Days like Sunday -- Grand Junction, Colorado

It's Tuesday morning. Somehow, I always seem to get the blogging itch on a Tuesday morning.

It's 4:58. Crickets chirp and Chris' TV buzzes on and on about something or other. The radio/TV are always buzzing from Chris' room. Which I actually like, oddly enough. Not because I enjoy radio or TV, but because I like Chris. And just as I hear Chris' TV whenever I'm standing in the kitchen (or the rest of the house), he hears me when I'm standing in the kitchen (or the rest of the house).

Chris is the most efficient, accomplished eavesdropper I've ever met. My theory is that this is because Chris is a substitute teacher and has spent the last many years developing ears that can hear the thoughts of students too nervous to ask questions.

I'll be in the kitchen, chatting with Boy about my desire to build a smoker out of a flower pot.

"So... we would just need the pot itself. And a few wires and things. And a rack to put our bacon on. And a burner at the bottom that we can use to heat up the wood chips."

"A burner?" Boy asks.

"Yeah, to put under the stainless steel pan where the hickory and pecan chips are living."

"A burner?" Chris magically appears. Offering me a burner.

Chris is the Mary Poppins of roommates. He has at least one of everything. Not in a convenient little bag, of course, but in his room, the shed and the basement.  

"I could sure use a beer..." Ryan idly comments in the living room.

"Beer?" Chris magically appears, proffering the preferred beverage.

I want Chris to eavesdrop on all of my conversations. 

This week was quieter than last. Boy was on call, so there were no epic, "I think I'd like to crawl into a large hole and sleep forever while my legs/lungs recover" type adventures this weekend. There was only the incessant ringing of the on-call phone. When Boy is on call, he can neither drink wine nor travel more than a fifteen minute drive away from his work. Which is eight different kinds of inconvenient when it comes to adventuring and one kind of mean (the mean happens whenever I drink wine in front of him whilst he's on call. This happens... err... not infrequently).

Although there was that one night wherein I stayed awake for pretty much the whole thing and made Boy his favorite pastry (which may or may not have been an act of setting my conscience at ease for the myriad of alcoholic beverages I've imbibed in front of him whilst he's incapacitated by a phone that rings every fifteen minutes).

I've been making many pastries for Boy.

Boy shows love for Girl by taking her into nature on the weekends. Boy knows that Girl needs nature, so sets aside time every week to share some nature with her. Even though Boy's happiness doesn't rely on being able to hear the wind in the trees (without car horn punctuation), to smell the grass (without the pollution of cigarette smoke or exhaust) or to see the expansive sky (without buildings or telephone poles protruding into the horizon), he knows that a large portion of Girl's happiness does. So he ventures out into nature.

Girl shows love for Boy through doing things like staying up all night making mille feuille. This is a French pastry that literally translates into, "A thousand papers."

Which tells you something about the... err... labor intensive quality of the dough.

Girl knows that Boy needs pastries (loaded with cream), so even though Girl's happiness doesn't rely on being able to hear the crunch of a baguette, to smell a freshly baked croissant or to see a "thousand paper" pastry oozing with cream, she understands that a large portion of Boy's happiness does. So she ventures into baking.

Working with teens and young adults at the House has provided me with some sense of community and stability. However, August is quickly drawing to a close and I don't have any other job opportunities in the near future. All the doors I worked so hard to open three years ago are closed to me now. The shoes I wore are filled with others' feet. I went to the university to ask about teaching yoga and was told, "we're full. Totally full."

Can't expect the world to just stay the way you left it, Bourget. 

Starting over in a town like Grand Junction is stupid hard -- especially for someone with a skill set like mine. Yoga, theatre and, err... travel blogging are not in huge demand in Western Colorado. It was a massive miracle that I was able to support myself and fund my last trip through my passions.

I don't have a lot of hope for another miracle. 

