Recently in Colorado Category

"Why do I haveta have such a baby sister?" moaned Mikaela.

Hundreds of miles earlier in our Southwestern US road trip, Katrianna quit defending herself. And simply scrunched further down in her booster seat. Yet her older sister's taunts ticked off with regularity, keeping steady pace with the highway's mile markers before finally crossing the [CO state] line.  

"You're just scared because you're so young!"
 
Not really, I interceded, I'm frightened, too. Good thing Katrianna's backing out since otherwise I'd definitely be taking the fall for it....

"Oh, c'mon, it's only 50 feet!"

Actually, that was another of Mikaela's tall tales. The Balcony House ladder was a mere 32 feet high, though the hike to reach it also included a 12-foot tunnel crawl & a 60-foot open rock face ascent.

"And the travel guide said it's the very best one. On their 'Not To Miss' list!  But now we're gonna skip it  -- all because of scaredy Kat ~rianna!"

As we passed through the entry gate into Mesa Verde National Park, Chris 'helped' by suggesting we might turn around & go right back to Houston if Mikaela didn't stop. Huh. Nothing quite as effective as an idle parental threat, is there?  True, this strategy maybe works if one's traveled 5 miles away from home... possibly 15... but, hmm, exactly how credible is this: So, Cathy, whaddya think about driving us a thousand miles & then we'll pull a U-ie?

"Besides, there's nothing hard about it! I could easily climb that ladder wearing all 4 of our backpacks, a water bottle in one hand & Skittles in the other! This is so unfair!"

It so was!  Mikaela was determined to show that she was officially a Tween now. And, perhaps even more importantly, that her sister was officially not. Accordingly, she sulked.                   

Well, I reasoned, unfortunately we'd arrived too late to reserve tour spots anyway...

However, we had timed it perfectly to take solitary, dusky strolls among deserted (even by modern tourists) Mesa Top farming villages, choose to casually overlook Cliff Palace all by our lonesomes, view a gloaming sunset from Park Point's 8572-foot advantage, and finally eat & sleep by starlight in Morefield Campground amid the soothing sounds of chirping crickets, crackling campfires and purring sputtering choking carburetors in sundry RV generators.



The next morning, while other guests queued outside the Far View Visitor Center for guided tour tickets to Long House, Cliff Palace or the acrophobic-exclusive Balcony House, we busily got ourselves all spruced up instead. Yup, in order to get on down to the Spruce Tree House at the break of dawn. It was misty-cal, all right, as we made our way along the dewy path with glimpses of the overhanging cliff site beckoning. Even more so when we realized we were the only ones there. Well, except for two Ancestral Puebloans who greeted us in that peculiar, primitive headgear of theirs, ie the "funny hats" worn by all natives of the National Park Service.
 


Hospitably, they offered to show us around the place & began with a rote set of queries intended to engage, pique interest & inform. However, in preparation for our visit, M&K had studied the NPS website, making those rhetorical questions not quite so rhetorical after all:

The ranger ~                                                                  M&K ~

Does anyone know what 'Mesa Verde' means?                   Green Table!
And who lived here?                                                       The Anasazi!
How long ago?                                                                1400 to 700 years ago!
Why did they leave?                                                        Don't know!    
That's right! Truthfully, no one knows...

OK, so what did they eat?                                               They farmed on the mesa!
What type of structure did they live in?                            Pit houses!
And later?                                                                       Under the cliffs!
What are their bricks made out of?                                  Sandstone!
Why are these ceilings black?                                          Umm... not sure?

Pshew, that made everybody feel better. Happily, the ranger led them to correctly guess "Oh, yeah, it's cause of the smoke from their fires!"

The rangers exchanged a knowing nod. "You're homeschoolers, aren't you?" they stated in agreement, as though plainly this was another rhetorical device. Wow, I humbly noted, how effortlessly we make our lil' contribution to reinforce the image of homeschoolers everywhere....

Next, they invited the kids to partake in the usual daily grind, skillfully demonstrating how to keep one's nose to the ol' grindstone (at least until M&K got the grist of it). Sure, it's corny, but it seemed the girls thought it was grate & could go on like that all day. In fact, everybody was having such a good time, it was hardly noticeable when M&K kept inching away from the edge of pit where the second ranger stood expectantly.

Clearly with well ingrained excitement, she segued to the climatic moment, "Of course, I bet ya'll already know what a kiva is!"   No answer.

"Yes, good. And that small circular hole in the bottom is called a 'sipapu.'  Step up here a little closer so you can see it!"   No movement.

"OK then," she declared, "the awesome part is that you get to go down into it now!"

Evidently overcome with repentance for yesterday's teasing, Mikaela benevolently offered the first turn to her little sister. "No, that's okay," declined Katrianna, "you can go first."

But Mikaela-the-Elder insisted. She helpfully pushed Katrianna forward, ever closer to the rim.  "No, I don't really wanna..." Katrianna admitted. "Cuz I think... I might be scared."
 
Would it help if I went first, I wondered, & jumped onto the ladder.
 
