I’ll bet that’s where he spends most of his time.”---Merle Haggard
I am wary of Colorado. It’s the only place I’ve ever had a pinch of altitude sickness, even though I’ve been in higher climes. Of course, it could have been my own fault. During my first full day there, I bought a fine Stetson hat, a striking Scully cowboy shirt and a whopping coffee ice cream cone, all things I never do. In the smallish town of Estes Park, there are at least four ice-cream shops and there’s nary a single person marching through the early evening streets without a merry cone, so when in Rome….
The next morning my stomach felt like it was hosting a hippopotamus convention. I blamed it on Ben & Jerry. But when I struggled getting up the first steep grade on our hike in Rocky Mountain National Park, I knew the ice-cream twins were not at fault. “You have a little altitude sickness,” said Siobhan, who knows about these things. We started eating bland breakfasts at The Egg and I and avoiding hills, which is hard to do in Colorado. Then one day in the tiny town of Fraser, we ran into a man with a ZYTO machine who said he could cure all my ills. His name was Parker Thompson and he was holding down the fort for his mother at the Sunshine Herb Market.
“We can hook you up to this machine and it will tell us all the nutrients you are lacking,” said Parker. “Then we look through our shelves, find those nutrients and voila!---you’re a new man!” Hey, who could argue with such a plan? I could hardly wait as the young entrepreneur placed my fingers and the bottom of my hand over the designated area of the ZYTO machine, then connected it to a computer. The apparatus was a shiny silver, about the size and shape of an extra-large egg. Once your fingers were properly arrayed over the appropriate black lines, the machine was turned on and set about to cogitating your deficiencies, which turned out to be few. While waiting, Siobhan bought a small box of Reed’s Ginger Candies, a product of the clandestine Orient. I swallowed one and instantly felt better.
Leaving the shop, I groused to my partner about the rising costs of ZYTO exams vis-a-vis the more effective and very cheap Reed’s products. “Synchronicity,” she explained. “You wouldn’t have one without the other. But more important---blog fodder! Who knew there were ZYTO machines that could reveal your darkest secrets and magic pellets from the depths of China that can cure all your ills?” She’s right, of course. I’m thinking of rewriting my Christmas gift list and composing a column on Asian medical esoterica. Hey Siobhan, did you check those Reed’s ingredients? No pangolin parts, right?
Grand Lake above, Rocky Mountain Rep Theater below
Good Things/Small Packages
And I live in a small town’
Prob’ly die in a small town,
Oh, those small communities….”---John Mellencamp
If you drive across the breadth of Rocky Mountain National Park from east to west, and you should, you will eventually arrive at a funky little slice of Colorado called Grand Lake. The body of water in question is serious business---the largest natural lake in the state, and the deepest, with a maximum depth of 265 freakin' feet. They have a very modern playhouse in Grand Lake called the Rocky Mountain Repertory Theater, where we went to see A Chorus Line. Prior to the show, we ambled over the city’s funky boardwalks looking for a dining emporium and came up with an oddly-named place called O-a Bistro, a small establishment which might seat thirty in a pinch. The place offered exotic treats like stuffed dates wrapped in bacon, so Siobhan was in heaven. If you tried just a smidge, you could hear the conversation at neighboring tables but overall the place was a delight. It it was in Gainesville, we’d go there every week.
Leaving the theater after the show, an elegant fellow in white shirt and tie was standing near the exit, smiling and speaking to exiting showgoers. When he finally got to me, he asked “Are you Bill Killeen?” Who knew my fame had reached the Rockies? How does a man in remote Grand Lake, Colorado have any idea who I am?
