Downhill from Colorado

In the Paradise Valley north of Yellowstone

Lingering north of the entrance into Yellowstone National Park for another night, we drove downstream for a few miles along the Yellowstone River and turned off into the hills where the road dead ends at Chico Hot Springs Resort. The water of the springs come naturally flowing from deep in the earth, heated and laden with minerals that seem to sooth the body. It is as if, while soaking in hot springs, you are immersed in the blood of mother earth herself.

Chico is a resort. The two pools are built to hold the water—one large and 96 degrees and one smaller and hotter at 103 degrees. An appealing, older western resort infrastructure is there for guest’s enjoyment. A main lodge with a large stone fireplace and an elk mount that towers over a door, guest cabins with flower baskets and covered porches, a saloon with warped floors and a walk-up drink window, a horse stable, and a couple of restaurants. We stayed until closing time, repeatedly jumping into the deep end of the pool under the star-filled sky while Bella perfected her no-nose-hold plunge. I took a few dips in the hot pool while Bella lingered close by in the large pool. We left relaxed and ready for a day of hiking in Yellowstone.

A day, of course, is too little time to see Yellowstone. But still, in twelve hours, if one limits the driving and gets out and walks, amazing sites can be seen. Finding the right amount of walking for a seven-year old, while balancing a healthy amount of sightseeing was my goal.

The boardwalks and trails around the sublimely colored Mammoth Hot Springs gave us our first walk on that sunny summer day. No soaking in these babies! The terraced collection of steaming water provided a wonderful display of precipitated minerals in crystalline shades of white to beige to a darker brown. The dripping, gently cascading water was a soothing introduction to some of the thermal features of Yellowstone. Other features might be more easily associated with visions of Hell; these were more angelic in their white, misty effervescence.

As the summer sun began heating the day, we decided that 10:30 wasn’t too early for ice cream, so we each picked a preferred flavor from the freezer and cooled our mouths.  The ice truck pulled up and we took a block of ice for our cooler from the portly truck driver who was delivering a fresh, frozen supply to this outpost in the Rocky Mountains. We continued on the road to rejoin the path of the Yellowstone River as it cut its path through the ridges and plateaus of this wild country.

The Falls of the Yellowstone

Pullouts along the road gave opportunities to view the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. The river was over a thousand feet below us. The signature yellow colored volcanic rock stretched up from the river.  Pictures of the iconic Lower Falls of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone had been calling me for years. Bella and I pulled into a parking lot, made our stop in the restroom (Bella always made sure we had an assigned meeting place outside the bathroom and she gave me a little ribbing if I deviated from that spot to look at something else), and headed down the trail for a short walk along the rim. The deep canyon walls dropped off through the shady lodgepole pine canopy, giving the sense of walking above a giant gash of earth. Soon overlooks to the great fall’s majesty appeared and we moved in with the other tourists to get our view of the large wall of white water pouring over the cliff.

The Yellowstone River above the falls is placid and meandering, wide and wild. It flows through the open Hayden Valley with its low scrub and expansive, views of an ecologically intact large mountain valley. Buffalo and other ungulates roam across the valley along with their predators. Driving, I timed my approach over a crest in the road to coincide with the passing of some buffalo. Bella awoke to the hairy beasts that appeared bigger than my Honda Civic and capable of rolling it.

The Yellowstone River in the Hayden Valley

Earlier, as she napped, I pulled over to a small pullout above the river. I got out and walked down a ways below the road grade so that all I saw was the wild expanse of the valley with its smooth ox-bowed river stretching for miles, with nary a breeze to rustle the smooth, cool water. An elk stood in the far distance by the river and buffalo dotted the valley as it rose to the far, encasing hills. The silver-green of low sagebrush mingled with colorful displays of wildflowers on the ground where I sat. The sun shone amidst high clouds and there was a gentle warmth that permeated the afternoon; the temperature was in the mid 70s with low humidity. The surrounding nature created in me a serene feeling of peace.

The Mud Volcano, the Sulfur Cauldron, and the gas-belching Dragon’s Mouth provided us with a chance to see some more of the geologic wonders of the park. Bella noticed a Buffalo not too far off the trail. When I asked if she wanted to go closer to see it, she replied “Oh no, I’m not going over there, I’m self-conscious of my body.” Meaning that she has a particular awareness and consciousness of the breakable nature of the human body; I think she has not so much a fear of physical engagement, but an understanding of the body’s limitations and its relation to the big, hard world.

