckling to himself and dismissing any nightmare fantasy of a hungry grizzly bear on the prowl for a tasty midnight “Logan-snack”, the man relaxed, shaking his head at an overactive imagination. Sometime later, his assessment of the “danger” proved his humor over the matter to be correct as the silver-grey wraith of the night howled its plaintive song at a descending moon.

At the first hint of dawn’s challenge to the night, darkness reluctantly receded, each moment persistently pushing the black into full retreat as a new day won the eternal battle. By the time wind stirred pine-scented air in the valley, Logan had fired his camp embers back to life, dismantled the tent, neatly folded and expertly rolled the sleeping bag and cached them in the waiting Jeep, checking the vehicle to make sure nothing untoward had entered it during the night. Again, that stupid worry-for-nothing attitude. He shook his head as his dear mother’s perpetual warning rang in his ears as the “tape-of-life” played: Be careful! To which admonition, he always replied, “Oh! For Pete’s sake! Mom!” Then, he’d laugh at both of them and kiss her.

Once, out Brice Canyon-way, while on a quest chasing antelope with his camera and sketch book, he had gotten caught on a high plain as night beckoned; foolishly, he found himself temporarily lost, unsure of the correct direction to take; the sleeping bag made for a handy bed on the rocky ground. It had not been the first time he had dreamed away the daylight and spent a cold night on some high plains-desert floor as reward for absent-minded obfuscation.

Chasing antelope and sketching natural arches, canyons, arroyos, rivers and mountains in addition to deer, elk and the occasional black bear brought out the boy in him and when adventure beckoned, which seemed to be “always”, he could, and, did, often lose consciousness of time. Varied shadows on the strange landscape provided the creative artist an inexhaustible source of scenes just begging to be captured on film or drawing paper. There was no surprise in the fact that it happened yet again. Aggravating! But, he’d make the most of it; like always!

Morning found him lying on the desert, the wadded-up makeshift “bed” cast a few feet aside and with a chill in his weary bones and kinks in places he hadn’t even known he had. Disgusted with himself for allowing his enthusiasm to head-off the ghosts of the plains, thus clouding his better sense the night before, he hastily and negligently gathered the disheveled bag, angrily wrapping it an untidy ball and threw it into the rear of the old red Jeep, laying a five pound flat stone on it to hold it in place against the wind generated while he drove.

The wraiths of the plains he sought had vanished in the night and were nowhere to be sighted; they could be miles away. So he jumped into the trusty vehicle and headed for civilization. A half hour later brought him to an intersection of his direction of travel with a two-lane highway; Logan reckoned the nearest town to be west and made a right hand turn onto the roadway, again cursing his bad luck with the antelope chase and a cold night under the stars. So upset had he been that he even forsook his morning tea in a hurried effort to get to a town. He was hungry!

Still early, the sun had been up about an hour, Logan spotted a tractor-trailer truck coming down the highway, but at a safe enough distance for him to enter the road ahead of it. His oversized, wide tires with deep tread and huge “lugs” on their perimeter sang a deep humming tune on the concrete surface; annoying on the pavement, but indispensable on the off-road, often sandy, terrain which he frequented. After a half mile, or so, he noticed the semi coming up fast on him from behind; taking a second nervous glance in the rearview mirror, it was only about a hundred feet behind him. At sixty, that was uncomfortably dangerous.

Then, the air horn on the truck blared three quick blasts and the driver flashed his lights three times in rapid succession. Sticking out his left arm and waving the tractor-trailer to pass, he got the shock of his life when his view in the mirror caught sight of the reason for all the excitement.

Leisurely stretched out on his untidy, wadded-up sleeping bag laid a huge rattlesnake basking in the Utah morning sun while enjoying a delightful Jeep ride down colorful Brice Canyon.

At that very moment, in his burning ears, he could hear his beloved mother’s call: Be careful!

Thus, all these years later, Logan performed a vigilant search of his gear and vehicle before setting out. He justified the caution with a realization that he was getting older---and…wiser!