“You left your wallet at the restaurant and fortunately Councilman Jim is blessed with good hearing and knew your plans. Since you ordered your tickets in advance, we knew where you were sitting. I think the deputy in the lobby might have your wallet.” He didn’t but when I approached him he ran out to his car, drove a couple of blocks back to the eatery and returned with the prize. I offered to get it myself but it was misting outside and the cop wouldn’t hear of it. Did Norman Vincent Peale write the operating manual for the folks in this town? Did I die and wake up in Grand Lake? Does the local constabulary learn their lessons at the Mary Poppins School of Police Behavior? No, the citizenry simply has an excess of thoughtful people with good manners, a rarity these days. Bravo to Grand Lake, Colorado—we’ll see you again soon.
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| Bill & Larry hike the trail. |
The Phantom Of Ouzel Falls
Strange things happen on vacation. Suddenly you find yourself in unknowable places where the winds are still, the air smells odd and wild agoutis scream in the distance. At the bottom of the Grand Canyon, there is no internet, no cell phone service, no radio. The Chinese army could be advancing on Flagstaff and you wouldn’t have a hint. News comes only via mule train and now and then the critters take a long weekend. Hark! Was that a nuclear explosion up at the rim or just the Phantom Ranch microwave blowing up?
Wild bands of crazed bikers might take over your motel in Babb, Montana. You have to sneak out the back way or perhaps find yourself burned to a crisp on a spit the next morning. You might break an ankle navigating solely on a little-known trail in the lonely bowels of mammoth Yellowstone, your sordid remains found weeks later by a far-ranging Boy Scout troop on a snipe hunt. Or you might even run across Larry, the Phantom of Ouzel Falls, like we did.
The hike to Ouzel Falls begins at the remote Wild Basin Trailhead in the southeastern corner of Rocky Mountain National Park, arrived at after a bold drive down a narrow gravel road. The parking lot is of nominal size but crammed full by nine a.m. in the summer months despite the best efforts of the park staff to pile one car on top of another. The hike is a reasonable 5.4 miles round trip, starting at 8500 feet with a total elevation gain of 870 feet to a total of 9370. Maybe the thin air plays tricks on your brain and eyeballs, maybe you start hearing voices from invisible sources, but something is a little different on the path to Ouzel Falls.
Siobhan and I first encountered Larry a little over halfway up the trail. He was carrying a fishing rod and nothing else….no backpack, utility belt or even water. Larry was an affable sort, telling us he was from “west of Chicago,” out here to do a little fishing before visiting his son at an unidentified military base in a place called “Kansas.” This was our first hint that Larry might not be who he said he was; after a quick internet search, we discovered there was, in fact, no such place as Kansas. Nonetheless, when Larry asked us if he could accompany us along the trail, we were happy to include him. Despite his odd habit of suddenly disappearing “to go fish” and then reappearing out of nowhere further up the trail, Larry was a good companion. We talked about his earlier travels through the country, about his girlfriend “back home” and about his avid love for fishing. Curiously, however, Larry seemed to avoid the more promising angling spots, striking out on his own to more secluded areas. When we stopped now and then for a little nourishment, Larry walked on offering appreciation for the company and smiling farewells. But then, twenty minutes down the trail, there he was again with a big smile on his face and a merry “Howdy, strangers!”
Larry took photos of us with my spiffy new Olympus, of course, and we of him at the end of the trail. I gave him a Flying Pie card so he could access the website later and read about the balance of our trip. Everyone embraced for final farewells and we moseyed off to our cars with an odd appreciation for our unusual new friend. Two days later when the film was developed, Larry was missing from the prints. The backgrounds were there, clear as a bell, but no Larry. If I’d known Gary Borse at the time, I would have called him for an explanation, but he probably would have told me there are no answers, only mysteries.
So if you’re ever in Rocky Mountain National Park early in the morning, take a drive over to the Ouzel Park Trailhead and set out on the trail. If you see a friendly fellow in a Cubs cap carrying an untarnished fishing rod, amble on up to him and have a chat. He’ll probably want to tell you tales of a ridiculous place called Kansas and discuss the Tao of fishing. Just smile, slap him on the back and proceed on your way. Don’t bother taking any pictures.
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| Siobhan and Larry at Ouzel Falls. |
That’s all folks….