Storm Point

After a stop in the Fishing Bridge’s museum and gift shop situated in a fine old log building under the pines on the shore of Yellowstone lake, I planned one more walk for us. A two and a half mile loop walk out to Storm Point on Yellowstone Lake seemed like it would fit my plans. This walk would be the first one recorded in my new hiker’s journal that I purchased at the gift shop. As we ducked into the forest of lodgepole pine from the sage flats, we crossed a bridge over a small creek. There is something about bridges that have always intrigued Bella. “I don’t know what it is,” she says, “but I’ve always liked the way a bridge crosses over a river.”  And she enjoyed the crossing of this small wooden bridge in the forest. Storm Point is a beautiful jutting of rocks into the lake with views all the way to the Tetons. As dusk approached, we reentered the forest and the mosquitoes moved in. A couple hiking passed us, and Bella picked up her pace after they went by. Once out of the forest, the mosquitoes abated and I paused for a few flower pictures in the soft light. Bella chided me and told me to hurry up. Clearly she has some good walking stamina. We walked around seven miles that day.

I made a quick dinner below Sylvan Pass and we moved on passing pretty Forest service campsites along the river of the narrow valley as we descended to Cody. I wanted to get as far as we could that evening to make the drive to Colorado more reasonable for the next day. We were to meet my wife who was flying into Denver and meeting us in the mountains.

Outside of the historic mining town of Leadville, which lies at 10,000 feet in elevation, below the tallest peaks in Colorado, my friends Jeff and Lisa have a plot of land on the headwaters of the Arkansas River they’ve called their home. A path from their house leads down through the willows to the beaver ponds where eight-inch brook trout eagerly take your flys. The steep, pine-covered slopes above the valley rise to the sky. Down valley, Mount Elbert, Colorado’s highest peak rises pyramid-like, alongside the widespread bulk of Mount Massive. Up valley are Climax Pass and the big Climax molybdenum mine site. On the other side of the high pass is Copper Mountain with its well-cut, long ski runs descending from the above timberline bowls down through the forests of pine. I had made many a run with Jeff on those slopes in winters past.

Boom Days in Leadville

It was the big summer weekend for Leadville: Boom Days celebrated the town’s mining heritage. We went into town for the parade. People in period costumes walked down the street. Women in silky, slinky dresses strutted and men in frontier work clothes with loud guns fired off blank rounds of explosions. The well-preserved and fully occupied building fronts provided an authentic backdrop of western past to the parade. Leadville was once one of the most prosperous towns in the west, hauling out tons of silver and gold. Appropriately elaborate multi-story brick buildings were built and even an opera house, which is partially restored. We ate the typical carnival food like sausages and the fried dough with sugar sprinkled on top called elephant ears. We took in some mining skill competitions and strolled through the booths. Bella, courtesy of the childless but child-loving Lisa acquired an intriguing kachina-like doll.

Porcinis

One of the charms of summer for me in the northern tier of the United States is the wonderful produce that appears on the plains, on the mountains, and in the markets. In Northwest Montana I quickly bought the local Flathead Cherries that ripen in the orchards around the large and deep Flathead Lake in July. I munched the plump, purple huckleberries as I rode up Big Mountain on my bike—the branches of the bushes hung temptingly close the trail as I slowly made my way up. I bought the succulent Colorado Peaches (that thankfully make their way to Minnesota too). And as Jeff and I walked down from St. Keevan’s lake, we collected porcini and chanterelle mushrooms. Jeff has been harvesting these mushrooms for many years in the mountains around Leadville. This moist summer meant a good crop. We noticed some other species that often grow with the edible mushrooms. So on the way down, with his expertise we took some time to gather the forest delicacies in mesh mushroom sacks that he carried with. The ‘shrooms filled our bags, unlike the wily, tentative trout cruising the shores of Kevan. A chanterelle omelet filled with the rich, earthy taste of the mountains was my reward the next morning and a cream of porcini soup provided a first course for our dinner that eveining.