But I do have a lot of gratitude for all the little miracles hopping across my path (I like the image of hopping miracles). All the cocktails from Cathy, the fabulous dinner parties, dates with Boy, cards with my family and mushroom hunting with Sara's family.

Sara is one of the people in my life who listens best. I can unload all my fear and stress in her presence (with a mug of super creamy chai tea between my stressed out hands) and know that whatever response Sara offers will be 100% honest and 100% understanding.

And that she will never let me run out of super creamy chai.

Sara's family went mushroom hunting up on the mesa this last Sunday. Since I've been pining for mushrooms (and the hunting thereof) ever since I got to hunt down porcini with four old Italian guys in Southern Italy (none of whom spoke any English), I immediately invited myself to join in on their adventure.

"Sara? So... if you... uh... have any extra room in your car, I would love to go."

"That sounds most excellent," Sara responded in her perfectly enunciated English (she's a speech therapist by day. A fondue goddess by night).

So Boy dropped me off at Sara's home Sunday morning and the adventure commenced (sans Boy, 'cos he had to stay in GJ to answer the on-call phone every fifteen minutes. Blurgh). Sara's husband, father, son, Sara and I all loaded into the family Prius and set off towards the Mesa.

The Grand Mesa is located just 40 miles away from Grand Junction and happens to be the largest flat-topped mountain in the world. It's positively riddled with gorgeous glacier lakes and even more funky looking shrooms.

This is the Lacterius mushroom. To know that it's Lacterius and not some manner of shroom that causes instant death/fairy sightings, you bruise a few of the gills. 

 "There are four problems edible mushrooms can have," Sara explained.  "One, they're too small. Two, they're impossible to clean. Three, they're infested with bugs. Four, they're too delicate and have to be eaten right away."

If the gills turn green after a few minutes, you know you grabbed a tasty/non-lethal mushroom and should most definitely take it home to fry in Kerry Gold butter. But only after you remove all the worms, which is the primary problem of the lacterius mushroom. 

This is a variety of Russula. There are two different types that grow on the Mesa -- Russula Emetica and Russula xerampelina. The first makes you tremendously ill. The second is the kind to take home and fry in Kerry Gold butter. To make a more educated guess as to whether or not you should take this mushroom home, Sara recommends placing a tiny piece on your tongue. Chew a little. Spit that shit out. Wait a few seconds. If your mouth begins to feel inexplicably peppery, then you should definitely not take this mushroom home to fry in Kerry Gold butter (unless you're in the mood for some vomiting and diarrhea).  

Hawks Wing. These are mostly edible, but some people have horrible reactions to them (more of that vomiting/diarrhea business). As I wasn't in the mood to test whether or not I'd be one of the few with reactions to Hawks Wing (I had enough of that vomiting/diarrhea business in Guatemala), I decided to not take the mushrooms home to fry in Kerry Gold butter. 

The underside of a Hawks Wing. I forgot the scientific word for it, but it looks like a rich person's carpet 

other names for this unique mushroom include: scaly urchin and shingled hedgehog. 

A coral mushroom. It's not recommended to take these home (to fry in Kerry Gold butter) because they have many poisonous look-alikes. They also are known to be natural diuretics (which is a nicer way of saying that they too give you diarrhea). 

This is a variety of amanitas. It is both hallucinogenic and fatal. Best not fried in Kerry Gold butter. 

One of my favorite parts about this hike (along with the company and the scenery), was that the mushrooms were everywhere. The five of us just sauntered along an easy trail and plucked friable mushrooms that grew by our feet. There was hardly any exertion involved, no frustration about not finding anything, and no old, optimistic and off-key Italian guy hitting on me with his original music.

There were also chanterelles.

Sara promptly swore me to secrecy regarding the location of her fungi delectables. Chanterelles are a unique breed because they come back in the same patch every year. So if you find yourself a patch of these golden goodies, you've found yourself a gold mine.

Sara and her family have found a veritable treasure trove.

