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On Wednesday we hitched the rig, said goodbye to Nancy and the family, and headed for Summit County, the mountain community where Lilli spent most of her life. At Heaton Bay National Forest Campground on Lake Dillon we unhitched in a nice spot. There were no hookups here so for the first time we would be be relying solely on the trailer for electricity and water. My dad visited and we played catch with a baseball. We sat for a while under the trailer awning, unable to think of much to say, and then Dad picked out a few fireworks from the stash we had purchased in Tennessee.
The night was chilly. On Thursday morning we woke with cold toes. Outside, squirrels chattered. Wan light shone through the pines, and on the caps of the people who strolled the lake. At Dad's office we phoned our friend Amber, who, having had a rotten start to the morning, decided to escape the Denver heat.
"It's 90 degrees already in Denver," she said. "Phew! We'll be up there in a couple hours."
Judy went off in the truck to make the rounds of her Summit County friends while I sat with Dad and pondered his printer situation. Shortly after Judy returned, Amber breezed in with Jordyn, her beautiful 6-month-old daughter, and Kaya, a frisky spitz. Amber delighted the office with her quick wit and her ability to juggle Jordyn, Kaya, and multiple conversations. She commanded Kaya through a host of neat tricks, such as gyrating on hind legs and jumping into her arms.
In the late afternoon she met us again, this time at the campground, and kept us laughing with her anecdotes and energy. Jordyn was by turns contemplative, hungry, sleepy -- and all the while cute. Kaya was bouncy, and raced circuits around the trailer. With the last of the sunlight they were gone. In the wake of Amber & Company, Judy and I felt deflated. Before going to bed we turned on the furnace so our feet would be warm through the night.
Wednesday, June 9th, was rough. At Lilli's grave in the Dillon Cemetery, Judy and I met Kari and Dallas of the Town of Dillon. Using tall stakes, they marked the boundaries of the gravesite, which looked bleak and unkempt, and in need of a headstone. It was the hardest day for us since Lilli's funeral. At the thought of Lilli's bones there in the ground below us, we sobbed. But at least we had an idea of where to make improvements to the site. Somehow the morning passed, and then the afternoon.
In the early evening, at the campsite, we met with our friends the Bells: Clay, Jen, Jake; and with some school friends of Lilli's: Christmas, Isabel, and Mark. Our mood improved. We ate pizza, and Mark, with his brooding humor, made us laugh. Sometime after they all left, Judy and I peeled into the sack and warmed each other's feet. During the night the battery ran low, and so failed to power the heater-blower. Once again we woke with cold toes.
Saturday morning I ate fish tacos, then dropped in at Dad's office. Almost immediately, Judy called to say that Amy was at the trailer. I drove back to the campground. Amy and her 6-year-old son McKai were charming; the love between them was evident. Amy is Lee 's aunt (Lee, from Pine Island, Florida, was Lilli's boyfriend at the time of her death), and coincidentally, she and her family do live not in Florida, but in Fairplay, Colorado, maybe 40 minutes from where we were camped. McKai kept whispering in his mother's ear, asking permission for more of our cookies. Amy told us of her husband, a Park County deputy, and of her job at a bank in Breckenridge; I was struck with the similarity of her voice and features to those of her sister Linda (Lee's mom). She laughed.
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"Yes, we share jaw line and dark brown eyes. And we sound so much alike on the phone that sometimes our own mother can't tell us apart."
We talked for a while about life, death, Lilli, our trip, the book, Amy's family…and I noted a strength of character about Amy that boded well for her own ability to face Life's changing fortunes.
Judy and I lunched with the Bostic family at the High Country Lodge on Peak 7 in Breckenridge. Roger, Dianne, Mandy, and Nicky had managed the place for years, during which time Nicky and Lilli became friends. Legendary were the slumber parties at the lodge; apparently, Roger and Dianne are deep sleepers. That afternoon, when we knocked at the door, no one answered, so we let ourselves in and wandered through corridors until we found the managers' quarters, where Dianne and Nicky were busy in the kitchen. A friend of the family, an attorney from Kansas City, sat in the living room with us and chatted. Maggie, a small black poodle, barked at something and shuffled past our chairs.
"She's 14 years old, and can hardly see," Nicky told us.
