Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Station Master-book (excerpt)


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!

On the trek up the mountain, when he came out of a turn in such position that the sky opened to his purview, the blazing bright Colorado sun temporarily blinded his vision causing Logan to slow his progress to a mere crawl, for safety’s sake; concentration became the keyword, demanding all his attention and skills. Once he caught sight of a pesky hoary marmot scampering from atop a huge boulder and then quickly disappearing into a hole between the rocks, probably its den, for escape and security from the interloper; no other game presented itself to his view on the two hour venture; he fully expected to see an array of animals, once he reached tree line. Myriad marmots, for sure, probably some mule deer, and, with luck, the elk herd might visit the secluded lake which he could see once he reached his perch on the summit boulders.

He had never seen antelope in the park as they preferred the open areas of the high plains desert topography spread across the west from Kansas and Nebraska on toward the setting sun; up Wyoming-way and in Montana; on several occasions, he had spied Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep but had never encountered those magnificent animals in the central part of this colorful state. He had, once, caught a fleeting glimpse of three Bighorn as he rounded a blind curve on a mountain road in far northwestern Colorado.

Antelope were the speedy wraiths of the high plains while Big Horn existed as faint grey wisps of ghost-wraiths on the sheer cliff precipices of the very far reaches of the highest peaks. These agile sheep could climb a vertical flat cliff-face nearly as well as the fleet-footed goat; those bearded demons literally ran up a perfectly smooth mountain side never missing a step.

Marvels of the natural world never ceased to amaze his perceptions and Logan held a deep and abiding consideration, affection, respect and gratitude for the generous offering. It was this reverence he sought to capture and convey in his artwork; that desire, he handily accomplished.

Approaching timberline on his inexorable quest, trees began to clearly identify his nearness as the vegetation began to thin in density and shorten in height; the revelation began about the nine thousand foot altitude, very subtle in its announcement which became definitely pronounced by his reaching an additional five hundred feet in elevation. Getting decidedly sparser as Logan continued upward, all trees disappeared at the ten thousand five hundred foot level as he passed tree line at which point the tundra became evident. His eastward view displayed the summit about a mile ahead; clear, cerulean blue entertained a dazzling yellow orb of high intensity.

Logan donned his old ball cap, then adjusted his mirrored sunglasses to dim the glare. Sun light became four percent more intense for every thousand feet above sea level. Still, in the open confines of the Jeep, he was intently aware of the frigid temperature at these altitudes; he involuntarily shivered as he zipped the coat tight and pulled up the collar. The wind was brisk.

Surmising correctly that the parking area at the summit would be sparsely occupied had proved to be correct; four sedans, three pick-up trucks, two towing campers, each with Iowa plates, indicative of an extended family traveling together on an annual vacation and a large, custom-painted RV which had been parked at the far edge of the lot, probably to keep it from getting “door-dinged”, or, worse, were the only vehicles present. Still early, the clock had not quite reached ten a.m. The full onslaught of city-slicker wanna-be mountaineers would shortly begin in a lethargic trickle, getting into full swing between the noon hour and one in the afternoon; by four, the exodus would get underway, a small percentage trekking on westward, backtracking the southern entrance route which Logan had just traversed with fully ninety out of every hundred retracing their tracks eastward, down the mountain to Estes Park and points southward. Logan would be long on his way by then, outfoxing the horrid crowd both ways.

Choosing a front row parking spot about ten slots from the restrooms, he maneuvered the Jeep past the vacancy and backed in, facing south and affording him a fine view of impressive Long’s peak, stretching some fourteen thousand-plus feet into the blue heaven expanse. Exquisite!

There he sat for a full fifteen minutes, taking in the spectacular vista-view. Incredible!

Logan had spent a bit better than half of his thirty-six years in the Rocky Mountains; he never tired of the adventure; each day chock full of unexpected events, enough to fill a lifetime.

Grabbing the half empty water bottle from the drink holder on the dash, he fished another un-opened plastic container from his old cooler strapped in behind the passenger seat; the second one he secured in his left jacket pocket for later consumption; the first he held onto.

As Logan exited the vehicle, he retrieved his sketch pad and several pencils and his camera.

