Thursday, September 17, 2009

Naked Wood Nymph

I’ve never been one to see ghosts, find fear much of anywhere. Had I been that kind of person, I would never have attempted this lengthy bicycle journey alone in the first place. But there are times…..

On the morning after my Cave Woman trip to Grand Lakes, I traveled back down the hill a short distance to some kind of National Park Service recreational facility, planning to do some hiking and exploring. I spoke with a ranger, who pointed out some trails, offered suggestions.

Leaving the bike safely locked, I headed uphill for several miles through the forest and past some rusting, abandoned corrugated metal mining shacks, over a series of switchbacks that eventually brought me into the sunshine at a narrow dirt road that had been cut into the side of the mountain. The plan was to follow that road for awhile until I reached an intersection with a trail going back downhill, forming a loop that would take me back to my bike. You know what they say about the best laid plans!

Still feeling the exhilaration of the previous day, hot and sweaty from the hike and the sun, I walked along the road gazing with great longing at the tiny stream that flowed alongside. I don’t think it was natural – memory says it was no more than a shallow trench dug into the mountain beside the road with a mere trickle of water. I’d gained a lot of elevation by now. The road formed a steep cliff along the mountainside beyond which there was nothing but endless trees and mountains as far as the eye could see. Finally, I stopped for lunch then stripped off my damp clothing and gave in to the urge to cool off in the stream, take a bath in the cold water, dry off naturally in the warm sunshine.

Lying naked in the sun on top of the world. What a feeling of freedom!

Refreshed, I dressed and continued walking down the road for about a half mile when I realized I’d left my sunglasses on a rock, returned to find them. Everything that happened after that was a little crazed.

After finding my glasses I returned to where I’d left my pack and continued along the flat, exposed trail until I reached a site where a huge rockslide – seemingly recent – had pushed boulders and trees thousands of feet down the cliff. The road looked recently bulldozed, and with great trepidation I walked on, hoping to pass that section quickly. It looked as though the earth could move again at any moment and bury me under a new pile of boulders down the hill. A storm was approaching and I was anxious to get off the mountain before rain and lightning came along.

Finally, the threat of impending lightning, thunder, rain and rockslides got to me and I turned around and ran back beyond the threatening cliffs, and further. I must have run a mile, at that altitude. Then I hurried along the road, anxious to reach the trail downward so I could have more protection. It seemed an eternity, but finally I started downhill, cutting through the woods across switchbacks whenever I could see the trail below me. That’s a real no-no, and I knew better but was too panicked to care.

It really was quite ominous. I could hear the thunder, clouds darkened the sun, and the forest was totally silent. Each time I stepped off the trail for a shortcut, I felt as if I had stepped into some enchanted forest out of the hobbit world. I kept waiting for trees to move and attack me, or for some vile creature to give chase. I never saw another living creature the whole time, nor heard anything except the thunder and the rushing of waterfalls down the mountainside. It was eerie, strange. I was a bundle of jitters.

It took me almost two hours to reach the valley. My moments of fantasy, seeing myself as a naked wood nymph dancing in the sunshine, were short-lived. No ghosts or landslides appeared.

During this two-month solo bike tour of the Colorado Rockies I kept a detailed journal chronicling the experience. I wrote a few new introductory paragraphs for this story, but the portion of the story that continues from "after I found my sunglasses" was lifted verbatim from the journal entry written that same day.

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