Life without a Compass

“The mountains are calling and I must go.”  -John Muir

My husband A. and I have always shared a love of the Colorado mountains.  Last Tuesday, we left the kids with my parents in Gunnison for the day, and headed out on a six-hour four-wheeling trip, anxious to recreate one of our favorite adventures from our honeymoon ten years ago.  Excited to spend a whole day as just the two of us again.

We drove the 55 miles into Lake City early in the morning and rented a Polaris two-seat RZR for the day.  We decided to take the roughly six-hour trip into Silverton following part of the Alpine Loop over Engineer Pass and then back over Cinnamon Pass, reverse recreating the trip from ten years before.  This was the first time we’d ever gone four-wheeling in a RZR, and we loved it—it was incredibly smooth, although a windshield would have been nice.

As we headed up the winding, rocky, mountain road, I thought back to that honeymoon trip.  I’d never experienced real four-wheeling before.  It’s something we try to do at least once a year now, but then, in the weeks just following our wedding, it was all new to me. 

The day began as many days in paradise did on our honeymoon, sleeping in, a leisurely breakfast in the little cabin apartment in Gunnison, and off to Blue Mesa Reservoir.   We entertained the idea of driving over to Lake City, and after lounging on the beach reading, then swimming and paddling around the Res on our inner tubes, we decided to head out. 

Lake City is a beautiful little town.  After enjoying calzones at Poker Alice, we walked around the tiny mountain town for a long time.  We daydreamed about buying an old house beyond our means and had ice cream in soda glasses at an old-timey soda shop.  A. decided we had seen so many mountain lakes it would be fun to see one more, so we took a spin around the lake and then explored a dirt road for a while (I thought).  We kept going and going and going.  Unbeknownst to me, we had started up Cinnamon Pass. 

The calm dirt road began to slope up drastically and became more rocky and rough.  Before I knew it we were literally climbing up a mountain on a single lane dirt road with a drastic, cliff-like drop-off on our left.  We passed three trucks that were headed down the same trail.  Although we had to squeeze against the right side of the road and they the left in order to pass each other—a narrow fit—it brought me comfort to know that we were not the only people on the road.  I was feeling rather nervous.  A. had studied a map of the Alpine Loop and knew where we were headed, but wasn’t planning on going very far.  He just wanted to see a little bit more, and then a little bit more of the trail.  I never asked to turn back.  I was along for the ride.

The scenery got increasingly beautiful by the minute it seemed.  I couldn’t figure out how I would describe it while surrounded by it, and I can’t describe it now.   Mountain peaks, wild flowers, streams, waterfalls, forests full of pine trees and aspens.  For quite a while there were meadows on both sides and I was at ease.

Then the four-wheeling began.  Oh, man.  I know that seeing Anton fall off a cliff and almost die five years before affected me, as did my having had three flat tires in the year prior.  I actually haven’t had one since; it was just a bad year for me and tires.  I couldn’t decide which I was the most afraid of as we literally climbed up the trail on jagged rocks.  Up, up, up we went.  My nerves came and went as the trip went on, and I may have been guilty of the tiniest bit of backseat driving.  We didn’t serve his truck anything it couldn’t handle, although navigating the switchbacks in a long vehicle is definitely a lot more interesting than doing it in a Jeep or RZR.  We kept having to back up a little and then edge forward to make it around the corners.  A little harrowing with a manual transmission since you begin rolling backwards, just the tiniest bit, down a mountain every time you have to switch into gear.  In all Anton’s previous four-wheeling experience at that point, he had never encountered anything quite like it, but he did a great job driving.  At one point we were at over 12,600 feet elevation. 

About three hours and roughly thirty miles of back road trail after we left Lake City, we pulled into Silverton.  It was nearly 8:00 at this point, and even though we only had the clothes we were wearing and a travel toothbrush I kept in my purse, we decided to stay the night.