After utilizing the facilities, he paused near a trash can and drained the liquid contents of the half-finished water bottle. When he tossed the empty vessel into the receptacle, he absently took notice of a dark green sedan pulling in next to his Jeep. Dismissing the incident without further thought, he thrust his hands into the jacket pockets and headed up the gentle slope of the trail.

At random points spaced about one quarter distance each of the total to his intended destination, Logan paused to do a three hundred and sixty degree slow rotation to take in the beauty of the peaks surrounding him, snapping a few photos for future reference for sketches.

On his second stop as his revolution brought his vision back to the parking lot, Logan caught sight of a man and boy just beginning the ascent; apparently they had arrived in the green car he had observed, earlier. The boy, about twelve, or so, appeared to be severely overweight and the man, probably the boy’s father, had covered about a hundred feet up the slope, ahead of the youngster. The man kept turning around and yelling something to the child which Logan could not decipher at the distance and with a steady breeze interfering with the words as they came to his position in a muted, garbled fashion. The father was motioning in an exaggerated manner and it was quite obvious that he was coaxing the boy to hasten his climb. Logan shook his head.

The better part of a half hour later, Logan reached the base of the jumble of huge boulders at the end of the trail and turned to view the surrounding vista; the agitated father had reached slightly beyond the half-way point of the climb, but the obese child had not yet come to the first quarter marker. The father continued his wild gyration antics as he impatiently waved the boy forward; the kid’s face, even at the distance to Logan, was beet-red.

Stepping off the end of the blacktop trail and onto a well-worn path etched in the tundra between the massive boulders at the base of the huge jumble, Logan began his ascent to the summit, about thirty feet above his present location. Once on top, he took in the circle of mountain peaks on every point of the compass. On his second rotation, he snapped myriad pictures of the incredible vista; Long’s Peak, to his immediate south, towered over its domain.

A frigid breeze born in the northwest and streaming over the snow covered peaks caught his eye and forced a tear to escape the deep blue, crystal orbs; Logan wiped at the inconvenience with the back of his gloved hand.

“Damn!” He breathed the curse in a whispered lament.

Then, in self-confession of his demonic transgression, added, shaking his head, “You old fraud! Are you ever going to get over her? Or,” he wondered, “when are you ever going to do something about that particular annoyance?”

He smiled. “Annoyance!? Certainly. Yes! Indeed! But, not an unpleasant contemplation.”

Suddenly, Logan felt warm as he flushed, savoring the memory. “Damn!” Again!

Continuing to chastise himself within his mind, he admitted that the wind might have precipitated the crying tear betrayal, but, the beauty of this vista, one of his very favorite points of perspective for reflection, brought forward his secreted love and admiration for his Mary Helen who, somehow, managed to remain within his subconscious until some emotional interference would propel her lovely memory into his conscious thoughts.

Must be “Love!” He laughed at his absurd wonderings.

Again, Logan shook his head and wiped away another bothersome tear from a cold cheek. She was married with two kids living somewhere in southern California, probably enjoying the “great adventure” of life with some successful, bronzed hunk, wrapped comfortably in the “Golden glow” of eternal sunshine, satiated in the impossible dream. Hell! Logan doubted if the delightful beauty would even remember his name, or him. Just another hopeless-romantic. A dreamer!

And, about: “Doing anything about his pre-occupation? Well? In a word: No! At least, not today---and, honestly…probably not in this world or in this life. He shook his head a third time.

“She could: Wait!” He decided for the thousandth time. “And, so could he; he’d have to!”

The disconcerting reverie was broken by movement below his position as he caught sight of the disgruntled man coming up the trail behind him, the boy was nowhere in sight; probably obscured from his own purview by the angle of the rocks on which Logan stood.

Finally, Logan glimpsed the boy, struggling for breath and obviously freezing cold in his short sleeves and short pants making an effort to close the last twenty feet of his trek to reach the base of the summit boulders.

Finding a comfortable south-facing seat where he could rest his back against a boulder in a little three-sided pocket, of sorts, Logan settle in to enjoy the view while he drank fully half the contents of his secreted-water in a bottle, always cognizant to keep well-hydrated. After a few minutes, he opened the sketch pad and began a drawing which etched Long’s Peak in the background with lovely Miss Mary Helen’s face superimposed in the foreground.

