This has been another week full of travels. Larry left last Sunday night after church, heading to Indiana to retrieve a load of four enclosed trailers. I drove him to the shop, helped put his things into the pickup—and then he discovered that the pickup’s batteries were flat, because he’d forgotten to disconnect the batteries. (He must always do that, because there is a drain on the battery somewhere; he never seems to have quite enough time to figure out where.) We jump-started it, and then he was off.
He got to Elkhart Monday in time to have the trailers loaded with the forklift, which is considerably faster than pulling them up with his winch, which he must do if he arrives after hours and they have left the trailers out in their big parking lot for him. But he had to scoot the three on his flatbed trailer forward soon afterward, because when he turned corners, the trailer he was pulling would’ve bumped the last trailer on the fifth-wheel flatbed. (Didn’t I explain that well?) ;-) (Well, didn’t I?!)
Still feeling pleased with ourselves over all those bargains we’d obtained in Lincoln Saturday, we decided to go to the Salvation Army in Columbus Monday afternoon. As I was driving around the corner of 43rd Avenue, kids just out of school at West Park were walking along…and a couple of girls came around the corner, walking in the street. One walked right out in front of me, daring me to hit her, jigging around, flipping the ‘peace’ sign at us with a sassy face. I waited until the front of the Suburban was exactly beside her—and then I honked. And don’t you forget, that Suburban doesn’t just say, “Tooot,” that Suburban says, “AAaaROOOOOOOga!!!”
The girl jumped out of her living hide, mouth wide open in startled fright, arms shooting straight out. The little girls, in the back seat, were totally convulsed. Smart alecs like that should have the wits scared out of them every now and then; it’s sure to do them good. Cardiovascular workout, and all that.
We went on our way to the Salvation Army, where we got lots and lots of things. I found a dozen or so shirts for Caleb, and several pairs of jeans. All children’s items were 39¢ each. I somehow got the notion that shirts were 99¢ each, although, in the beginning, I had known better. It was shorts that were 99¢ each. So, when I went to the checkout stand and saw the sign, shorts, I said, “Oh!--I misread that sign! I’ll have to put these shirts back.” (They are $2.79-3.99 each, regular price.)
But the lady, a short, heavyset woman with thinning hair who is always ever so nice to us, said, “No, no, don’t do that; I can give them to you for 99¢!”
And she did. I got a humungous, mounded cartload of things—for only $48.
Leaving the Salvation Army, we proceeded on to the library, where we got three videos and a book. Having had such good fortune at the Salvation Army, we decided to advance to the Goodwill. And there I found brand-new school shoes for Caleb, a couple more pairs of jeans, and a couple of dresses for Hester and Lydia. Also, I got a free shirt with an old coupon I happened to find wadded into the corner of my purse. Victoria happened to find a pink corduroy jumper for herself, which pleased her immensely. We are delighted as can be with our first-rate acquisitions for such a good price; can you tell?
The next morning, I discovered a message on the answering machine from Larry; he was 300 miles away, and thought he’d be home by 12:30. He’d left the message at 8:30 a.m. He thought he could average 75 mph? At 2:30, he called from the shop, saying he’d be home soon to eat lunch.
But he didn’t show up. He finally called at 6:30, saying he’d be home at 7:30 for supper, and we were going to Denver tonight. ( ! ) Finally, at 8:00 p.m., he came home. By 9:30 p.m. I was ready to go. We left at midnight.
That afternoon, Hester brought the neighbor dog into the house, because it was awfully hot outside, and the dog had been tied in the sun long enough that she was dreadfully thirsty. She came loping happily into the house, and was soon chasing her tail.
Victoria laughed. “Mandy is playing Ring Around the Rosy!” she informed us.
Before we left, I sent everybody off to the showers. I gave Victoria a bath and cut her bangs. We loaded the pickup, climbed in, and…were officially on our way to the mountains.
Well, almost.