"Mom, NOOOOOOOOO!" M&K gasped at my Dante-esque descent, certain that the 3-headed Cerberus awaited my demise below. Heeding Mikaela's dire warning -- "Don't step in the hole, Mom. It leads to the Underworld!" -- I dutifully performed a thorough kiva inspection, reported it safe & sound, and invited Katrianna to join me.     

Trustingly, she backed up another foot & a half.  So Chris clambered partway down and held out his hand. Still Katrianna wouldn't budge. "Sorry, Dad," she whispered as he resurfaced.

"Guess it's all yours, Mikaela!" I called up. "Come on in, it's the pits!"

Suddenly, it was as if the intrepid Tween wouldn't touch that kiva with a ten six-foot ladder. "Mom, can I just jump & you'll catch me?!" Mikaela suggested at a volume [with the tre(m)ble turned up] guaranteed to reverberate through its shadowy depths.

After 10 minutes of urging, waiting, pleading and stalling, I made the arduous ascent solo. To the welcoming, joint embrace of our dear anxious daughters. Once again, the rangers exchanged a knowing nod. Wow, I humbly noted, how effortlessly we make our lil' contribution to reinforce the image of homeschoolers everywhere.... 

So what's there to say? It's not surprising, really. After all, we're homeschoolers, not social climbers.


Without a word, it was immediately understood -- time for us to take a hike. We headed out on the Petroglyph Point Trail which winds through & often clings to the walls of Spruce Canyon. Here, too, we were the only ones on the single-file track and soon found it challenging, as well as truly delightful. The canyon is coolly invigorating, verdant, with striking views in contrasting oranges, browns & greens. It's filled with narrow passages that require squeezing through rocks and grabbing onto centuries-smoothed hand holds pecked into the canyon walls by Mesa Verde's original inhabitants. There was an overwhelming sense of the past and its people each time we stepped into the foot wells formed by their ancient civilization, stony testaments worn away by daily use, comparable to the age-old depressions made in marble stair steps throughout Europe.... 

And then the incredible happened! Unbeknownst to the rest of us, Chris started seeing folks on every bend, at every turn, literally hanging out all over the place. Apparently, the cliffs were speaking to him from the omnipresent formations eerily resembling rock faces. (Not that he isn't always on the look out for two-faced impersonators. Or stone-faced posers. Perhaps the Rolling Stones? Plus Rocky I.. II.. III... no, can't malign his reputation like that - implying he watches Sylvester Stallone movies is going too far.)
 
Eventually he revealed not only their existence, but also his conjectures as to the obvious meanings of their Anasazi-chiseled features. Take this one with the particularly menacing expression - would give cowardly aggressors pause, no? Or that one with curlycue vines overhanging its brow & the silly grin - aha! "killed 'em" with laughs. What about him, over there, with the quizzical expression - meant to baffle & discombobulate the wary trespasser (seemed to be working on Chris, anyhow). So convinced was he that he filled our camera's photo card with pictures to document the find, in disbelief that no archeologist before him had dared look this phenomena in the face...

Although it was well before noon when we climbed out of the canyon, the heat was stifling, the mesa's piñons & junipers woefully short on shade. However, Chris rushed us onwards to the visitor center, eager to share his discovery!  Another kind & patient ranger received the news.  And diplomatically suggested that Yes, many people see things in the rocks...  Uh huh, the lighting creates some strange effects...  Interesting indeed, but ever heard about a thing called 'erosion'?...



As we drove out of Mesa Verde National Park and I tried in vain to soothe Chris' disappointment (by searching for my new favorite song - Smiling Faces Sometimes* - on the car radio), his confidence spontaneously rallied. For he did what most sensitive parents do under similar circumstances. And remembered to bring up his child's previous mistake.

"Hey, Miks, don't you have something you should say to your sister?"   Silence.

"About being wrong? You know, the Balcony House?"   Continued silence.

"And," he goaded, "ladders?"

"Okay, okay, I suppose it's not really all your fault, Katrianna..." mumbled Mikaela. "That you're 3 whole years younger than me!"

Ahh, lesson learned. No sense cliff dwelling on it. 
 

*Beware, it's one of the most irritating songs ever. And that's The Undisputed Truth.
And, tho it's the much disputed truth, a "Tween" is generally defined as an 8-12 year old.

"Wanna wrastle?"

M&K's smiles froze. Ever so slowly, they turned around to face their grinning challenger.

"Umm, no...   umm, thank you."  

The captain of the US Women's Wrestling Team laughed and trotted back to the mats. After watching them toss one another about for a bit longer, we all huddled up to share a few pointers on holds & [over]hear the coach's pep talk. It had been a good workout, several of the prospects had done well, but the others shouldn't be too thrown off by this try-out session for the Olympic training squad and better keep at it. Remember, ladies, eliminations next week!

And, to think, just like that, our girls had passed up an open invitation to be Olympians!

Well, ya can lead 'em to the ring, but ya can't pin 'em down for the count, I guess.  [Just throwin' in a little towel advice there.]  In my never-ending quest to brainwash muscle encourage the girls to experience the joys of athletics, we'd entered the Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center.


OH NO!