Having filled the old coffee pot with crystal clear water from the pond, captured liquid from snow-melt high on the summit of the mountains behind his camp, Logan returned to the fire, found a comfortable sitting position, opened his pack and removed two tea bags. These he expertly hung in the icy water, stirred the coals once again, added a few dry sticks for fuel and waited for the water to boil. Retrieving a trail bar of oats, nuts and cranberries, the man pulled out his writing paper and a pencil. A bite of the breakfast bar reminded him of how hungry he was and, also, of how much he had come to enjoy and appreciate even the seemingly “little” things of life. Long ago, he had come to cherish simple values; this understanding helped to hone his philosophy to practice those values leading to sacred-virtue which prompted his letter.

He wrote a brief note to his dear mother, telling her where he was, his intended itinerary for the next week and that he planned to be home to Texas for her birthday which, this year, would come a few days prior to the Thanksgiving Day celebration. He promised to be there.

He signed it: Love, Logan; then, dated the letter September 11, 2001.

With the sheet of writing paper which contained his letter, he added a sketch of a lake located at timberline on the mountain above his present location with a herd of about two dozen elk coming out of the forest at sunset to water. The hidden lake was about two thousand feet below the summit of Rocky Mountain National Park visitors’ pinnacle, where he planned to be in about two to three hours. Logan had made the sketch a few years earlier, in the early spring, when he had traversed the park after visiting a friend who served as Professor of History at the University of Colorado-Boulder. He folded the letter and pencil sketch together and, after addressing an envelope, placed the contents therein. When he came down the mountain on the east slope later in the day, he would purchase a stamp in Estes Park and post the letter there; he shoved the package into an inside zippered pocket of his well-worn, but warm, leather coat.

When the water boiled, Logan poured himself a steaming cup for tea, opted for another energy bar, leaned back to enjoy breakfast. There was no sense of urgency, so he slowly savored the meager morning offering, taking in the vast beauty of his surroundings, basking in the early sun which had reached down the slope to touch his tidy encampment.

The lake surface lay quiet, not a single ripple disturbing its glistening polished-mirror surface which reflected the greenery of the stately trees and picked up a hint of the cerulean abyss above. The reflecting pool of the lake, encompassing about three acres of water surface, imaged a color palette ranging from deep green-black to spruce-blue to smoky-grey to dancing gold aspen leaves interlaced with vertical, stark white, mottled trunks. Picturesque nature! In all her majesty!

About a thousand feet above his location, yet still well below timberline, Logan spotted a rock outcropping on the western slope of the mountain. In his imaginative-artist mind’s eye, he could see the lone coyote of the night prior, howling at the full moon from the perch just meant for such romanticized notions. Making a mental note, he would sketch that very scene; but, later.

Hairpin switchback narrow curves ascended the steep grade by way of a precarious two lane blacktop mountain road with sheer walls nearly touching the roadway where the granite had been blasted away allowing creation of the thoroughfare; while the seemingly bottomless downhill side resulted in a cliff precipice deep enough to literally take one’s breath away, the ascending sight presented an upward tilt---straight up…forever!. Any traffic coming down the mountainside found drivers naturally hugging the inside of the rollercoaster, opting to damage his vehicle against the rock barrier rather than chancing a tumble into the obfuscated deep abyss.

Fortunately, for Logan, he had begun his ascent early enough in the day to preclude any oncoming vehicles; vacationers were mostly city-people and this was their time to relax and sleep in, recuperating from a year-long grind of drudgery to escape for a few weeks. He did not expect to encounter more than a half dozen, or so, cars once he reached the summit; there, at an elevation fifteen hundred feet above timberline, at around the twelve thousand foot mark, he would park in the lot and hike to the pinnacle on an asphalt walking path created to encourage visitors to stay on the surface and off the fragile tundra. A half mile from the parking area which offered restroom facilities, the walking trail ended on the very summit in a jumble of cabin-sized boulders piled haphazardly, one upon another, like play toys abandoned by some mythical giant child. They seemed totally out of place on the barren, windswept mountaintop, but afforded a view of breath-taking vistas. Nature’s beauty-crown---Personified!

 

 

(tomorrow Part 2 of 6)