First we had to go to SunMart for a few provisions and fodder. {There’s a difference, you know; the former classification is that which is necessary, vital, and nutritious; the latter element entails that which is comprised of snack food, fast food, and junk food.}
It was getting cooler outside, so I said, “You kids better get your jackets and keep them handy; it’s chilly tonight,” whereupon three little kid-urchins immediately notified me, “We forgot our jackets!”—inadvisable, when heading to the Rockies.
“Why, you naughty clackets!” I exclaimed, making everybody but Larry laugh.
We drove back down 17th Street (while Larry worried over whether or not he had enough fuel to go all the way back home [a distance of five blocks] and then out to Sapp Bros. and I told him he should not have been driving the behemoth around, if it was that low on fuel). Larry parked at the corner of 17th and 42nd, at which point I jumped out, ran back down the block, and into the house. ’Twas a busy house, for Dorcas was playing her violin, and Teddy was playing a racing game on the computer, despite having been told to go to bed. He was more disconcerted over being caught in his short pajamas than over being caught at the computer beyond his bedtime. I ordered him off to bed immediately, grabbed three jackets, and dashed back out the door.
When we got to Silver Creek, about twenty miles southwest of Columbus, I took over the driving. I drove through the night, all the way to Sterling, Colorado. By then—it was about 6:30 a.m.—I was too tired to go farther, so Larry drove the rest of the way, napping as he did so. I’d only been sleeping 45 minutes when I suddenly woke up again, turned my head to look at Larry, and discovered him nodding off. I yelped and threw a candy wrapper at him, startling a coordinating yelp out of him…and of course, after that, I could sleep no more, for fear I would awaken upside down in the ditch.
We could see the mountains before ever getting to Ft. Morgan, for the sky was clearer than usual that morning. In a little town where we’d stopped at a convenience store, we spotted a business called Sober Service Auto Parts. Reckon they really are? (The auto parts, I mean…sober.)
Too many miles on the road cause my mouth to get sores inside, probably because I try my best to eat as much food as the rest of the family is devouring. Good grief! How do they eat so much?! I finally gave it up and, instead of Doritos and granola bars and fig Newtons, I had Listerine. But mind you, it wasn’t any ol’ plain stuff Listerine, huh-uh, nosiree. This was Cool Mint Listerine.
Wooowooowooo… YeeeooowwCH. Listerine in sore mouths stings. But it did help.
We got to Dunlap Trailer Sales in Berthoud about 10:30 a.m. By 11:30, the trailers were unloaded. In the meantime, the littles had a fine time amongst all sorts of trailers—cargo, flatbed, race-car haulers with living quarters, etc. Victoria, picking up handfuls of the unique Colorado stones—pink quartz, speckled black and white granite, gray and lavender marble—assured me as she collected them, “these pretty rocks aren’t dirty, because this is clean dirt.”
That, because the color of the dirt was pinkish red, as opposed to our ordinary mud-colored dirt back home. She wound up with quite a bit of clean dirt all over her hands, and some smudged across her nose, too.
Leaving Berthoud, we headed south to Denver. We picked up a car in Englewood, a southern suburb, then stopped at Lincoln Auto to visit our friend, Bob V. After that, we turned back north to Berthoud. We dropped the trailer off at Dunlap Trailers, and then it was Rocky Mountains, ho!!
By that time, it was getting late—about a quarter till seven—and I fully expected to have a hard time finding a place to stay that night. We took a little byroad to the Big Thompson Canyon, and nearly got ourselves lost in the process. But suddenly, when we thought all hope was gone, we popped out of the wilderness and landed on Route 34, right where we’d intended to put in, in the first place.
We were in the Canyon, foothills rising high around us, and Victoria was excited. “I want to climb a tall mountain,” she exuberated, “with you holding my hand so I don’t trip; and we will wait at the top for the rest of the kids.”
It started to rain. Lightning crackled around us, and the thunder was loud in that high altitude.