My eyes roamed the room, and wherever they landed, walls, tables, benches, or floor, there were signs of Roger's vocation, fly-fishing. As well as managing the lodge, Roger was a fishing guide, and spent every free moment studying the habits of his prey, the Trout, and learning the minutia of the bait, the Fly.
Roger, quick with good-natured sarcasms, as native Missourians I've known tend to be, stalked into the room and crushed my hand.
"I've discovered a new kind of water bug," he boasted, eyes alight. He held up a glass jar containing grass, leaves, and an insect.
Then we all sat at the table and ate a chicken dinner. The rush of chemicals into my body made me hot and pleasant all over, and so for a time I didn't talk, but just listened and chewed, and glanced at the mountains that loomed in the windows. Judy detailed some of our trip. The attorney from K.C. told an enjoyable story. I spoke for a bit about the The Looking For Lilli Tour, what we were trying to find: meaning, purpose, life, and Lilli; the table grew quiet. I suddenly realized that my madness was evident, as it had been when, on the porch at the camp on Lake Mitchell, I raved to my Alabama relatives about not wanting to live. Fortunately, everyone present took my remarks in stride. Sensing the need to lighten up, I moved the talk back to the physical, and for some reason the topic of Alaska came up.
"Drove up the Alaska Highway once," said Roger. "It was terrible. Dirt the whole way, and not enough gas stations -- we had to bring jerry cans of fuel. The state itself is great when you get there, though."
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As we cleaned our plates of second helpings, Dianne, in brisk, sincere fashion, spoke about running the lodge, and Nicky, dark eyes calm and penetrating, told us about forays with the youth group and adventures with friends. I felt good with these people. The Bostic family had embraced us for this moment as if we were their own. I felt like crying and laughing at the same time, but withheld my emotions. At my feet, Maggie regarded me quietly.
That evening, as we walked up the drive of the Kline house in Silverthorne, evidence of a green thumb abounded: flowers and berry bushes gracefully framed the boles of aspens or decorated the garage and fence. Tiny Kristen, who stood in the front door holding young James, met us with that huge compelling voice of hers:
"How are you!"
Kristen has a voice that could carry her to Hollywood and beyond, if she desired it. The voice unaffected is intelligent and charming; when Kristen applies inflection, it becomes a magnet. Tonight, it conveyed smiling beneficence. We exchanged hugs in the coatroom. James regarded us expressionlessly as Kristen led us inside to the kitchen, where David, in designer apron, cast us a grin and charged toward a steaming pot.
"Thai mussels. You're in for a treat."
Kristen secured our drinks, and we sat at the backyard picnic table. James's red hair was lit by the westering sun. He gave us looks that were coy and philosophical.
"Molé," David said, meaning the mussels. "They're hot."
Piquant indeed, and delicious; within 15 minutes they were nearly gone, and David and I, against David's better judgment, began trying some of the ones that hadn't opened completely. At this point I laid my grief on them, and cried some, but David and Kristen were immensely comforting.
When Kristen was standing aside with James, I said to David, "Where's Poppy?" Poppy was a beautiful black spaniel that they'd adopted years before, and to not see her presence was strange, for they doted on her. David held up a warning finger.
"Not a good topic," he whispered. "Poppy died a few weeks ago." This saddened me. Kristen, like Judy, is one of those people that animals recognize as a kindred spirit, and she deeply loved Poppy, who, in a way, was their first child.
"Is Janice around?" I asked, referring to their cat.
"Sure," Kristin said as she came back into the room. "She hiding somewhere, probably in our bedroom."
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We all followed David into the kitchen, and I sat at the bar counter while Judy played with James on the dining room stoop.
"Do you like tequila?" David said, as he stirred the pasta. "Let me make you a margarita. In fact...I've been getting into tequila lately; I don't much drink, but when I do, it's tequila."
"Isn't it made from pulque cactus?"
"Not at all. It comes from agave, and is quite different in effect from other alcohol. Here," he produced several bottles from a cabinet, "are examples.You'll try some shots with me?"
"Sure," I said. "But little ones."
"Well, then, we'll do minnie-shots." He poured. "This is the lowest grade." I drained the amber booze and smacked my lips. Kristen came into the kitchen and began chopping veggies. James cooed at Judy's cutesy baby noises. "This," David proclaimed, pouring from another bottle, "is medium grade."
