Day 54 plus part 5 of 6 "Mountain Stirrings"

Day 54

 

Dick’s Rock Shop and Pizza Hut’s

pizza-by-the-slice in Estes Park, Colorado

 

 

Oh! Glorious Rocky Mountain High upon yonder summit Colorado! Yeah! Baby!

Colorado stole my heart when first I laid eyes upon her beauty; heaven to a mid-west boy.

We ventured west for some years on an annual trek for adventure-fun and, secretly, in my personal, private search for a new home. First time we visited Colorado Springs and found “Garden-of-the-gods” city park, a parcel of land just below 14,110 foot high Pike’s Peak gleaming granite blaze in a cerulean blue abyss. The “park” sported 60-million year old up-thrusts of pre-historic rock escarpments just for the entertainment of kids, young and old. We spent many hours in the open-confines of that “wonderland”. Another secret? I was sorely disappointed at not finding the Lone Ranger and his faithful companion, Tonto, waiting for me to saddle up and go after some “bad” dudes up Cripple Creek way where they had robbed a bank; sure, I hoped the shister banker had a pretty young daughter---I ride a white horse! Dreamer!?

Anyway, the “justice-dispensing” duo was nowhere to be found; I did look!

So? I placated my deranged imagination with my “wife” and two kids; not a bad deal, at all.

Yeah! Sure! I knew the fictitious Ranger and Indian were not there? I hoped and looked, anyway. In a “kid’s” world of imagination of mind and spirit---Well!...you just never can tell!

We had our favorite haunts in the Rockies, Estes Park’s Rocky Mountain National Park was most certainly a favorite. After the events of 9-11-01, I wrote a story set on the mountain near Long’s Peak. (Check out: Amazon books, search: Carl Schuler, then visit “Station Master’ book and read the 3^rd short story presented in the compilation). The little burg of Estes Park sits at the base of the Rocky Mountains on the east side slightly north of Boulder. A superb environment!

Two venues in the city stand out though the entire area is just delightful. Those memorable shops include Dick’s Rock Shop and Pizza Hut. The eatery sat at the very edge of a mountain river fed from above with glacier melt; the restaurant built a deck over the rushing water where we often dined. Pizza might be tasty-good; in that setting each bite is Fantastic!

We had many a good-time there, but Dick’s Rock Shop rated highly, also.

This little “hole-in-the-wall” rock emporium was run by a thin man who I always suspected was of Indian decent, very patient and quiet, enjoying cutting rocks to expose their hidden interior treasures for wide-eyed customers (including---me); his rotund Caucasian wife did the “business” end of the prosperous operation writing invoices and chattering away.

The family garnered some exiting “geodes” from Dick; another bright spot in the mountains/

 

Ah! Cookie Jar “sparkling” Sweet Memories!

 

 

 

Plus: Part 5 of 6 "Mountain Stirrings" short story

from Station Master book (Amazon)

 

 

Behind Logan and two thousand feet down the steep slope and, now, fully three-quarters of a mile distance, sat the turquoise blue mountain lake where his elk visited each dusk for water, just at the edge of tree line; the surface area of the alpine natural reservoir encompassing about three acres surface area. He had glimpsed it momentarily as he had exited the parking area. No elk!

Eastward from the summit parking lot, a long valley opened wide toward the town of Estes Park; civilization could not be seen from such great distance, about a dozen miles and several thousand feet lower in elevation, but the roadway turned and twisted as it wound down the slope; just before Logan dipped over the edge of the rim of the lot and onto the two lane pavement, he caught sight of a big four door sedan, probably a Buick, coming up the mountain, maybe a half mile from his position. Switchbacks and steep cliffs abutting the road offered occasional brief glimpses of the highway ahead as one traversed the trail.

His mind focused on the lake behind and below his position; Logan wanted to stop and view the scene once more since it might be a long while until he came this way again; the man could never have fathomed a guess even close to his eternal fate pending the next few minutes. But the pavement hugged the northeast cliff to his right where the boy, Donnie, probably still sat in the tidy, warm shelter of the jumbled boulders, only two or three hundred feet of his own, present elevation. Because of the steepness of the terrain, the summit pinnacle remained obscured.

On Logan’s right, in the direction of Long’s Peak, also hidden from view, there were no turn outs or scenic overlook locations as the valley dropped at a precarious angle and vehicles were “protected” from the precipice by a two foot high guard rail, of sorts, it being a wall of pinkish granite bowling ball-sized stones and rocks from the mountain side long ago gathered and laid in mortar by stone masons when the road had been constructed in the very early 1930’s providing access for the public to the Park. Like all nebulous “security”, the stone impediment to breaching the edge of the road and cascading down the steep rocky slope to doom was more a perfunctory result of perception than of any actual safety reality.

If everybody professes profound belief in any “lie”, does it not then become the “truth”? Or, is such self-deceit only viable in a fake world until the ultimate reality test occurs?

Felix Lowenshtelm did not like the mountains; they were impediments created to fly over, not to tempt fate by driving across them. He glanced, for the ten millionth time since leaving Estes Park where they had spent the night, at his sleeping wife of fifty-two years, slumped in the passenger seat of his big luxury Buick and shook his head disgustedly. Drooling through an open mouth, Imogene’s incessant snoring only exacerbated the absurdity of the entire situation.