“It’s probably snowing or sleeting, in the mountains,” I told the children.
Victoria, speaking of the mountain roads, asked, “Does ice make them really, really, REALLY slidey?”, each ‘really’ escalating in tone and pitch.
As it turned out, we had no hard time finding a motel, after all; there were vacancies everywhere. That’s the advantage to arriving in Colorado after most of the tourists have taken their children back home for the start of the school year. In the Big Thompson Canyon, there were all sorts of delightful cabins beside the river, and I wanted to stay in one.
But our Main Pilot kept on driving…and driving…and driving…
“How far are you going to drive?” I asked.
“I want to get to Estes Park,” he told me.
“Why?” I asked. “Let’s get one of these cabins; I like them.”
But the Chief Navigator kept driving…and driving…and driving…
“Where are we going to stay?” I queried further.
“Oh, I thought we’d stay in Estes Park,” he replied, after a long, perhaps thoughtful, or maybe just half-awake, pause.
“What are you planning to get, then,” I inquired, “a room at a nice, homogenized Super 8?”
“Super 8 is okay,” he responded.
“It is not!” I cried. “We want a cabin!”
But the Captain-in-Command kept driving…and driving…and driving…
We came upon several particularly charming cottages, and I cried, “Stop! Let’s stay here!”
The Skipper Person-in-Charge ignored me and kept driving…and driving…and driving…
“Okay,” I said. “That’s it; I won’t say another word; you can find whatever ghastly motel you jolly well please.”
The First Route-Finder sailed on calmly.
We drove into Estes Park. Motels, hotels, inns, and bed-and-breakfast nooks abounded, and all seemed to say “Vacancy”. And then something unexpected happened.
All four small child-passengers came to life with a vengeance, and took up with vigor where I had left off.
“Daddy!” quoth Hester urgently, “turn around and go back to those cabins! We don’t want to stay in town; we want to stay in the Big Thompson Canyon in a cabin with rooms and a kitchen!”
The Person-Behind-the-Wheel wriggled restlessly, discomfited.
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| Sarah Lynn, Hester, Lydia, Victoria, and Caleb at Loveland Heights Cabin |
“Daddy!” Lydia took up the cry, “let’s go back to the Canyon! I saw a really nice little log house…”
The Indomitable Driver fidgeted and frowned.
Caleb chimed in, “Yeah! So did I, and the river was right behind it, and there was a porch!”
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| Victoria and Larry in the cabin kitchen - fresh coffee! |
The Stalwart Steerer squirmed uneasily.
Victoria was nodding energetically. “And hummingbird feeders!” she exclaimed. “And there was a lamp [she pronounces it, ‘lomp’] in the window, and it was cute.” She leaned over and looked into his face, blinking long-lashed brown eyes beseechingly.
The Operator-in-Charge capitulated. He lay down his arms, he admitted defeat, he surrendered, he relinquished his role, he ceded culpability, he turned the pickup around, and he headed back to the Big Thompson Canyon.
Those small-but-lively pieces of humanity in the grandstand, also known as the back seat, cheered.
We rented a cabin called Loveland Heights. There were three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and two bathrooms (but no tubs). Hester and Lydia took one room, Caleb and Victoria the other.
They were all tickled pink, because the rooms were built out over the river, and there were large picture windows in each. There was a locked door in Hester and Lydia’s room; I opened it, and, lo and behold, there was a little wooden deck with wooden chairs, and steps down to the water. Ducks were swimming upriver, and the entire place teemed with hummingbirds.
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| Hester & Lydia in their cabin room |
There was even our favorite kind of orange juice in the refrigerator!—Tropicana, with pulp and extra calcium. After carrying all our paraphernalia into the cabin, we drove back to Estes Park for a few groceries, and I called home. Dorcas was using my sewing machine, making a vest, of all things. I can’t believe it…my daughters are in fact sewing. Hannah just made a vest last week. Why, up till now, they’ve acted exactly as if sewing machines were lethal monsters that would leap out of their cabinets, teeth bared, for the sole purpose of attacking innocent, unsuspecting victims who walked too close to them, or perhaps even sat down to mend a torn hem. I expressed my amazement, listened to her laughing, and bid her adieu.