I drank and said, "Pretty good!"
David brandished another bottle, frowned, shook his head, set the bottle down and grabbed another. "Now for the good stuff. Want to go for a whole shot?"
"Well, maybe about so much --" I gestured, but the glass was already full. "Hey, I didn't know tequila came silver-colored," I said.
"Only the best tequila," David said, tilting his glass. I followed suit and concurred. "Actually," he said, "there's some hundred-dollar-a-bottle stuff but --"
"No thanks," I laughed. "At this point you'd be wasting it on me. I wouldn't appreciate it."
My memories of the evening after that point are fuzzy, but I recall that the conversation sparkled (everyone else's did, I'm sure; as for my own, I seemed to think it did). David and Kristen are cultured, delightful people, and it was a pleasure dining at their home. Also, being with James was a joy. A year after this dinner the three of them (and Janice, the cat) moved from Summit County to Philadelphia, but I hope Judy and I will someday get to spend more time with them. Our souls require it.
Dad stayed away from church Sunday morning so we could get some work done at the office. The outcome was satisfactory: Dad was pleased with the handouts we'd wrought. For lunch we grabbed gas-station sandwiches and found a picnic table beside Lake Dillon. I grew somber.
"You have no idea what goes on in my head," I told him. "Each moment of my life I wish to be dead. The pain is beyond conception."
"Oh," he said. "I'm very sorry."
"Thank you," I told him, knowing he was at a loss for words. Inside, he was struggling to help me. "No one understands," I continued. "The world goes on as if Lilli never existed. People refuse to consider the fact that each of us dies. I'm quite insane, and yet, in a way, I'm more clear-headed than most folks because I can consider death and face the fact that it happens. To most people, death is an abstraction, a morbid joke on TV. Until it happens to them."
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"That's true," said Dad. "We live in an escapist culture dedicated to self-gratification. Our ancestors must have had more appropriate death-rituals."
"They did," I said. "The whole village would come out for the funeral and families would mourn indefinitely. Now funerals are quick and the whole business with undertakers is tacky and disgusting. Then after a time there comes to be this unspoken feeling that the grieving should be done with and the family assimilated back into work. Good grief. I...aah-" My throat grew tight and tears were in my eyes. "I hate it. I'll make this world wake up to the reality of death if it kills me."
Dad looked at me with great sorrow.
The pain of losing Lilli was an anchor in my gut. My head burned with deep, dark knowledge. I tried to breathe. After a while, I was able to relax enough to take pleasure in Dad's wit, which he now began to marshal in the face of my despair. I no longer remember what he said but he made me laugh at something and the tension broke. Then both of us noticed the beauty of the lake. We returned to the office, finished out the day, and when I got back to the trailer, beautiful Judy awaited, as well as a meal.
On Monday, June 12, Judy and I had a late start for Denver. Since we were dry-camping, we'd had to run the generator to recharge the battery, and there was much toting and lifting of five-gallon water containers to and from the distant spigot. But when we finally got to Wheatridge, a suburb on the west side of Denver, we hit Camping World, a supermarket for RVers. Many products ended up in our cart, including a cleaner that promised to make our stockpile obsolete; a spring-loaded spice rack; and a bicycle-carrier that seemed too light for its function. We drove to Oma and Opa's house where Lyle, Angie, and Kaylea now lived, only to find part of the garden plowing done. Lyle and Nancy were taking turns at the tiller. I stepped in.
"Lyle! You'll screw up your back!" I said, and grabbed the handles. Quickly, I realized the sun was intense. Judy trimmed bushes in the backyard, and Angie, very pregnant, arranged the soaker-hose among strawberries. Kaylea, barefoot and happy, charged around the grass. After an ice water break I continued, and when the plowing was done, Lyle and Nancy returned the tiller to the rental shop and I set-to on other tasks which needed to be completed before Lyle and the girls left for a wedding in Massachusetts: I cut down a weed-tree, then edged the grass and swept the clippings. After another glass of ice water I staggered inside the house and fell asleep on the carpet next to the swamp-cooler. In an hour I awoke; it was time to plant. Angie gave us pepper starts and tomato plants, which Judy and I gingerly placed in the dirt. Then I showered. As Judy finished the planting, Kaylea and I played a fun game I used to play with Lilli called, "Where's the blanky?" We giggled and rolled around on the floor. Later, Judy and I paid another visit Amber and Jordyn, and returned very late to our campsite on Heaton Bay.