Jeff, just below Keevan, looking out to the Leadville Valley

Bella and I traversed the mountains in another mode the next day: via horseback. We went upon our gentle but seemingly hungry horses up into the San Isabel National forest with our guide in the morning, before the rains began. Up we went and shortly we were in the enchanting, extensive glades of aspen that cover large swaths of mountainside. Those pure stands of aspens, which are often just thousands of shoots of the same individual plant, encompass you and you feel particularly immersed in nature, at home in an ecosystem that has lived for thousands of years. Up the path wound and we sometimes pushed off the trees, though the horses knew to avoid them. We passed through high meadows with big, long views across the valley to the fourteeners (as the peaks above 14,000 feet are called in Colorado) of Mt. Massive and Elbert. We went through the pines too on our trusty steeds, Intrepid for me and Buddy for Bella. Bella got an inadvertent  little taste of a trot down low on the trail when Buddy decided to catch up with us after a long munch break. She rode it out in style.

On to the next hot spring we went, Hot Sulfur Springs in the town of the same name, along the headwaters to the Colorado River. The many splendid pools at the small resort left a wonderful smoothness upon your skin and one’s body felt good with the hot, soaking waters which seemed to permeate into your very bones and sinews.

We needed to get on and up to Grand Lake Lodge where my friend was running the kitchen in a reopened historic lodge above the pretty waters of Grand Lake and just outside the western entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park. The blight that’s left many of the lodgepole pines dead was very evident upon the mountainsides—acres of the brown, rusty pines still stood blotchy upon partially green mountainsides. But from the deck of the old historic lodge, all was fine, the grass was green, the pool was aquamarine, and the lakes below reflected the high clouds and blue sky.

Grand Lake Lodge

He had a cabin waiting for us, complements of the vivacious and friendly owner. The next morning, my wife went back over the 11,000-foot Berthod Pass and down to Denver for her flight home. But we went on a walk up a creek and picked handfuls of wild strawberries, ate on the deck, and swam in the pool.

The rain never came that day and the clouds dissipated revealing the starry, starry sky. Occasional shooting stars arising from the Perseid meteor shower streaked across the sky. The big fire pit was calling for a burn. Everyone was gone from the lodge except the kitchen staff and grounds crew. Bella slept and Mike and I went down past the empty but grand buildings to the terrace and began the fire. Soon four workers arrived chattering and clanking their beer bottles, which would later spill like bowling pins in the dark night. A young man brought his guitar out and strummed and sang his songs. I accompanied him on my drum and we all hummed when we could to a soft, lovely Beatles ballad.

The fire pit was on a terrace with the backside dropping down a few feet—a potential danger amid dark revelry. As I negotiated the rocks by the fire pit, I suddenly found myself dropping two feet down and off the terrace of the fire pit, but on my feet and standing, a bit embarrassed I’d not remembered the warnings of my friend.

The marshmallows came out and the s’more fixings of chocolate and graham crackers were prepared and laid out for the toasted marshmallows. The young man who was deaf and now hears because of an ocular implant that goes directly to his brain, spoke eloquently with hardly an accent about the deaf world and how he is in between the hearing and deaf worlds.  He took control of the fire, bid the singer to sing his sweet song, and he roasted the most perfectly golden, gooey marshmallows that slid onto the chocolate-laden sweet cracker. And we ate the summer time campfire treat in the cool night air while the young adults fell in with the primal allure of a campfire in the night, with beer and friends.

I had stretched out this trip as long as I could. It was tough to leave, but the drive through Rocky Mountain National Park would be a pretty one. The visitor centers in the National Parks are often interesting places (though they shouldn’t replace the outdoor world of the parks). We usually always learned something new and the displays were intriguing for Bella. We stopped at the stone and wood Kawuneeche Visitor Center above Grand Lake on the west side before we proceeded. Up we wound on “the highest continuous paved road in the U.S.,” which topped out at over 12,000 feet. We stopped at Hidden Valley for lunch and a short stroll at this former spot of a ski area (due to changing climate, it no longer receives enough snow and one can hardly see that it was a ski area). The pines were thick at the base of the valley, gradually fading out high up at timberline in this classically shaped, large alpine bowl.

On the far eastern side of the park, elk served as sentinels as we approached the popular, pretty, small, touristy town of Estes Park. The “park” in Rocky Mountain parlance refers to a sparsely treed, relatively flat opening in the mountains; something like a small valley. The stores and lodges were aesthetically constructed amidst the tall pines, rock outcrops, and roaring stream that ran through town. We had some final shopping to do and you can get about everything you might want here. Bella was quite taken by the place and declared she just might live here some day.

In Estes Park

After a long, winding drive through a canyon along a river, we emerged on the dusty, hot Front Range and the beginning of the high plains with roads lined by strip malls. I drove as far as I could down two-lane roads through the starry, milky way-streaked night where shooting stars were as common as cars. By 3 AM I was spent and we pulled into a rest stop. I had a surprisingly restful 5 hours of sleep in the front seat of the Honda.

