stick pictures

So AJ and I go off to a long weekend in Crestone, Colorado
and some idjit can't find her camera. I have done my best to capture this most excellent trip with the tools and talents I had available at the time.
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Before leaving on our trip I was preparing the house for our absence. You know the drill ... food and water for the cats, food and water for the birds, food and water for the garden. Anyhoo, in the midst off all that food and watering I somehow left ample food and water on our wooden deck and when I went outside to take a final inspection before leaving, wearing my flip flops, I managed to be dumped unceremoniously onto the hard edge of a deck stair.

From Stick Pictures

My feet were thrown in the air before I knew it and I landed square, and hard, on my back. Saw stars, the whole bit. On the bright side I did manage to miss my spine and the vertebrae by half an inch so I was either dealing with the Mother of all Back Bruises, and perhaps some internal bleeding, but not a ruptured disk or broken back and that's a deal I'll take.

After several hours of carefully watching the color of my pee I was fairly confident that I had escaped major internal issues. On the down side, my back was seizing up pretty bad and hurt like hell whenever I moved. What to do? Take some ibuprophen and head off to ...

From Stick Pictures

Crestone is located at the foot of the Sangre de Cristos and is smaller and weirder than you might think. Promise, you'd think it not possible but it's true. We drove into town and stayed at the lovely Sangre de Cristo Inn and by the time we went to bed my back was seizing so bad that I couldn't walk.

For the record, I make a very cranky invalid.

The next morning, AJ went to work and I was bored and in desperate need of a sweat. No longer in excruciating pain I put on my running gear, grabbed my iPod, set it to Rancid and began walking slowly down the road. The mountains were glorious and whispering -- no assuring -- me and anyone who was listening that all would be right with the world, soon. My crappy Costco camera didn't stand a chance at capturing that kind of beauty anyway.

After a few minutes finding myself less gimpy than the night before I became emboldened and began to trot, not quite run, and thought to myself, "If I keep this pace for 3 hours, I might perspire!" How happy the thought made me!

From Stick Pictures

I was determined.

Then about 100 yards into my retardedly proud trot -- seize! Ouch. Stop. This sucked. Badly. If I were a crier I would have cried. As I slowly limped by yet another church -- Oh! If I haven't yet explained, Crestone is home to about as many churches as residences and way more churches than retail conveniences. Christians, Jews, Hari Krishnas, witches ... oh they're all there. Everybody but the Amish as far as I could tell. Anyway, as I gimped I remembered that I was in a special place, so why not see if any of this stuff has the power the locals give it?

I shuffled up to the cross and simply asked to be able to break a sweat. That's it. No fanfare, no Peace on Earth, no good will towards men. Nothing important. All about me. I just put in my wish list to God, using him like a super-sized Santa, and hoped that the enchanted town of Crestone would put up.

In a showing of thanks and respect and what was a supernatural sign-off of sorts I gestured the Sign of the Cross and returned to the road. Where I walked. And then trotted. And the crippling pain in my lower right back started to yelp again but stopped short of seizing and just stabbed. And burned, like hell. But I was mobile. After an hour or so I was sweating. The more I "ran" the more the pain subsided or at least quieted, and the circulation appeared to be doing much needed good.

Joy.

In my "run" I saw the Village Witch's house, as well as about 100 signs for Mark Udall, about as many Obama stickers, a stop sign littered with more anti-W stickers than you think such a small octagon would allow, and lots and lots of hippies.

I made it back to my room, enjoyed a fantastic non-vegetarian lunch (I assume the only one the Harvest Restaurant sold the whole day) and read a book. AJ was to be back at 2. All I had to do was lounge until he returned so I sat, and read, and endured the hippies in stride.

Crestone has limited everything ('cept churches), and that includes limited cell phone reception. AJ was running late (really late) and I couldn't be reached. I had to check out of the room to make room for the next guest. Very shortly afterward I found myself sitting outside on a bench, like a common vagrant, in the wind, waiting for AJ. Endlessly. I continued to read my book -- uh, make that finish my book -- and oh yeah, don't you know it, I got pissy.

From Stick Pictures

AJ, as he does, as he can, as he only can, took my obnoxiousness in stride. Got us packed up, driving down the road, and was the man who I love so much.

The highway between Crestone and Poncha Springs is a valley in between the most beautiful mountain ranges, on fire with golden leaves, a hint of red and the greenest of evergreens against a clear blue sky.

We were starving and had dinner at a place in Salida called Quincy's that we renamed McGillicuddy's just for fun. Quincy's (um, I mean McGillicuddy's) is a gem. You're immediately greeted with an unpleasant hostess who demands to know whether or not you "get" their menu. No, we admitted, we did not. We were rookies. She explained we'd have two choices: Prime Rib or Vegetable Lasagne. That's it. Love it or lump it. OK, that seemed perfectly reasonable to us. We obediently signed up and asked to wait at the bar.

From Stick Pictures

McGillicuddy's bar is straight out of your parent's basement circa 1972 only more pink. And more comfy. :) Wood paneling, a lowered bar with a raised seating area (a mini-auditorum made for swilling booze), and the most comfortable mauvish-pinkish leather rolling reclining bucket chairs you've ever had the pleasure of sinking your tired self into. It's part Black Angus, part rumpus room, but all good -- straight out of a weird dream you once had that you could never sufficiently describe if you tried. AJ and I declared McGuillicuddy's a Must Do whenever we found ourselves hungry in Salida. We shook on it, to make it official.

The next morning we headed to the 8am High Valley Shuttle. Although my back was steadily improving I was extremely concerned about the wisdom of riding Monarch Crest giving the stabbing, and the seizing, and the, uh, Continental Divide. But risks must be taken! I took four ibuprofen tablets, downed a few bananas, and gave the rest up to the God Santas.

From Stick Pictures

Apparently my muscles are uniquely fitted for bike riding now because on the bike, all was well. Climbing, descending, technical spots -- all felt amazing! NO back pain! The pain only came when I stopped riding and this was a formula I could live with very happily.

We rode Monarch, we rode Rainbow, and we were blessed. To ride that trail, in that weather, at that time, with AJ, with my Love, with the damp and quiet blackness of earth being carpeted by the most golden aspen leaves, watching glowing eyes from lichen-covered rocks peek through, to Be there, in an explosion of color and sensation and quiet and flight, to experience that, like that?! Was a blessing from the heavens.

A gift perhaps?

From Stick Pictures

Trails are hard to draw.

We left Poncha Springs satiated and humbled and returned home as fast as our loaded up Camry could carry us.

From Stick Pictures