Then, ever so tired, we went back to our bungalow to shower and go to bed … but there was no hot water. The water heater was off, and had been off for a good long time. Larry lit the heater, and we waited for the water to get warm… Larry's waiting was the least tedious; he simply sprawled onto the bed and zonked out.
In the meanwhile, I scrubbed Caleb and Victoria in the sink with water warmed on the stove. By then, the water in the heater was getting warm, and the rest of us were able to make use of the showers. Water heats quicker in gas water heaters than it does in electric water heaters. Also, water heats faster in higher altitudes.
Thursday morning, we decided to keep our cabin another day. Early that morning, Victoria, excited to go out onto Hester and Lydia’s deck, dressed herself. Then she dashed out the door, onto the deck, down the steps, and on down to the edge of the water, joining her elder siblings, where she commenced throwing stones into the river.
And she got too close, slipped on the mossy edge, and fell in.
Yes, right into the Big Thompson River.
At long last we were shipshape, ready to go. Off we went to Rocky Mountain National Park. We saw lots of elk, and even two late-season mule-deer fawns still covered with spots.
Victoria’s Remark For The Week was, “It’s just my size!”—speaking of little strawberries (we found some altogetherly scrumptious strawberries at the Safeway in Estes Park), small china dolls, little backhoes, pretty little bracelets, and small dump trucks. This time, it was a smaller boulder, and a shorter mountain. “Look!” she exclaimed gleefully, “There’s a mountain just my size!” and she pointed at a foothill tucked neatly between two tall peaks.
Then, lowering her voice and motioning to a mountain that rose far above tree level, she advised us, “And there’s one, just Daddy’s size.”
We drove to Grand Lake, where we stopped to take a few pictures. The littles practiced skipping rocks. And then… Victoria, exuberantly throwing rocks into the water, stepped splat into Grand Lake by mistake.
Same story, second verse. We drove away with a little pair of ruffled green socks flapping in the breeze, dangling from the wing window of the pickup.
South of Grand Lake, we took a footpath to Adams Falls. At one point, I handed my camera to Larry so he could take my picture. I set my Tamron 100-300mm zoom lens carefully on a nearby boulder—and left it behind. We got all the way back to the pickup before we realized it was missing. Soooo…we trotted back to the boulder beside the trail to get it. 
“It was your fault, of course,” I informed Larry, “because once I handed you my camera, you were responsible for all its contiguous parts.”
He made a face. And he didn’t forget that remark; he’s made good use of it quite a number of times since, usually telling me I am responsible for this or that, just because he’s handed me this item or that.
We climbed back into the pickup and turned north to retrace our track. By the time we got back to the top of Trail Ridge Road, it had snowed. We stopped at the top, and Lydia, Victoria, and I got out. I snatched Victoria’s hand and ran with her to the nearest pile of snow. Grabbing a handful, I made a snowball and flung it at Lydia, ssplaaAAAT! Soon there was a full-fledged snowball fight ensuing, for those who were left behind in the pickup suddenly acquired a yen for a snowball brawl. But we had no parkas, no galoshes, and no mittens; so it was not long before we clambered back into the warmth of the pickup and continued on our way.
It was absolutely beautiful at the top of the pass. A cloudy, stormy, sunset developed in shades of blue, lavender, and orange, and the clouds went wisping and swirling over us and then down the mountain to lie in a froth in the lake-dotted valleys.
We came around a hairpin curve, and there was the most picturesque overhang, perfect for—“Stop, stop!!” I cried. “I must take some pictures!”