I made some coffee and ate some yogurt and we were on our way again. We finished up another audio book about princesses and dragons and we were in Minnesota at the edge of the big woods. Oak trees grow tall and green; more water is present. The clouds formed strange dark and light layers in the sky and the world was green below as we drove across the center of the state to return Bella to her mother after their longest separation. Everyone was fine.

Back on the Plains

I continued another two and a half hours home. I was being picked up at ten the next morning for a seven hour drive to a campsite that would be my base for a couple of Phish concerts. My road tripping skills were honed; the turnaround would be no problem. The trip meter read 4000 miles with eighty hours of driving time by the time I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment.

Travels in the West II

After a week in the friendly, home-like ambiance of Whitefish, the rafting and chairlift riding and alpine sliding and swimming, we left south down the Rockies for places known and unknown. A one-day drive to Yellowstone turned into two as the lure of hot springs and culture intervened in our arrival at the granddaddy of National Parks.

Above Garnett with the ghosts

For culture we detoured through Garnett Ghost Town where well-preserved buildings hastily abandoned in the high mountains above the Clark’s Fork River provided us with a rich sense of the past along with a scenic, winding drive and pleasant, forested trails. Once at the parking area, we walked down the trail, below the sparse, park-like stand of pines and into the former mining town. We walked up to the third floor of the hotel, still solidly standing. Bella was a bit creeped out by the old furniture still sitting about in the hotel with no guests. An array of small houses and workshops with their little stories of newlyweds and hastily abandoned cats were spread about the now grassy town site. A small forest service-run gift shop in the old tavern provided Bella with a digging kit for fool’s gold, which she eagerly looked forward to excavating. Just for kicks we walked off into the forest down a trail towards a meadow before we had a meal on a picnic table and journeyed on down the dirt road through a steep gully back to the Clark’s Fork and the Interstate.

In standard fashion, we arrived in Bozeman after dark for a stay at the KOA and hot springs there. The campgrounds pool was closed for the night (though not the neighboring pay-per-use hot springs). We read some Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and went to sleep with a big wind howling through the trees. The next morning we awoke to beautiful sunshine and calm air. We were the first ones in the pool at ten AM. At KOAs, tent sites have a low demand (unlike the RV sites), so the management didn’t mind that we overstayed checkout time to swim and frolic.

Dinosaur cowboys in Bozeman

The Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman had been at the back of my mind as a potential stop on our trip. When I mentioned its top-notch collection of dinosaur fossils, Bella was quite enthused. So another cultural stop was made. The dinosaur fossils and reconstructions, many of them found in surrounding fossil beds in Montana, where truly impressive—big, complete skeletons and a number of colorful, full size, recreated models. Those, and the kid’s play area were big hits for Bella.

Camp in the Paradise Valley below Immigrant Peak

As we aimed for the northwest entrance to Yellowstone at Gardiner and Mammoth Hot Springs, we drove through the aptly named Paradise Valley of the Yellowstone River, south of Livingston, Montana. Amazingly, we made camp well before sunset, below Emigrant Peak on the shores of little Daley Lake at a little used state recreation area. And not so amazingly, another hot springs was twenty miles away.

One of my little quirks or passions, if I get to a campsite at a reasonable time, is to head off on a cross-country walk, ideally in some sort of loop. A small ridge above the lake provided this opportunity. I told Bella, “OK, our goal is to walk up to that ridge and walk along it for awhile.” She assented, and we were off. Before long we came upon prickly pear cactuses, which found a home in this dryer, sparsely treed valley below the pine slopes and big, jagged buff peaks of the Absaroka Range. Bella was utterly amazed that we should encounter cactuses on our travels. We talked about where and how they grow and she insisted we dissect one or two, which we did.

Sage, lupine, and larkspur under the big sky

The low moisture high valleys below the big mountains also are ideal terrain for sagebrush. I’d been collecting boughs of it to bring back with me to the Midwest for incense. A couple of times on the trip we’d been driving through a high, sage-covered valley when rain came down. The ensuing smell of sage after a rain is brilliant and invigorating with its sharp green citrus tones, as if the sage was celebrating the infrequent rains of its biological niche. The frosted, pale green color of sage has its own visual allure. Often at this time of year in mid-summer, lavender or purple flower spikes of lupine would be mixed in to the fields of sage, creating a beautiful pastel palette of ground cover. Or perhaps the bright red Indian paintbrush might dab its color in, along with the round yellow petals of cinquefoil. This relatively moist summer meant many lovely displays of wild flowers; from the blue, close to the ground gentians and yellow carpets of glacier lilies just emerged after the receding snow on Logan Pass in Glacier, to the large, delicate columbines and purple asters in the high country of Colorado.