The Wyman Inn is 113 years old now, so then it was 103.  We slept on a feather bed with feather pillows and a feather comforter and watched Far and Away on a VHS in our room.  The next morning we had cinnamon apple pancakes with raspberry sauce and homemade granny smith apple syrup and whipped cream.  Also fresh-squeezed orange juice, cantaloupe, and coffee.  We immediately understood why several plaques on the wall in the room announced The Wyman Inn’s award-winning breakfasts. 

We spent the morning walking around town and then headed back to Gunnison via the highway, already happily planning to do the trip again, this time seeing what Engineer Pass was like.  We both felt sad to leave after such an adventure, but were excited to have more adventures to look forward to.

We have had so many adventures together in the last ten years.  Sometimes they just seem to find us.  Our best four-wheeling ever actually happened accidentally on Bunt School Road just outside of Allenspark last summer.  We were taking the kids to a crawfish boil and live concert on the property of some friends of A.’s.  The preceding September’s flooding had washed out the road, and we didn’t realize how bad it was when we started driving up the road.  We had all three kids in the cab, and it was crazy.  A.’s truck did great.  It might be older than it used to be, but it’s still got it.  We made it up without incident, and got to see our seven-year-old and four-year-old daughters try crawfish for the first time right out of a pile on the table.  Our kids are cool.  

Every time A. and I go four-wheeling together, I can’t help but think of a line in Joe Vs. the Volcano where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks are floating away on the ocean together and she says, “I wonder where we’ll end up?”  He responds, “Away from the things of man, my love.  Away from the things of man.”

Last Tuesday, as we headed away from the things of man on a path in some ways forgotten, yet in many ways surprisingly familiar, I was struck by how much has changed over the last ten years.  We had a wonderful time getting away as just the two of us for a day, but I found myself missing our kids and thinking about how much fun they’d be having if we’d rented a bigger RZR and they were in the back seat.  Planning a trip where I would bring them with us next year, complete with goggles and our own individually colored bandanas to block out the dust.  (Oh my goodness, the dust.)  Imagining the excitement on their faces and the things they would say if they got to share a shorter version of the trip with us.

I also noticed that I have much more faith in A.’s driving ability than I did ten years ago.  I know that he loves me and loves our kids, and actually doesn’t want to die anymore than I do, really.  So I probably don’t have to keep reminding him to be careful.  I can trust that he has the best intentions for me and for our whole family, trust him to keep me safe.  I had a lot less “backseat driver moments” than I probably did the first time we drove that trail together, and I really didn’t feel much of a desire to give him my (completely unsolicited) opinion about his driving.  Unless, of course, he went TOO far above the speed limit, or took the winding mountain roads so fast that I was afraid I’d get carsick.  You know, patience has its limits. 

Now that I think about it, my backseat driving must have improved even in the last four or five years.  I am reminded of the time we were going somewhere as a family and A. took a left-hand turn a little fast for my peace of mind.  I must have let him know what I thought about it (sweetly and with the best intentions imaginable, I’m sure) because our daughter Avery, who was three or four at the time, piped up and said seriously, “Mom.  Dad is the driver man, and you’re the sitter girl.  The driver man is the one who drives.  The sitter girl is the one who sits, and doesn’t drive.”  Pretty fair rule, if you ask me, as long as the same thing applies when I’m the driver girl and he’s the sitter boy.

Gone are the days when we could venture out with just the clothes on our backs and without another care in the world, but I don’t feel sorry for our lack of freedom.  We do have to plan way in advance now and save up to rent a vehicle because we’ve had enough life experience to know that we probably don’t want to risk damaging Anton’s truck (unless, of course, it just works out that way).  But I’m fine with having to get a babysitter for the day or take the kiddos with us, even though we’ll make it about half as far going half as fast and have to stop at least once an hour for potty breaks.  I wouldn’t change any of it—wouldn’t turn the clock back if I could, but I am intensely thankful that we took advantage of that freer time together while we could. 

As we walked into my parents’ kitchen last Tuesday night and saw three little smiling faces welcoming us back, I was reminded that this whole parenting thing we get to do together is a pretty great adventure, too.

Thank you so much for reading.