We headed back early afternoon, stopping at a cafe en route to purchase goodies like espresso brownies and sweet potato fries.

worst. threat. ever. 

Days like Sunday help to ameliorate the anxiety I feel whenever in Grand Junction. Days like Sunday and weekends with Boy are the things that keep me in a happy state of mind whilst in an unhappy place, geographically.

I'm doing my best to continue looking for things that fulfill me in the present and contribute to a future spent with Boy. But I'm not seeing a whole lot of options. And it sucks. It hurts. It's awful to think I'll have to compromise the promise I made to myself in 2012.

"Aimee, you are never again going to sacrifice your present for your future. Because the future doesn't exist. It's not a real thing."

I'm still looking for ways around the compromise, but I'm losing my optimism (unlike the tone-deaf Italians).

At least I have my weekends with Boy and days like Sunday. Let that be enough for now. And wait. Patiently and attentively. Wait to see what life unfolds. 

Introducing Mrs. Peterson -- Grand Junction, CO

It's Tuesday morning.

I'm sitting in my favorite window-seat couch at Main Street Bagels. I developed an extra sense of fondness for this cafe because whilst I was waiting for a friend yesterday, one of the baristas approached me and said, "I have a dream." 

"Excuse me?" 

"I have a dream. Of someday working a job where I can wear comfortable pants like those all the time." 

"I have a commitment to never work a job where I can't wear pants like this." 

"Stay strong." 

"Okay." 

A fellow with long, grey hair and a voice that carries throughout the entire cafe sits across from me, chatting with another elderly fellow about politics. His name is Bruce. I know this because a) he's here every morning, rain or shine, and b) he once gave me his business card (printed on a piece of 8" by 11" and then cut to size) and told me he was running for president. 

We haven't talked so much since then. 

The weather outside is grey and windy -- my absolute favorite kind of weather (this is why Ireland and I get along so smashingly). Boy sits with an... err... "homie" and sips his coffee, probably wishing it would start raining (his absolute favorite kind of weather. This is why Boy and Ireland will get along so smashingly). 

I'm beginning to settle into Grand Junction. On the one hand, it's tremendously convenient to know that Cabela's in the place to buy pecan wood chips for smoking my bacon and pork intestines for my sausage... but on the other hand... 

Grand Junction. 

I'm beginning to (slowly) settle into my temporary job at The House, and have even discovered a solution to my bank account dilemma.  I'll either cash my checks or send the money directly into Boy's account -- so this hippie doesn't need to open up a bank account at all (win!). Working with the teens has been challenging and rewarding, carrying a functional phone has been challenging, and being a part of this kind or organization has been rewarding. 

Rewarding and a wee bit melancholy. I'm discovering that there's a tangible difference between being a temporary volunteer in a place wherein everyone else is temporary and being a temporary employee wherein everyone else is around for some manner of "the long haul." I don't know how to put this difference into words... but there's a sense of isolation and sadness, regardless of how warm and appreciative everyone around me is, all the time. 

I'm leaving in a month. I'm here to help out, to fill a gap, but not to stay. Which is great and I feel all kinds of honored that I've been welcomed into this space... but sometimes... 

Sometimes filling gaps can be a melancholy pastime. 

It's also frustrating to know that once the learning curve has been (somewhat) conquered, I don't get to enjoy any sort of "I KNOW HOW THIS JOB WORKS!" thrill. I make a mistake and I don't get the comfort of thinking, "Welp, won't make that mistake next time..." because there most likely won't be a next time. When I'm traveling, this usually works out just fine, as most of my volunteer work is designed with this idea in mind and the community is one of vagabonds like myself. However, a job like teen coach at The House is very relationship oriented, so it attracts a community of committers. 

Which I haven't been (in the job world, at least) for a very long time. 

But no matter how confusing and over-my-head a goodly portion of my life happens to be, Tuesday night dinner is always a safe, happy place. 

a red pepper sauce with a risotto cake, shrimp cooked in beurre monte and topped with honey sautéed pears

some sort of pea magic, mussels, and  potato/celery root cake with cod atop. 