Ah! Memories! Sweet memories!

A pleasant reverie and solemn solitude were harshly interrupted when whining complaints assaulted Logan’s ears as the father and son ascended his private precipice domain.

“Come on! Donnie!” The oldest of the pair nettled.

Then, further grousing at the boy, “If you’d lose some of that gut, you could keep up with me! Jeez! Come on! And, don’t start crying and complaining like your mother, again!” He paused.

Then added, “I’ll be so glad to get you back to the Springs. Hurry up! Will you?”

Logan watched as a bald head, shading bright red from the frigid wind, biting cold and intense sun, topped the boulder just off to his left; the man could not observe Logan from that position.

Not even bothering to view the spectacular mountain vista laid before him as today’s blessing, the man paced an agitated small space of a circle as he moaned and complained toward the approaching youth, still nowhere to be seen in Logan’s purview

“Jesus! Donnie!” The father finally begged. “Get your fat...behind, up here.”

The boy, out of breath and exhausted, came into o view to Logan; tears stained plump cheeks.

“Damn! Quit crying!” The man implored. Shaking his head in disgust. “We’re here. Finally. Isn’t this what you wanted? Now, enjoy this…” he paused, nearly beside himself with anger.

Then, continuing in an obvious effort to control his emotion, “…this---view! Jeez! I’m freezing! It’s colder than your mother’s heart; if that’s even a possibility.”

As the young man struggled to stand on the boulder, somewhat shaky from cold and near exhaustion, not to mention an unrelenting badgering by the elder, the father threw up his arms in abject defeat, almost yelling at his discomforted son.

“Sherry told me not to make this trip with you this year. Said you were totally out of shape, like your mother, and that I’d be miserable if I brought you. But, Oh! No! I’m way too smart to listen to her. Brother!” He exclaimed as Donnie tried to catch his breath, breathing hard, tears freely flowing while the boy continually wiped at them in a futile effort to stem the tide.

A noticeable slump came to the father’s shoulders as a wave of guilt washed over him.

Placing a hand on his son’s shivering shoulder, the man tried to sound sympathetic and consoling, but, he just couldn’t quite pull it off and instead, sounded even further condescending.

“You’re freezing,” he offered. Rubbing his own bare arms, he concluded, “So am I.”

After a pause, as Donnie seemed to get better control of himself, his father continued. “Look. I’m going to head on down. I’ve got a drink in the glove box and I’m freezing my tail off up here. You take your time; get a good look all around, enjoy yourself. When you’re done, satisfied with your little adventure, come on down to the car; I’ll be waiting; with the heater on”

Donnie gave his old man a vacant stare; the dad shook his head in disgust and retreated off the boulder and out of sight to Logan. The boy knew his dad would finish off the already partially drank bottle and be dead drunk and sleeping by the time Donnie got back to the car. Be lucky if he didn’t get killed running off the mountain on the way back to Estes Park or on the return trip home to Colorado Springs. Donnie was considering what life might be like without his dad when a voice caught him unawares, startling the boy so that he visibly jumped, then quickly surveyed his surroundings for the source of the eerie wraithlike utterance.

“Hey! Boy!” Came startling, unexpected words; shortly the boy caught sight of a man rising out of the boulder field. First he noticed a worn baseball cap growing from the rocks, just to the boy’s right side; then a man’s face and finally a black leather motorcycle-type jacket complete with streamers of leather fringe flowing in the breeze. The boy stared, unbelieving of his eyes.

“Come on down here with me, son. Out of the wind.” The man reached his hand toward the lad who hesitantly, then, reluctantly, took several tentative steps toward the offered assistance.

The kid grabbed hold, jumped off the boulder and joined the stranger; his goose bumps on plump, naked arms lessened somewhat as he avoided the harshness of the stiff, chill breeze.

“Quite a view! Isn’t it?” The leather jacket-man offered, smiling. He was removing the coat.

“By the way, I’m Logan,” the man introduced himself.