The sky too, provided beautiful contrasts to the Rocky Mountain landscape. Montana’s nickname of “the big sky state” is fitting. The large valleys and scattered mountain ranges mean sweeping, distant vistas and with its sparsely populated and built upon landscape you get the feeling of being under the dome of heaven. The big valleys sometimes held in mists and slight hazes, coloring the blue to gentle paleness. Traveling through Colorado, the sky seemed a deeper, rich blue, contrasting with the dark clouds that scudded and swirled about the abrupt, pine-sloped peaks that jutted rocky and bald into the sky.

Travels in the West I

In the West

 

Hand in hand--Logan Pass, Glacier, late July

 

It took a couple of days before the summer rains appeared, but when they did they were heralded by the heavy rumbling of thunder and big streaks of brilliant lightning. We left the heat of the Midwest behind when we finally crossed over into Montana at dusk. From the vantage point of small rest stop on a hill, a couple blocks off the Interstate above the small town of Wibaux, on a Beaver Creek, the ruby sunset clouds glowed above rocky hills. Far off in the distant Montana sky giant steaks of lightning shot down from the sky; but where we were it was dry.

I decided to keep on pushing on despite the approaching dark to get closer to Glacier National Park. The dark closed in and there seemed to be nothing but ranch lands. A small town called Circle, on Highway 200S, along the Redwater River, behind the Sheep mountains, and at the terminus of a rail line, promised a refill of the gas tank. Fortunately there was one store open at 10:30, because the two other stations in town didn’t have credit card readers for their gas pumps. I asked the station attendant if she knew where we could camp. She directed me down to the edge of town to a big city park with grass, small trees, a picnic shelter and bathrooms. It wasn’t the last night we made a late camp, but we had full days. I left the rain fly of the tent off to see the night sky, but as has happened in the past, early morning rain led me to a quick placement of the rain fly.

The Rocky Mountain Monsoon was on and it rained a bit every day for the next two weeks. But storms were brief and finally as the nineteen day-trip wound down by the pool of Grand Lake Lodge on a mountainside terrace above town and alpine lakes, just outside Rocky Mountain National Park, the sun kept its vigil and the night skies were clear. The immense, Milky Way-streaked sky shown above the huge bonfire pit of the lodge and the shooting stars traced their burning streaks across the sky where the mountain peaks pushed into the dreamy, dark sky. Some nights, distant flashes of lightning lit the night sky while we remained secure in the twilight below tall pines. Such were two nights at Round Prairie Farms when Bella and I and Jerry and his son Aidan (one week older than Bella and playmates from a previous trip four years ago) lingered on the trampoline past a normal bedtime of a child’s and early rising, working Dad’s. But so things happen in the gentle summer nights when even the long days of the northern latitude don’t seem long enough to take in the brief summer pleasures.

Public radio comes in almost anywhere you are in the west. So I listened to it on occasion. But still vacation is a time when I drop out of the affairs of the world—life and death, peace and war, winning and losing. A few CDs got played and we listened to books on tape: Dragons and princesses and Willy Wonka. I brought Robert Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in book form and on tape read by Eric Idle. We listened to it on the drive and I read it to Bella at night. Bella eventually requested not to listen to it because she would rather have me read it to her. Knowing you can beat out Eric Idle for your daughter’s attention made me feel good. Bella did a little movie viewing, we planned out her eighth birthday party, and we found out facts about different states. She asked the time and when we would be to a certain place; but it was in the spirit of inquiry and establishing her perception of time passage, not a sense of impatience. A lot of the time Bella sang songs and I listened to my daughter’s sweet child voice as the scenery of the high plains and Rocky Mountains passed by the open windows of my small ’93 Honda Civic with bikes on top.

We heard on the radio that a tornado killed a couple of people a hundred miles north of us that night. Later in the trip, the radio also told us a couple of escaped convicts had been captured two days after we left the small town of Meeteetse where we spent eight hours camping after leaving Yellowstone. But we had Bella’s lucky rabbit’s foot purchased in the general store in North Dakota beside the world’s largest buffalo (and with a real white buffalo grazing somewhere in the distance—a sign of the peaceful union of the peoples of the earth). Bella thought she was lucky enough already having a father who was going to take her to Colorado. That black cat who crossed our path in Wibaux didn’t seem to matter.