I awoke to Tuesday. Outside, a cheerful laugh mingled with Judy's. I lay still, listening, and cataloguing sore muscles. Then, as I quietly dressed, Judy's voice surprised me:
"Alice says you aren't charging our battery enough!"
Alice was the camp host. Aware of my tousled hair, I shook her hand, and was then dispatched to Alice's trailer to learn about batteries. At the Camp Host trailer, Leigh, a bearded guy with a grip, led me inside. I admired his luxurious fifth-wheel. Slide-outs made the interior huge in comparison to our own. The cabinets were real wood. Leigh took me outside and showed me his trickle-charger, which can do a deep-cycle battery at 15 amps per hour instead of two -- a big difference when you are running a generator. Alice and Leigh, who embody the RVer ethic of helpfulness, told us of the nation-wide demand for campground hosts. They also gave us info on Escapees, an RV club that works like a time-share.
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At noon we drove to the Frisco Transfer Center, where the county buses meet every half-hour. Christmas and Heather were waiting, and as we gave them hugs, Craig and Andy drove up in a Jeep.
"Where is Mark?" I wondered.
"He might be working at Bubba Gump's," Christmas suggested, so I lit-out to find him. No go. I returned to the transfer station, where Andy and Craig were now skateboarding and saying to each kid they saw, "Are you an anarchist?" Twenty minutes passed and another round of busses came and went, sans Mark; we decided to leave without him.
Craig and Andy followed Judy, Heather, Christmas and me to the cemetery, and after we'd stood around the gravesite for a bit, my dad drove up. I asked for attention.
"Thanks for coming. I know it's hard for you all to be here." Obviously, it was: Craig's mouth was clenched, and Heather looked ill. "And thanks for offering to help make Lilli's grave a nicer place. Judy and I appreciate it very much, and we feel Lilli does, too."
I looked at them carefully, but no one betrayed a sign as to whether or not they agreed with my implicit statement that Lilli was alive somewhere, and able to perceive.
"There are wildflowers to plant--" I indicated the bag of seeds in Judy's hand, "but I'm afraid we forgot to bring water with us today; all we have to wet them is some Fresca." Nervous chuckling.
"Well, here's what we'd like you to do: Plan to meet with each other, including anyone else who wants to participate, and come up ways to decorate this space. You might want to use rocks. Or boards. Or those curvy cement things people use to border their flower gardens."
Christmas nodded her head. Heather kept her eyes focused at her feet. I felt a surge of warmth for these people.
"Here's some money for supplies and for gas to get out here. Don't worry about keeping receipts, but please share the money among you as need indicates. Judy and I will be on the road for a few more months, and by that time the headstone should be ready. Do you think you can be finished by then?"
"No problem," said Christmas."
Judy knelt, scratched some small holes in the dirt at the head of the gravesite, and planted the seeds. I handed her the Fresca and felt pitiful as she dribbled it over the soil.
"I'll return here soon with some water," Dad vowed. "Don't worry." I felt immensely grateful to him for saying this. We stood, quietly, and then I said a prayer. Dad followed it with a better one.
Judy and I lunched with Dad at Wendy's.
"I'm feeling grouchy," Dad confided as he took bites of chili.
We didn't know what to say. Judy and I returned to the trailer and Judy took a nap. Confident of Judy's ability to sleep through anything, I fired up the generator, then stepped inside to wait out the battery-charging process. I leaned over one of the wooden benches of the dinette set to grab a book and - CRACK! - it broke. Cheapness! I thought, mentally cursing the manufacturer for using low-grade plywood and what looked like balsa. Pissed, I drove over to Wal-Mart where I picked up an electric screwdriver and some woodscrews, which, along with some shoe glue, I used to make the bench serviceable. But the repair had caused the blue fabric cushion on the top of the bench to lump up. I scowled. When Judy got up we ate and watched a video, "Never Been Kissed," starring Drew Barrymore. Lilli, I remembered, had given it a marginal "thumbs-up."