“Yeah!” The youth responded with an easy smile. “Beautiful! Just beautiful! I’m Donnie.”

Wrapping the warm jacket around the shivering boy, Logan zipped it tight and put his baseball cap on the boy’s head, then handing the youth his leather gloves; with the kind offerings in place, Donnie looked somewhat warmer, already.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Donnie.” Logan acknowledged.

Then, “Well worth the effort of the climb, wouldn’t you say?” He asked, viewing the vista.

The boy smiled. “Yes, sir! Logan.” He answered by way of recognition. “Sure is beautiful!”

Logan fished the water bottle from the pocket of his coat now snugly comforting the youth; he removed a granola bar, also. Offering the boy the water, he nodded in encouragement.

Donnie accepted the drink and drained half the remaining contents in one continuous gulp before taking a break, all the while eyeing the energy bar which Logan handed to him.

“Thanks!” The boy offered, ripping open the foil package, then devouring the treat in three quick bites followed by fully half of the remaining liquid in the plastic bottle; he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, huddling deeper into the warmth of the leather jacket.

Logan resumed his seat, his back comfortable against the boulder; Donnie followed suit. Once situated, the boy slowly took in the surrounding view.

“Long’s Peak!” Logan opened, staring at the pinnacle piercing a cerulean abyss.

“After you warm up, some,” he continued, “climb back up on top of this boulder field and take in the full three hundred and sixty degree view. Like being on top of the world!”

“Yeah!” Replied Donnie. “I caught some of it on the way up here.” He looked away, obviously embarrassed and trying to disguise the discomfort caused by his father’s behavior.

Logan understood and looked past his guest, not wanting to intensify Donnie’s discomfort.

“Sometimes, adults can be a real pain,” he offered.

When the boy glanced at him, Logan added, “Especially parents.” The youth smiled at that.

“You happen to have any more treats,” Donnie blurted, now not embarrassed, at all.

Logan laughed at the boy’s youthful enthusiasm, pointing to the jacket.

“I think you’ll find a chocolate bar with almonds in it in the right front pocket.”

In short order, Donnie had retrieved the candy bar, unwrapped it, and chawed off a third of its length; his expression displayed total pleasure and satisfaction as he chewed.

Pacing himself before attacking the remainder of the sugary treat, the boy took a sip of water.

Swallowing, he gave Logan a questioning stare; the man waited.

“You, uh, heard what my dad said to me?” He asked, openly.

Logan nodded. “Yeah!” He confessed. “You all came up on my position, kind of unexpected. I couldn’t help but hear the conversation. Sorry!” He apologized. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“No! That’s okay,” the boy replied, pausing as though considering whether to continue.

Finally resolving the internal conflict, the boy said, “I only see him for two weeks in the summer; I live in Colorado Springs with my mom.” He smiled, “We get along great!”

Logan nodded, listening, realizing the boy had something on his mind.

“Dad left three years ago,” Donnie continued. “Got a job over in Salt Lake.”

Donnie eyes drifted off to Long’s Peak, but he did not seem to focus on the spectacular mountain as he continued the explanation, seemingly more to himself, rather than this stranger.

“After he got settled, mom and I were supposed to join him, there. But, the move kept getting delayed, he called less and less, wouldn’t answer our calls to him, never came home, not in a full year. Missed our birthdays, Christmas, their anniversary. Just seemed like we died, to him.

“One day I came home from school; mom was home. She usually worked until five, so that was very unusual. She was sitting at the kitchen table; her eyes were all red; she had been crying.

“I asked her what was wrong; she handed me the letter she was holding; it was from a lawyer over in Utah. It said Dad wanted a divorce; there were some legal papers in it and mom was supposed to go see a lawyer in Denver, at his office, sign everything, there, and it would all be handled without costing her anything, she’s get the house and custody of me.” He paused.

Collecting his thoughts, then throwing a stone over the edge, in anger, Donnie continued.

“He must have hit the big time,” he said, laughing. “Mom got three grand a month plus another thousand for my upkeep; more money than we had ever seen. Didn’t make us rich, by any stretch, but it made us comfortable. Mom kept her job and we stayed in our house.