Larry put on the brakes and pulled in. A couple of professional photographers, cameras on tripods, one with a large format camera complete with extended bellows and camera jacket to protect it against the mist, were already there doing shoots. The one with the large format camera was more of a professional than the other, for he had grown a beard to keep his face warm. Furthermore, the younger one did not have a camera jacket; instead, he used his own jacket to cover his camera, and the slightest gust of wind kept blowing it off, putting him into a sourer [and in all probability, colder] humor than he was in already, and not improving his wife’s temperament, either.
As I walked past, she glanced at first me, then at my camera, then back at me, and offered me a surly scowl. I smiled back in a friendly fashion, which only amplified her glower. I grinned, just to see what that would produce. It triggered a disagreeable glare, that’s what it did. Poor thing; her hands [or feet] must’ve been cold. I smiled sympathetically, and she elevated her nose and turned haughtily away. The older man was quite friendly, and noticed immediately that I had a filter holder. He asked if I was a professional.
“Naaah,” I said, “if I take any spectacular pictures, it’s purely by accident.”
He laughed. “Well, you must know something about photography, for I see you have a filter holder on your camera.”
I smiled. “That’s for the ‘cheaters’,” I told him, and he shrugged one shoulder.
“We do whatever it takes,” he replied.
I nodded. “Yes, and then we say that we merely made the picture look like the scene really looked in the first place.”
“You’ve got it,” he replied, grinning.
I should have used my tripod, and increased the aperture,…but I didn’t. Too lazy, too in a hurry, too cold, too unprofessional… I regretted not taking more time, just as soon as we drove away, but by then the sun had sunk beneath the highest peaks, and there was no going back. I do hope my pictures have at least a semblance of the beauty we beheld… We shall see. 
Friday we headed back to Rocky Mountain National Park. Our pass was good for one week; I would’ve liked to use it exactly that long and longer. But this was one of those paid vacations… |
| Sarah Lynn |
The three girls were playing in the back seat. Victoria, in the middle of an exciting story she was relating, drawn mostly from her imagination and nowhere else, said, “…and then I slammed on the brakes!” She considered. She went through the motions with one of Caleb’s little Matchbox cars. Then, “Now I’m slammin’ on the accelerator!” she announced, and the car vroomed off swiftly.
Some time later, Victoria was getting a drink from a small glass jug of chocolate milk. We went over a humungous bump, making the bottle jerk sideways over her cheek. She pulled it down quickly and gingerly felt the wet stream across her face. I hurriedly rummaged up a napkin, while she explained the mishap: “I put the bottle clear up to my mouth so I don’t spill it, and then it made a skid mark on my cheek!”
On Friday’s expedition, we continued south from Grand Lake all the way to Interstate 70, then turned north to follow the Peak-to-Peak Highway.
We didn’t even make it halfway. At Nederland we took a wrong turn, and I didn’t realize it until we were driving the main street of Boulder. Ah, well; while on the wrong route, during which time I wondered why my memory was so faulty, for I did not remember the scenery looking quite like it did, we came upon Berthoud Falls. We walked up to the falls alongside Berthoud Creek. We would never have seen it, had we not taken a route we didn’t intend to; and it did not take us very far out of the way, after all. We stopped to read a large sign telling us that many people had been killed at these falls, either falling in and hitting the rocks, or being swept away by the undercurrent, or from rock-climbing accidents.
As I stood taking photographs, a man and woman who were sitting on a stone bench at the side of the path asked, “Can you see the man on the rocks?”
I took another look. Sure enough, there on the side of the vertical rock wall rising above the falls several hundred feet was the tiny figure of a man, laboriously climbing that rock face. The hair on the back of my neck rose.
I trained my big lens on him, stood still, and watched, transfixed. “I’ll be ready to take the shot when it happens,” I murmured, and somebody beside me laughed.
“You’ll make a million dollars,” he said cheerfully.