Late Friday morning Dad, along with my beautiful mother, came to see us off: Mom hadn't been in an RV since that ski-trip in the 70s, and had never been inside a fifth wheel. I could tell she was curious. How I would love for them to be able to travel like this, I thought, but in something stylish and comfortable, like a fancy motor home with slide-outs. We talked about the RV lifestyle, campgrounds, and stories of the road from full-timers we'd met. But the afternoon advanced and we had to go. With Mom and Dad waving us wishes of safety we pulled out of Heaton Bay Campground, wishing they could come with us; as their figures receded in the rear-view mirror, I became sad.
At the end of the Dam Road the Town of Frisco was full of tourists, and the drive through the dark I-70 corridor was congested with trucks, RVs, sports cars with arrogant drivers, bemused families in SUVs, VW buses driven by guys with sideburns, and long lines of Harleys. We paid our all-time highest price for gas at Copper Mountain…as I pumped, I grumbled. I relaxed as we moved up Highway 24 to Freemont Pass, for the F-150 did all right. Our favorite lake sped past, and enormous tailing ponds; we topped the pass at Climax, the world's largest molybdenum mine, and flowed through the gorgeous high valley near Tennessee Pass.
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In Leadville, "ELEV. 10,000 FT.," we stopped at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, La Cantina. A few Hispanics were talking quietly or staring out the windows; an old cowboy was shooting pool. Judy looked oddly toward the waitress.
"Dianne!" she called, and the woman, after looking up and smiling, ran to our booth and gave Judy a hug.
"What a coincidence!" Dianne said. Dianne is a former co-worker of Judy's, from the Village Inn Restaurant days in Silverthorne, mid-'90s. I remember times when Judy felt she was one of her only allies there. Dianne filled us in about life with her boyfriend in their fifth wheel out Twin Lakes way. We told her of Lilli's death and of our mission: looking for Lilli; but I could sense she was having trouble grasping this heavy revelation. She grew quiet and absented herself. Later, I caught site of her wiping out bar glasses. She glanced at me nervously. After a splendid feast of chicken tacos and chile rellenos, we physically snagged her and marched her outside for a photo.
Heavy with lunch, we drove past the Collegiate Range of 14,000-foot peaks, the windmill-powered home, and the old stone house beyond Buena Vista that always prompts me to say: "Judy, there's that house." I said it again. Judy, as always, punched me in the arm.
As we rolled around the curves toward Poncha Springs I began to feel excessively relaxed and experienced an odd sensation: my head was a giant balloon hovering over the truck. Strangely, I could see the road and mountains quite clearly from my new vantage; all was still; the universe was at peace; I--
"Dave!" Judy screamed. "Wake up!"
I returned to my body, head, hands, and feet, just in time to swerve the rig into a small dirt lot beside a historical marker.
"Judy," I mumbled, "my head was a big balloon, floating over the truck."
"You're going to bed, mister," she said, and lugged me into the trailer, up to the loft. My impression of the next hour is of daydreams and wind noise. Judy must have been outside. When my head cleared, I lay in the bed listening to passing trucks 'til Judy rousted me.
Then we continued on Highway 285 through Poncha Springs and the historic Jackson Hotel (where in 1984 we'd spent our honeymoon), over Poncha Pass, and on to Villa Grove, Moffat, and the world's longest valley. The San Luis Valley is sandwiched between rugged ranges: the Sangre De Cristos to the east, and the San Juans to the west. Important crops are potatoes and beans, but if greasewood and rabbit brush were valuable, then the inhabitants would all be wealthy. Mostly they are not. The San Luis Valley is one of the lowest-income places in the United States. Alamosa, to the south, is the largest city. The Great Sand Dunes National Park is in the center of the valley: it is a geologic phenomenon, genuine sand dunes ŕ la the Sahara Desert, and many films have been shot there, including a Star Wars installment.
To the north of the Dunes is the town of Crestone, subject of odd rumors. Indeed, the entire "Mysterious Valley," as it has been dubbed, is filled with interesting folk and strange occurrences, and is reportedly the site of a secret military base where "experimental craft" cavort. At Hooper, on Highway 17, we passed the UFO Watchtower and free RV campground -- new since we were last in the area. As we passed provocative road signs of bug-eyed aliens, Judy and I gave each other looks that promised we'd return.