“The first summer I went to visit Dad for my two week stay, I learned that he had this hot, young chick living with him.” He made a face, wrinkling his nose as though he smelled a bad odor. “Sherry!” He almost spat the name in abject disgust. “First class ‘Bi…’” he trailed off without finishing the word. “That woman is impossible. Runs him ragged; never satisfied; never happy. I left after five days; couldn’t stand the sight of her; he got on my nerves, too.”

Donnie took a deep breath, like the telling of his horror took a huge toll on him; he swallowed another taste of the tepid water; that seemed to revive his resolve, if not his spirits.

“They had a new baby last year at Christmas. I was supposed to go see it and visit with my dad; I refused.” He tossed another stone into oblivion, this time, absent the outrage.

“So, he asked me what he could do to make it up to me. Finally, I said we’d meet for my two week summer visit and take a trip through the Rockies here in Colorado. Lived here, in the Springs, all my life and had never been to this Park, before.” He shook his head.

“Anyway, I took a bus to Salt Lake so we could drive back here and spend some ‘quality’ time together, on the trip.” Donnie toyed with a third stone, rolling it in his pudgy hand, but not flinging it like the first two.

“But, as soon as I got there, ‘Sherry’ started in; cussing him for leaving her alone with a squalling brat and cussing me for coming to ruin her ‘perfect’ life! She hates me.”

His round face flushed red. “Jeez!” He exclaimed, exasperated as he angrily hurled the rock into oblivion. He shook his head as though trying to cast out a nightmarish demon.

Namely, Logan correctly surmised: Sherry! The evil “B”-stepmother!

“Dad got a phone call from ‘the witch’ yesterday; I don’t know what she said, but he’s in a big rush to get me home to the Springs; says he’s got to get back to Salt Lake, immediately. We’ve only been gone for five days. Guess this vacation is over!” He concluded, derisively.

“Take another swig of that water, kid,” Logan said; the boy did as instructed.

“Look,” the man began, “I don’t meddle where I don’t belong; usually doesn’t ever do any good, anyway. But, if you’d like, I can have a friendly little chat with your dad; maybe explain a bit of your side of it. You just never know, but, that decision is for you to make.”

Determination in the boy’s eyes told the tale, even before the words were spoken.

“Won’t do no good.” Donnie concluded. “He already knows my side of it and how I feel.”

Shrugging his shoulders in resignation, he stated, flatly, “He made his bed; let him lay in it.”

Obviously, the boy was despondent, just a short step on a slippery slope from depression.

They sat in silence, then. A man and a boy, together, yet, each alone with his own thoughts.

Logan had lived a near-perfect life, nearly forty years of pleasureful adventure, thus far; his spirit soared, was satiated. He felt sorry for the youth; none of the disaster was his fault; fate had dealt him a rotten hand. Few ever live a fairy tale existence; still, each had to play his own hand.

Donnie had just begun his life; the world was a big unknown, full of promise even though the boy had been handed a shaky start. He felt sorry for himself; until he conquered that excuse with intense resolve to make the most of his circumstances and move forward, things would not, could not, get better. When, and, if, he took that step, then, the boy would fill a man’s shoes.

Logan suddenly let his thoughts come out as spoken words, not fully intending to launch a sermon on the young man’s vulnerable, tender, ragged emotional state, but, with his own tattered feelings exposed to some realities where he seldom allowed himself to tread, it just came out.

“Donnie, my friend!” Logan began in an effort to console the boy while salving his own tattered feelings in the process. “People sometimes find themselves in situations they might rather choose to avoid. The secret, if there is, indeed, one, is to make the best of whatever might come your way. Forget about making others do your bidding; they have free will and choice in all matters of life, just like you do. And, in perfect honesty and all truthfulness, think candidly about how much worse off other people might be “If” you could determine their outcomes.”

He paused to let that sink in. Then, “Might be something worth interrogative contemplation.”

Donnie turned to face the man, eager for more of the worthwhile information.

“Everybody gets to follow their own dream; their conscience; make their own discoveries and decisions on issues. A lot of the evil of the world is resultant of people who are dissatisfied with their conclusions and where they find themselves. ‘Victims’ can be as easily ‘self-created’ as resultant of another’s actions; what we can do is not be like them; learn to make the best of any situation; determine our own destiny.”