He had wanted to fly to New Jersey for the annual torture of visiting Imogene’s daughter and her brat kids for a full week, but, no, His wife said they were getting old and she wanted to drive cross-country from their home in Arizona so she could see the sights and visit the Rocky Mountains. Of course, Felix had relented. Had she even asked? Hell! No! The General only dictated orders, whatever came to her feeble mind without consideration for anybody, or, anything, save her own precious fiat. Wow!  Damn! Any consequences. What could go wrong?

The couple had vacated their motel, ate breakfast and exited town by eight a.m. Felix wanted to listen to the news on the radio, but Imogene suffered from car sickness whenever they traveled and the “noise” of talking, human or mechanical, irritated her fragile condition. He snorted derisively, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head; each of them was better off when she slept. Anyway, at least she wasn’t yammering continuously about his erratic driving. Damn!

Of course, he did need to pay particular attention to the road; these mountains were steep and the pavement sometimes seemed to tip sideways in an un-level position. Often, the roadway showed a wet surface as springs and runoff from melting snow and ice gathered on the road; in the last several miles Felix had noted thin sheets of ice in some spots. The numerous blind curves, steep ravines and impossible switchbacks made him nervous; the last thing he needed was an accident to cost him even more money. Imogene did not seem to care about “his” money.

The traveler would definitely welcome a return to the high temperatures and hot desert sands of Arizona, not caring if he ever saw another mountain---or, for that matter…New Jersey, again.

Little could he guess that fate is the hunter and he, like the rest of humanity, are only pliable cogs in the machinery of time-space and history. Careful what you wish for! Amen!

Imogene stirred, trying to wake up as first she snorted like a thoroughbred, gagged and finally coughed until her eyes flickered open and she sat up. All that commotion just as the heavy Buick came to another blind curve to the right; one covered with solid ice which Felix recognized too late. Over reacting, he hit the brakes hard, locking them and sending the car into a spin.

As he cleared the jutting granite cliff protruding into his lane of travel opening his sight to the uphill road again, Imogene screamed and covered her face; Felix closed his eyes, tight.

Logan approached the blind curve from the opposite direction, slowing a bit and attempting to look over his right shoulder toward the hidden elk lake behind him; it would be his last chance to glimpse the scene until he traveled this way again. And, who knew when that might be?

From the corner of his eye appeared a beige flash as a big vehicle came sliding sideways into his lane of travel; he braked, braced himself for impact and hugged the right side of the roadway.

The Buick’s tires found purchase on dry pavement as the car careened across the icy plateau and straightened out seconds before impact with a red Jeep coming directly at it; the sliding vehicle quickly came to a halt in its proper lane, headed in the correct uphill direction.

Logan wasn’t so lucky; the gods had apparently chosen not to be with him, that day.

When he maneuvered the Jeep to his right and against the two foot stone guardrail, the huge lugs on the outside protruding past the edge of the oversized tires bit into the rock wall grabbing the surface, violently dragging the vehicle onto, and finally, over the intended safety obstruction.

Felix Lowenshtelm, wide-eyed, witnessed the atrocity, threw his Buick into “Park”, fought the irritating seat belt, finally getting the encumbrance loose, kicked open the heavy driver’s door and bolted from the car, hobbling to the far edge of the road.

Before his unbelieving eyes, a red Jeep slid in a slow-motion rolling action side-to-side at an awkward angle to the steep, rocky slope of the mountainside; items from the vehicle’s interior flew in every direction as the red blur, encased in a shroud of rocks, dust and debris cascaded farther down the rocky slope. In one vicious “flip”, Felix witnessed a body thrown from the red blur, out ahead of the out-of-control vehicle and onto the sliding loose rock of the cliff side.

Then, to his ultimate horror, the tumbling vehicle rolled directly over the prostrate body which disappeared from sight as the Jeep continued its free descent. The spectator surveyed the debris for any sign of the body, but so complete was the wreckage and the debris among the sliding rocks that the man could not see anything even remotely recognizable. He uttered a Yiddish prayer as Imogene finally arrived at her husband’s side, taking his trembling hand in her own while clutching both to her chest, her lips twitching, her eyes wet with rolling tears.

At last, the demolished red blob resembling a crimson smear in a sea of shifting rocks and dust, now, totally unrecognizable as a vehicle, came to rest against a giant boulder far down the slope from the Rocky mountain National Park road above as the huge obstruction refused to relinquish its tentative hold on the steep slope; finally, the dust settled and the scene became eerily quiet. On the pinnacle above, a form wearing a black leather jacket with fringe quaking in the stiff breeze stood on a precipice and viewed the remains of the wreckage. In a silent film-type salute, across the tenuous slope, wraithlike sheets of white sketch papers drifted on the wind toward the elk lake off some distance toward the west, lying quiet like a luminescent turquoise jewel, serene in its awesome beauty, un-impacted by the horrendous tragic human activity.

Later, after the cops, tow truck, ambulance and varied spectators had vacated the horrid scene, having cleaned up the carnage, winched what they could find of the Jeep-wreckage back up the slope, filled out all the necessary and proper report forms, and as the spent sun gave up the day in its relentless struggle with the dark and slowly progressed beyond the mountain peaks to meet the east with a promised newborn tomorrow, the elk herd made its way to the sweet water lake to satiate its thirst before its routine night time forage-excursion. The animals could not recognize the myriad reflected images of their own likeness imprisoned upon white sheets of drawing paper with shadowed pencil lines now gathered and floating on the pristine lake at the water’s edge.

 

 

The End…

 

Save for a few final thoughts of the Author on Individual Independence: To wit:





 

 

(Tomorrow---Part 6 of 6)