“No! I don’t want to!” I wailed, jerking my camera down and stepping back several paces.
The spectators around me laughed nervously, all eyes fixed upwards with rapt attentiveness.
The climber arrived at a ninety-degree overhang just under the top of the wall, and I thought, Surely it is not possible that human or animal can scale that.
I lifted my camera to my eye and watched.
There was a moment of mute terror when the man’s legs appeared to swing to and fro while he hung there in space. Then, after a dreadful struggle, he was suddenly at the top, safe.
We all took a shaky, collective gulp of air and collectively discovered we could actually breathe again. As we entered the city of Boulder, Victoria took note of the tall apartment buildings. “Look at those really, really big compartments!” she remarked.
The sun was nearing the horizon by the time we retrieved our trailer in Berthoud and headed east. We stayed in Ft. Morgan that night. It was much more difficult finding a motel in Ft. Morgan than it was in Estes Park, imagine that. At the third motel, we finally found a room. The children like to go with Larry into the office to ask about a room. He was walking up the two steps to the office, holding Lydia and Caleb’s hands, when suddenly he leaped up those steps, both feet at once, causing the children to scramble madly to stay up with him. It looked so funny that Hester and Victoria and I, sitting in the pickup, couldn’t quit laughing.
Saturday morning, we ate breakfast and fed the geese and ducks at the park in Ft. Morgan. Some of the geese aren’t very careful in the slightest, and hurt our fingers. One nasty fowl nipped Victoria on the caboose and made her cry. “Why did that awful goose do that to me?” she sniffed.
“Because he’s horrid and mean,” I told her. “If a goose ever does such a thing to you again, you just smack it good and proper!” She nodded earnestly. “Yes. I will do that,” she replied, “but I’m going to stay by you, so you can do it for me.”
Two minutes later, one clamped his bill down my thumb when I was giving him a piece of bread, and drew blood. I promptly clobbered him with the bread bag, which made him flap backwards a pace or two, after which he proceeded to tilt his head straight up, stare up into my face, and hiss terribly. So I leaned down into his face and shouted, “DON’T!!” —and my family laughed at me, the disrespectful brats. But he did ‘DON’T’, in fact, he ‘DON’T’ed with all his might and main, so there. Larry told the older children when we got home that there are a whole lot of undisciplined waterfowl at the Ft. Morgan Park, and one ‘behaved’ goose.
“But I’m not saying how he’s behaved,” he concluded.
On our way through Grand Island Saturday evening, we went shopping at the Goodwill. We got some more shirts for Caleb, a beautiful shiny teal winter coat with black fur trim around the hood for Victoria, one dress each for the three little girls, and a red dress and beautifully knit sweater for Dorcas for Christmas. The sweater has scenes from an Indian buffalo hunt…not exactly what I would’ve chosen, but still it’s a lovely sweater. I also got a tan corduroy coat with quilted lining for Joseph.
Victoria likes me to draw pictures for her in her little notebook as we drive along. However, Colorado and Nebraska roads are not kind to aspiring artists. And neither is Victoria, when I am finished drawing and hand it back to her: she guffaws.
“That’s Caleb,” I told her, giving her a messy drawing of a boy.
She stared at it briefly, then gave a burst of laughter. “Hahaha! It really looks just like him!” said she.
Sunday afternoon Keith and Esther, and Bobby and Hannah, came for dinner. We had baked chicken with mushroom soup poured over it; mushroom onion stuffing; fresh tomatoes—one from Keith and Esther’s garden, the other from Hannah’s elderly neighbor lady Mrs. Tuma’s garden; freshly-baked biscuits; applesauce; green beans with onions and bacon; and apple flautas with Raspberry Rumble ice cream. Victoria no longer wishes to sit on somebody’s lap while eating dinner; she wants her own chair. This makes the logistics problem more of a problem than ever; but we always manage to accommodate the child. After all!—when one is three going on four, one needs one’s own chair!!
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