The man laughed an easy, genuine humor. “Hell! Boy! I’m the very last person ought to be dispensing advice on life; four decades and I can’t honestly say that I can even take care of myself. Take this advice with the proverbial grain of salt; keep in mind that it’s probably exactly what you paid for it.”

Logan considered terminating his lecture, then, as was his want and reflective of the manner in which he had always lived, he threw caution to the wind; the boy could determine what to take from the offering and discard the rest. The man plunged ahead with his understanding.

“Dare dream big, then, even, bigger! Be afraid only to dream too small; there would be an un-forgivable transgression against life’s process. Reach for the stars---and…beyond! Well beyond! Challenge life; especially your own beliefs; be brutally honest. If they can’t stand the scrutiny of honest examination, find some that can’t be shaken. Personal, religious, relationships, business---whatever. Refuse to believe the lies even, and, especially when everybody else does. Run like Hell from those idiots. ‘What other people think of me is none of my business’. Be ruthless!”

He laughed, again. “Son, you’re probably looking at the world’s oldest real-life Hedonist.

“Follow your dreams. Slide on the rainbow and see where it leads. Live! Chase butterflies just for the fun of trying to catch the quintessence of their myriad color, the reality of true beauty---Personified! Rope a flying unicorn and take a mythical buck-a-roo ride through the eternal cosmos. That sun up there is ninety-three million miles away and it looks like we could just reach out and touch it. Those billions of galaxies, trillions of stars, black holes, Mandelbrot’s ‘fractal geometry’ theory, all of it, well beyond belief, much less, imagination.”

He paused, noticing Donnie’s curious expression. Logan smiled at his own private joke.

Then, continued. “Yeah. Benoit is a friend of mine; a Frenchman; look him up on the net.

“That eternal expanse out there is where God exists, son; and, in here.” His fingertip touched his chest at the level of his beating heart. “Come here on a clear full-moon night and you can reach the glow, run a finger through the delight and savor the sugar-sweet of lunar ice cream.”

Donnie swallowed, hard; ice cream was his very favorite; he was already learning to dream.

“And, don’t forget to ‘Love’ and be loved, all along the way.

“It’s one fantastic journey, my friend. Don’t dare miss it!” He intoned with effect.

“The very best thing we all can do is Good! To one another through pure, unconditional Love! For each other. That sounds difficult, but, all that is required is commitment and honesty.”

He laughed, yet again. “Of course, being a little less narcissistic aids the process considerably; a great many people have real issues when they have to face the reality that life does not revolve around them or exist only for their pleasure.

“Trails crisscross our lives. Some are Interstates that carry the majority of the population, all going ‘somewhere’ in a big hurry, many never knowing the How? Or Why? Of the journey and too preoccupied to bother to ask. Then, some find the four lane roads to the cities, two lane highways to the burgs and rural communities. For a few intrepid adventurers wide paths open for exploration where few have tread before. Then, there are a very few real drifters, like me.

“I chose the nearly indecipherable ‘traces’ through the jungle; those indistinct, non-descript whispers of direction which can, and, often do, lead to spectacular adventurous destinations.”

Logan gestured to Long’s Peak. “Like the glorious splendor laid before us right here.

“Take notice of the gift of Nature, the beauty, the symmetry, congruity, logic, purpose, freedom, liberty of the offering. It’s ‘free’ for the enjoyment, ‘if’ we seek, respect and partake.”

He gave the wide-eyed boy who stared in awe at his mentor a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid! Do the right thing, like you practice where your mother is concerned.

“And, maybe, even though he doesn’t seem to deserve it, you might now, cut your dad a little slack; sounds like his life isn’t very pleasant, either. Yeah! I know! He made his bed. But, spread some of that special understanding and maybe a modicum of ‘love’ on his path in life. You might just find that generosity reaps huge rewards; sometimes where you least expect them.”

When Logan concluded, he offered, “Sorry about the sermon, kid. It ain’t even Sunday. Is it?”