 Boy and Girl had an epic week, as far as adventures go. Thursday was date night, and for once in the history of Boy/Girl dates, Girl actually knew what was going on. This is because Boy wanted to take Girl up Mount Garfield, and knew that Girl wasn't particularly fond of this particular Mount. There was a poorly planned family hike back when Girl was seventeen wherein the Bourget seven attempted to ascend Mister Garfield without any water, on a swelteringly hot day (in the middle of the afternoon) and with no hiking shoes.

"Have you ever hiked Garfield?" Boy probably asked Girl seven months ago.

"I hiked the stupid part," Girl probably answered Boy about seven months ago.

The stupid part of Mount Garfield is the first quarter of the hike. It's the stupid part because the elevation gain is practically one foot forward, one foot UP. And continues at this rate for eons. Under some circumstances, I can appreciate the stupid part of hikes -- if a) they don't last forever and b) there are pretty things to look at.

Neither of these apply to the stupid part of Mister Garfield. It is cruelly and unusually long and is just a sort of smoothed out area at the top of a significantly less romantic "AAAS YOOOUUUU WIIIIIIISH" type mountain. So you spend the whole ascent feeling slightly suicidal (because every part of you hurts and the pain never seems to end) and knowing that should you slip upon the loose dirt, you'd tumble, helter-skelter down the side of the mountain. And since you're neither the Dread Pirate Roberts, Wesley, or in a Hollywood film, the chances of your survival are very slim indeed.

"What if we hiked Garfield -- " Boy started to ask girl about seven days ago.

"No," Girl answered Boy about seven days ago.

"I'm not finished," Boy persisted. "What if we hiked Garfield Thursday afternoon, had a picnic at the top, watched the sunset, slept under the stars, watched the sunrise and then hiked back Friday morning?"

Picnic... sunset... stars...sunrise...DAMN, Boy knows how to get me. 

"Okay. Let's do Mister Garfield."

After we'd both finished work on Thursday, we finished packing our toothbrushes and loaded our bags full of cheese, cured meat goodness, chocolate, apples and wine into Cummerbund. Then we sped off to Palisade.

Last week we were sleeping in a nice hotel, lazing away in the hot tub and tasting wine. This week we're hiking a mountain and sleeping outside. The only carry-over is the wine. Which will always and forever carry-over. 

We started hiking at about six o'clock pm. I started dying at about six o'one.

WHY DID I SAY YES?

Boy was very patient and encouraging to his dying girlfriend. I stumbled and slipped and cursed and spent ages sitting in the shade of giant boulders and drank pretty much all our water within the first fifteen minutes. All Boy would say was, "You're doing great. You're killing this thing."

Which was comforting and sweet and all that jazz, but a goddamn perjury.

"No," I wheezed and demanded Boy's nalgene. "Garfield is killing me."

About halfway through the stupid part, I began to wonder why I hadn't sprouted wings. It had certainly taken long enough for me to evolve something that would help me better adapt to my environment.

This is why we have birds. Lizards got fucking tired of walking up the stupid part of places like Garfield.

After about an hour and a half of colorful cursing, growling and grunting later, we arrived at the top.

And I immediately fell into a hole and put a nasty gash into my shin. It hurt like hell, but I didn't want to whine about it and ruin the upcoming picnic.

"Proof that I made it to the top of Mister Garfield."

Lizards who got fucking tired of walking up the stupid part. 

The picnic itself was sublime, but the sunset was somewhat muted -- as there was a mountain of clouds in the way. Boy was slightly disappointed about the sunset (or lack thereof) and disturbed by the gash in my leg, but I was still too tired/proud of myself to feel any other emotions.

The night was horrible. We had only one sleeping pad at our disposal, and although Boy and Girl are perfectly capable of cuddling the whole night through, sharing a sleeping pad was outside of even their cuddling capabilities.