In the late afternoon we entered Alamosa and pulled into the KOA, which, to our dismay, was unable to provide us sewer hookups or a modem line. After dark, my brother Matt and his girlfriend Kristi came over, along with Potsy, a fortunate mix of golden retriever and chow, and we talked for hours. Finally, we settled down in the trailer to watch "Galaxy Quest," a movie that, as well as being a swell parody on Star Trek, has a good story of its own.
Laundry occupied my Thursday morning. Wondering why I must live while Lilli lay dead, I found myself unable to talk to a woman in the laundry room. No matter how nice she tried to be, I was unable to respond; I couldn't even apologize for my behavior. She probably thought I was crazy. Perhaps I was. I ruined Judy's new shirt by thoughtlessly dumping some bleach in one of the washers, then grabbed a magazine and hid from the nice lady. In the afternoon, laundry folded and my head somewhat recovered, Judy and I trooped over to Matt's place, a small duplex near the college, and made plans with Matt and Kristi to gather later at the trailer. Then Judy and I left to take naps. In the evening Judy cooked ribeye steaks while I served margaritas and martinis.
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Matt looked terrific. Matt, eleven years my junior, is tall and spare, with a brilliant smile and eyes like Sean Connery's. It's always fun being with Matt: both of us are fascinated by weird phenomena, and whenever we're together, we go on for hours discussing the Face on Mars, perpetual motion machines, underground alien bunkers, that sort of thing. Kristi, too, is great fun. A native Alamosan, she has many stories about growing up in the area. That night we all talked until late about monster movies, vampires, and the town of Crestone, Colorado.
"They're strange over in Crestone," Matt said.
As Matt and Kristi said goodnight, a drive to Crestone was agreed on for the morrow.
After an awful nightmare in which Lilli was held in hypnotic captivity by a sex maniac, I awoke to Friday morning feeling stricken with thoughts of death and despair. After breakfast, I rallied somewhat. Judy and I washed the truck, then found Matt at his computer shop, where he was engaged with customers. A tall portly fellow with waxed mustachios stepped forward:
"I'm Sparky. May I help you?"
"Sparky's an electronics whiz," Matt told me later in the tech room. "See all this junk?" Mysterious equipment littered a workbench. "He's teaching me electronics and I'm showing him how to work on computers."
Matt took off from work, and we all walked Potsy along the Rio Grande. Whenever Matt threw a log into the current, Potsy, with powerful strokes, retrieved it. I was still suffering from my nightmare, so I slogged behind everybody. Judy showed Kristi some wild onions along the riverbank, and then Kristi picked some, and playfully whipped Matt with the stems.
"This is our dinner, Matt," she giggled.
In mid-afternoon we piled into our truck and headed to Crestone.
"Shirley MacLaine has a ranch around here," I said. "It's a meeting place for evolved spirits. The Dalai Lama and Hopi Elders have gotten together here."
In the heart of town were a number of buildings from the Old West days, including a hardware store from the 1880s. Nobody seemed to be around. I drove up a dirt road to a trailhead, and looking up at the peaks of the Sangre De Cristos, recalled a L'Amour western that must have been set nearby. Was this the valley Jubal Sackett spied? We four-wheeled up a sandy wash, walked along a trail, then drove down into South Crestone and stopped at a restaurant, The Desert Sage. Alternative publications filled news racks. Business cards advertised alternative healers. As we settled in front of our menus, I listened to a conversation at the next table.
"Lavender will do," one woman told another. "Power stones, after use, should be cast out...."
Our waitress, a thin woman with straying wisps of hair, warned us of solar flares.
"Highest radiation in the last 18 years!" She said. "We need to protect ourselves."
I considered this information. Through the plate-glass windows I viewed crags spiring into clouds, and on the lawn by the restaurant, young girls playing. After dinner we explored the maze of dirt roads that is South Crestone: signposts abounded for ashrams, temples, alternative schools. Turning at a sign for a Krishna community, we passed a corkscrew-shaped hay-bale house, and a deer beside the road. On the return trip to Alamosa we trooped in to the UFO Watchtower at Hooper, and emerged with gewgaws such as wind-up spaceships and glowing pens.
That evening, back in Alamosa, we got in Matt's sports car and joined in the low-rider cruising scene; then, on a country road, Matt let me take the car up to 90. At Matt's front door we grew quiet. Tired and sad, we hugged and said goodbye.
| nonjudgmental support |  |
sanctuaries | |
journeys of discovery |