“No!’ Came Donnie’s smiling reply. “But, thanks anyway. I appreciate what you said.”

Logan got to his feet; Donnie continued to stare into the vacant space between himself and Long’s Peak, lost somewhere in a time and space of his own choosing.

Glancing at the sun, he calculated the time at nearing eleven thirty; about time to head out.

“I’m heading back, now, boy,” Logan announced. “Coming?” he inquired, passively.

The boy turned to look at the man, slowly shaking his head.

“No, thanks! Mister.” He said, determined, sticking out his chubby hand which Logan clasped. “Thank you for the treats and water…and, your time,” he added. “I think I’ll just sit here and watch the mountain for a while; think about things; let the old man cool his heels in the car.”

He laughed, genuinely. “Hell!” He swore. “I guess he wouldn’t abandon me---again!”

“Suit yourself, young man,” Logan advised. “My bet is: you’ll be alright.” He nodded and turned, taking his leave without further “adieu”.

Logan had nearly reached the end of the paved path on his way down to the Jeep before Donnie realized that the man had inadvertently forgotten his leather jacket, gloves and ball cap which the boy still, gratefully, wore. Shaking himself from his reverie and self-imposed pathetic sadness, the boy quickly climbed to the pinnacle boulder, wide eyes searching the downhill trace for his recent benefactor. Finally, with persistence, the youth caught sight of the man, nearly having reached the parking lot; he would never make it to the lot before the man departed. Even after the brief rest, the boy was exhausted from the climb up the mountain and just getting back on top of the boulder for his search brought his ragged breath in gasps.

Donnie tried to yell “Hey! Mister!” in an attempt to get the man’s attention, the distance only about a half mile, or so, but the brisk breeze swallowed his raspy, indecipherable tones carrying them off to the southeast to dissipate amongst the peaks. Frantically, he took off the leather coat and waved it over his head, but the distant man was already entering his red vehicle and did not see the boy’s agitated antics as he desperately tried in futility to capture Logan’s attention.

As the vehicle pulled away, Donnie resigned himself to the facts at hand and sat down to catch his breath. Putting his frigid arms back in the coat’s sleeves, an errant gust of cold wind caught the exposed leather flap and twisted the material inside out. Then, the boy noticed an inner zippered pocket. Once he regained control of the obstinate jacket, the boy opened the hidden pocket immediately discovering the envelope which contained the letter Logan had written to his mother that very morning.

The address, inscribed in pencil and printed in block letters, read:

Mrs. Logan (Aleda) Williams Sr.

4537 Desert Arroyo Circle Ct.

Bluebonnet, TX 75111.

Donnie glanced at the return address:

 

Logan Williams Jr.

c/o Philippe Mendoza

P.O Box 79

Cortez, CO  81321

Seeing that there was no postage stamp affixed, Donnie vowed to get one and mail the letter.

Back at the Jeep, Logan hopped in, grabbed another bottle of water and a fresh Granola bar; Donnie’s dad had disappeared, could not be seen anywhere on the site and was not in his car. Probably best that the two did not meet; better to mind one’s own business. Very good advice!

He should be in Estes Park by two in the afternoon, at the very latest. Perfect!

There was a scenic turn-out about half way down the east slope of the mountain going into the town and that point afforded some spectacular views including a mountain stream cascading a couple of hundred feet over a cliff to disappear behind some outcroppings; eventually it continued to Estes park and ran in a rock bottom river through the town, directly under a wood deck built over the babbling thunder at the local Pizza Hut where he had enjoyed many a fine treat over many years; sounded like a supper plan; his mouth watered. Logan planned to stop at the turn out and make some preliminary sketches which he could later flesh out at his leisure, as was his habit. Smiling at the ease with which the day shaped up, he smiled, thinking that it is, indeed, all the little things which make the old adage, oh, so true: Life is good!

Pulling out of the parking slot and twisting off the cap of the plastic water bottle, Logan switched on the dashboard radio before he took a swallow. High atop the mountain, one might easily conclude that radio-wave reception should be unhampered and myriad stations reaching around the world could come in crystal clear, such musings, like many “self-evident” truisms, are errant in either their premises, their determinations, or, more often, both. Harsh, crackling static met Logan’s ears, as if to prove the point.