Boy and Girl slept nary a wink. It was just an interminable rest atop a hard, prickly surface with lots of wind. And bugs. Crawling into respective pants.

I've hardly ever been so happy to see the sunrise.

We quickly packed the sleeping bags and pad (it is with great regret that I do not write "pads"), and hustled down Garfield.

Boy was a very hurried hustler. He had bookclub and coffee in his near future, so was desperate to get down to Cummerbund.

But I didn't want to miss the sunrise.

"I'm never going to see the sunrise from the top of Garfield again," I snapped seventeen photos of the same clouds.

"AS YOU WISH" mountains

We went home immediately and took a nap (I'd taken so many pictures that Boy missed his bookclub).

I don't remember the rest of Friday. It was a blur of "I'm exhausted, everything hurts, another nap?"

The only thing that comes to mind is that we returned to Palisade for wine and gluten-free pizza and yet another sunset.

And Saturday morning, Boy and Girl packed Ellie (two pads, this time) and headed off to Aspen to hike Conundrum.

When we finally arrived, we discovered that everyone else in the area had arrived first.

The parking lot was packed. 

I hope there are campsites available...

If Cummerbund weren't the size of a small pony, we would have had to walk back down the mountain  to park, and then schlep our bags back up to the trailhead.

Luckily for Boy and Girl, Cummerbund is, in fact, the size of a small pony.

 
I'd hiked Conundrum with my family years and years ago. Years and years ago, bear canisters were not required for overnight hikers.

Now they are.

"Fuck," I exhaled. "We don't have one. And we can be fined if we're caught without a canister. How about... how about we just take the food that we need for today, eat it all before bed and then make it back down the mountain for breakfast tomorrow. That way if a ranger catches us, we can just tell them -- honestly -- that we don't have a canister because we don't have any food. What do you think?"

"Seems like our best option."

We. Are going to be so hungry tomorrow. 

Conundrum Creek is a 17 mile round-trip hike located just outside of Aspen, and is very close to Castle Peak.

Castle Peak is where Doctor George King went (way back when) to channel positive alien energy from Master Aetherius into the earth. Unfortunately, no aliens were spotted during our weekend jaunt. Only high, naked hippies with guitars.

Boy was so excited to drink mountain water that he stopped at just about every stream we crossed (there were many) to take a drink. I waited about an hour to make sure that he wouldn't die or start spurting diarrhea/projectile vomiting before I also drank out of the mountain streams.

Guatemala and Mexico have just made me slightly more cautious when it comes to water sources.

Being in nature with Boy is always delightful because his childhood birder emerges.

"Look, it's a something-something-something jay!"

"Look, it's a something-something-someting tit!"

"Look, it's a --"

We stopped for our first picnic of the day about an hour and a half into the hike.

This is kind of exactly opposite of Mister Garfield. Garfield was short, painful and there was nothing pretty to look at until the top. Conundrum climbs about 3000 feet in eight and a half miles and has pretty happening everywhere. 

Finally, a good four and a half hours after we'd started our trek, we arrived at the camping area for those not lucky enough to get to the real campsites in time.

And we set up Mrs. Peterson.

Our first time setting up our first home. It was a moment. We were very proud of ourselves. 

 After we'd deposited Ellie, we continued on up to a natural hot spring, a spectacular feature at the end of the hike.

As everything had been hurting since Thursday (thanks, Mister Garfield), the hot spring felt positively luxurious. And it was Boy's first time of all time ever actually in a hot spring, so it was also fantastic to be able to share an experience like that with him.

I could have done without the large group of people to our left who insisted on animatedly reading a lurid sex book aloud for like, half an hour.

Our first night in Mrs. Peterson was markedly better than our dismal ordeal under the stars on Garfield.

(sleeping under the stars isn't romantic at all for me. Mostly because my eyes are so bad that as soon as I remove my contacts, I can't see a damn thing).