Bella at Logan Pass w/ glacier lilies

We’ve been to three National Parks and three hot springs on this trip. I’m happy to see my daughter enjoys the pleasures of both hot springs and the parks. I’m not sure, she might enjoy the hot springs more than the mountainous sights of the Rocky Mountains themselves. But fortunately, they are in close proximity to each other among the geologic wonders and winding trails of the Continental Divide.
   
Swimming has been one of the main activities on this father-daughter trip. With warm summer days, why not? Floating, and splashing, and jumping, and soaking—those activities are fine ways to gravitate on our water-covered earth.
   
We were about to finish up our second day in Glacier National Park with a swim in the clear, cool but not cold July waters of Lake MacDonald below the still snow covered peaks of Logan Pass before heading into Whitefish, when Whitefish came to us. Just as we were walking to the lake under the tall green pine trees with our suits on and towels in hand, up drive my friends Tom & Mary with his daughter Kaily. We’d walked and skied together in Glacier many a time, including a summit or two in Glacier. They were here for their annual swim in Glacier and it was a fine day for it with temperatures in the eighties.
   

photo by Tom Megher

photo by Tom Megher

After retrieving a six-foot log floating close to the rocky beach and using it as a float toy, we returned to shore to find a just-hatched dragonfly. The compact, emergent dragonfly had just popped out of its cocoon/shell. It was sitting on my white beach towel. Its shape mimicked that of its shell. For thirty-five minutes we watched it stretch and grow to its full size. Its head and big, giant eyes where much the shape an adult dragonfly appearing ready to lead the body somewhere. But its wings were compact, dense and folded tight to its body so that you could hardly imagine this insect could fly. But ever so gradually the wings began to unfurl and become the translucent, veined wings of a hovering machine.  The tail of the dragonfly also began to transform. It appeared to telescope out gradually from a short stump to its long needle- like long protuberance. Finally, in a quick movement, the wings snapped out to full width. They began to vibrate as if testing the controls. It sat, full in its development. And then it launched itself and flew off freely into the pines above the lake.
   
Our adventures with water continued. The next day we were exuberantly and repeatedly jumping off a floating pontoon into the clear, rocky waters of Whitefish Lake with the kids and parents of my friends. The day after that Bella played in the indoor pool of the local health club (after stormy weather forced them from the water park).

While she was so occupied, I ascended to Big Mountain to go for another mountain bike ride. From the base of the mountain, high above the valley floor, at an elevation of 4800 feet the trails start winding up 2ooo vertical feet in seven miles. Now you can also ride up a chairlift with your bike following you, but for some reason, I’d made it a principal to always ride up the mountain. The clouds began to break and the weather was fine. The finely constructed single track trail wound up the mountain, across the grassy, flower-filled runs and through the moist forests of large, broad douglas firs and larch. My legs and lungs seemed strong from the many miles of biking I’d done earlier in the summer. As I began to cross the large open bowl of the Big Face near the top of the mountain, I knew I would be reaching the summit with its spectacular views of Glacier National park, the large valley floor, and the other various mountain ranges that receded into the distant curve of the earth. I discovered a new trail had been built since the last time I was here four years ago. It was called Runaway Train and it descended from the summit in about half the distance. Now I don’t have the precise geometric formula, but it does mean my descent on Runaway Train was significantly steeper. The trail at points practically plunged over cliffs, necessitating tricky balancing maneuvers to keep from tumbling head over heels. In some situations it meant getting off the bike and carrying it down. But later the trail joined the run called Easy Street where I rode without breaks at thirty miles an hour.

Back down in the valley, at Round Prairie Farm compound where we were staying, a party was about to start. A keg of beer, gin & tonics, jugs of Tang, and enough kid friendly activities like tree houses (with Tibetan prayer flags flying from its peak high in the pines) and trampolines (and kids) to make it so that I didn’t see Bella for a couple of hours. When I did she was hungry.

For all her comfort with my friends and their children, much of the nineteen day-trip it was just she and I. It is a big world in which we roam while we travel—for adults and seven year olds. As we walked into a store or restaurant, or sauntered off down a trail in the mountains, her hand slipped easily and naturally into mine. There is a pure and secure connection between parent and child in the joining of hand.