At night, such waves travelled much less harassed by weather and static than during daylight hours; still it took a mighty strong signal to cover great distances, in the first place. Such secondary interferences could only occur if the wave length might be capable of reaching a distant destination. FM frequencies often fared better than their AM cousins though each could be expected to encounter myriad difficulties. The Jeep had only an AM receiver; if nothing was received within several moments, chances of getting any news before reaching the town of Estes park were pretty slim, if existent, at all. Exiting the parking area began an immediate steep, unrelenting and continuous downhill drive which quickly captured the vehicle surrounded by vertical cliffs, leaving any radio reception a vacant hope.

Catching a slight clearing in the irritating static crackle just as Logan exited the parking lot, he heard several broken words over toned with scratchy squelch which made no sense: world---towers struck---plane---The president---(garble)---. Then, the signal faded completely, even barring grating static as the Jeep descended the slope at a steep angle and the surrounding mountain peaks swallowed the tiny conveyance; mighty Long’s Peak disappeared from view immediately as sheer cliffs loomed to the south.  Of course, Logan could manage to turn around and retrace his path to the parking area, but, then, he knew, only more aggravating static would return. Anyway, in a few hours, he’d be down the mountain, in the town, and the news, with whatever unimaginable catastrophe it might entail, would still be fresh enough for consumption.

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:

 

Civilization might, and, does, impose its “higher” order upon the culture in the name of “progress” toward the determination of “Good” for the collective society; yet, that march to “Nirvana” prescribed by the “Royal-Elite”, so christened by status, money, power, comes at a very steep detrimental consequence to the envied spirit of free man. Wild things cannot be naturally tethered to a formal garden; such are out of place, save for the errant beauty of a colorful volunteer wild flower which the prudent gardener erroneously decides is an unwanted weed and quickly removes the blessing. A bound spirit withers and eventually dies when it is deprived of its destiny: To soar among the eagles above the peaks where untamed swirling winds of time and space develop them. And, for the very few, these rebel, rascal, rogues are all too willing to challenge the accepted, the tried, the true. Just, “what if?” the “genius” is wrong, once again? Does blind acceptance of “any” lie validate the transgression as---Truth!?

A poet once declared of flight that man has “slipped the surly bonds of earth…” Who might have dared imagine, or propose, that lowly man could escape the binding tethers barring him from soaring where his feathered friends dared go? The “elite” had that one right: If God wanted man to fly, He’d have given him wings! Wow! Such arrogance! Idiocy! Erudite sophistication!

Dare challenge---All! Beliefs: religion, motivation, love; most of all: Thyself!

In the end, materialism is a demon-vacant lie! Un-truth can never prevail!

Revelation ascribes the tale: In the end, the Good guys win! Amen!

Late April of any year found that rebel, rascal, rogue prostrate on his back lying in a verdant green of spring red clover delight, peering heavenward to view a Red Tail hawk riding the currents generated by the sheer abrupt rise of three hundred foot limestone bluffs rising from the river bottom while his counterparts labored diligently behind cubicle desks completing projects and pouring out “special” reports mostly obsolete upon their final revision; they, of course, and, of consequence, climbed the corporate ladder rungs to reach obsolescent retirement, sometimes. Our vagrant hunted wild Morel mushrooms and fished the deep secret pools of the lake for hybrid Red Ear and wondered at the Red Tail independent hawk-flight; offers for promotion poured in to him, also, but, he chose to be too busy!? And, in truth, was---with…life!

Such irreverent reply stating humble blatant reverence for importance: Live! Laugh! Love!

The “Then” is history; the “next” may never come; “Now!” Lives eternally present. Enjoy!

Challenge brave the steep summit reach; observe the eagle from above upon yon Unicorn!

Taste that special Freedom which life affords through Liberty. Dare savor sweet such delicious ecstasy where freely thee dares lick honey-sugar fantasy simply humbled with exotic pleasure through sacred premises necessitating one proper conclusion---Love!

Please! For thou own sake: Don’t miss any instant of life’s offered pleasure!       

 

Amen? Amen! And, again---Amen!

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