We've discovered many things during our two nights of camping together in the... err... wilderness. Things that seem absolutely common sense to anyone with any... well... common sense, but require adamant knocking into my nonsensical skull.

Next time we camp together we will do the following:

a) always have two pads. It is neither romantic nor doable to share a sleeping pad. It is uncomfortable and ridiculous to share a sleeping pad.

b) um. First aid. Bandaids are good. Antiseptic is also sometimes nice. This seems like a no-brainer, but during my three + years of travel, I've never once carried or used a first aid kit (just like that mini-sewing kit that remained unused in my bag for the longest time). So I didn't even think about it when we packed our bags. And then Boy and I both cut our thumbs with a butter knife, and greatly regretted not having bandaids.

c) work on getting a sleeping bag for couples. Putting one sleeping bag down atop the pads and the other on top of us is not any kind of long-term solution. Troy moves one millimeter and steals the whole sleeping bag from me. Bugs sneak in and throw a party in my leg hair, half of my body freezes (where Boy stole the blanket) and the other half is a zillion degrees ('cos Boy is a zillion degrees).

d) a tarp. Tessa bought our tarp, Judy, so she took Judy with her to France when we'd finished hitching through Eastern Europe. Boy and I need our own Judy. Upon which we can have picnics, place our tent (Mrs. Peterson), and take naps when the ground itself is wet/teeming with insects.

e) gloves. Always bring gloves. You never know when you'll need gloves. Like, on a hike at the end of summer when you're packing up your tent and your fingers get bloody frozen from the moisture on the tent.

When it started to get light the next morning, I jostled Boy awake.

"Do you still want to go to the spring?"

"Of course."

So Boy and I scampered out of the campground and speed-hiked through the brisk morning air about 15 minutes up a mountain to the spring.

Which we had mostly to ourselves. Ourselves, a park ranger, and all the trash last night's partiers had left behind.

"It's usually even worse than this on a weekend," the ranger commented as she toweled off and got ready to wake up her companions for breakfast. "But I hope they come back up to collect some of it..."

I can't understand how people would come to a place as beautiful and as serene as this and somehow think it's okay to leave their crap everywhere. Regardless of how drunk they are. 

My stomach grumbled.

Damn. All our food is about 8.5 miles away. 

Boy and I packed up Mrs. Peterson and company (pads and bags) in approximately no time. Mostly because our fingers were completely frozen, so we just stuffed things into Ellie and not into their respective stuff sacks.

Whoever designed the stuff sack did not take into account frozen fingers. 

We hit the trail at 8:00. Since I had carried Ellie up the mountain, Boy carried Ellie down. He also carried the camera.

I've been trying to get Boy to take photos for ages, but Boy has always been reluctant to accept the onus of my camera. This is because Boy studied photography in school and has only just started going on adventures without a camera swinging from his neck, taking him out of the present.

"Why do you want me to take pictures?" Boy had asked during the hike in.

"Because... because I want to see how you see things. I think that photography is such an incredibly intimate way of seeing the world through someone else's eyes. And I'd like to look back at our adventures and be able to see the things you noticed. What stuck out to you. What was special to you."

So Boy took the photos on the hike out.

The hike out was frigid, dark and wet (lots of streams to ford). I booked it. Boy was very impressed.

"We have four things helping our time on the way back," I huffed. "I'm freezing, we're both hungry, it's mostly downhill, and you're carrying the camera. So we won't spend nearly as much time waiting for me to take seven hundred photographs of the same flower."

finding sunshine 

It took us three and a half hours to make it back to the car. We drove out of the parking lot to make room for all the desperate Sunday hikers and then gorged ourselves on yogurt, nuts and french toast.

My legs still hurt, I'm still recovering from all that lost sleep and the gash on my shin is looking pretty gnarly, but I could have weekend adventures like this all the time. 

All the time. 

Okay, Boy? 

(the wine can carry-over)