Oh yes!  The very place where Apolo Ohno trained before winning gold & silver medals in 2002 and then returned to for its monastic, distraction-free appeal to get ready for the 2006 Olympics, in which he earned another gold & 2 bronzes. (This time around, for Vancouver 2010, Apolo & the other American short track skaters prepped in the newer Olympic facilities at Park City, UT. That's where the other guy who won 5 winter games medals - all golds - has been Heiden out. Now as a Stanford M.D. graduate + orthopedic surgeon + team physician for the US speed skating team. But only after first pursuing a road race cycling career & setting up America's premier pro bike team & competing in the Tour de France. Poor underachieving Eric, if only he could've done something with all that potential. Bet he has a Placid bedside manner, though.)  

Our tour of the former military base turned Olympic training facility continued. We strolled through the students' study room, crammed with computers situated next to air hockey tables wedged between vending machines, further confirmation that we homeschoolers are well on our way to attaining Olympic glory (uncanny, for it's exactly the kind of scholar-athlete nurturing environment we'd created in the kids' playroom back home).
 
 
We also saw some weightlifters - that took a load off. And then it was on to the men's gymnastics facility where our tour group was warned to NOT step on the specialized springy floor, as demonstrated repeatedly by the enticingly bouncy tour guide. Sure nuff, when he turned his back and we were to file out, two apparently non-English-speaking German tourists leaped in pliés, grand jetés & arabesques across its padded expanse in order to film a short rhythmic gymnastics routine with their camera phone. The guide was not amused. Neither were we. At best, their performance only earned a 6.5.

But before we judges could confer &/or accept bribes under the table from corporations & foreign entities (I know, how gauche, quite passé ... but understand this was before the US Supreme Court ruled that sort of thing is perfectly acceptable... since they're staunchly transparent... about allegiances, you know. Ehh, scruples, who needs 'em?), the escorted portion of our tour abruptly concluded & we were set adrift.

Back outdoors & on our own, we blended right in with the elite athletes & reveled in the Olympic atmosphere. We fogged up the glass wall windows outside of their cafeteria while they ate lunch, coolly nodded when several of the more flexible fellas dexterously avoided our attempts to rub shoulders, and generally intimidated everybody by sprinting new, astounding PRs. Admittedly, we went a little off track by dropping our batons on 50% of the handoffs - as everyone knows, you'll never make the US relay team that way. Not until ya can get that up to at least 70%, right? (Sorry, but c'mon USA Track & Field, what was that in 2008? Time to get it in lane & start splitting seconds again!)

Suddenly, Katrianna exclaimed, "He's here!" She'd spotted the one, the most exciting of all those we'd encountered thus far, decked out in a sleek, breathable, all weather shell, a patriotic red & shimmering designer jersey that even Ralph Lauren would envy. It was the fulfillment of her ultimate dream right there in Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center: she was touched by a ladybug! The festive frenzy was contagious. Finally, spontaneously, the competitive flame ignited in both of our daughters: "Gimme! My turn! N'uh, it's my turn!" Until, inevitably, he flew off as fast as Greeced lightning, promising to reappear 4 years later. And with that ceremonial pomp, our games were brought to a subdued and humbling close.

But it kinda worked. At least the girls agreed to try ice skating after that trip. And, by about the 12th visit to the rink, Katrianna even declared, "Hey, look at me! I'm the next Michael Phelps!!" (OK, so she used a mixed metaphor there... but whaddya expect from a jock, huh?)  She zipped around in dizzying laps, blazing quite a trail of thin ice as she visualized victory in Vancouver!   

Of course, 2010 won't be her year. They have age minimums, ya know, so the old folks don't get humiliated by some junior phenom... so she's adjusted & set her sights on eventual Olympic gold. And it seems she very well might have a shot!  'Cuz I did a little research. They have absolutely no rules disqualifying the use of those -- excuse the technical term -- "pushy things." And, not to brag, but she really is a speed demon behind them!  Meanwhile, I'm passing the time by working on nicknames... how d'ya like the sound of 'Ice Scorcher'? 

Just so you know, by the 17th visit, Katrianna did successfully circumnavigate the ice rink solo, without aid of any pushy things (well, except Mom's urging). Yet, in a demonstration strangely counter to Newtonian physical laws of motion, the absence of its resistance actually slowed her down considerably... Currently, she is awaiting patent approval on her more aerodynamic pushy thing redesign. Coming at cha in 2014, Apolo Ohno!



Before approving this blog post on mom's Olympian efforts to tap into the girls' innate athleticism, my proofreader-editor-daughter Mikaela suggested, "You know, Mom, Ralph Waldo Emerson said, 'In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.' Don't you think it would help a lot if you fit that in here somewhere?"  Gee, how very sporting of her.  See, she is a proven medal mettle meddle contender!

On our extended trip to Colorado, a different sort of snow job commanded the attention of our family of flakes in the form of a blizzard. We don't ski, but we easily could have been mistaken for a bunch of lugers out there chillin' on the mountain. (Really - and I don't mean to brag - I could have sworn I heard a couple of snowboarders call us just that when they swooshed by...  true, it was a little muffled in the 70 mph winds... Down South, by the way, we call those gusts 'hurricanes' instead of 'wind resistance.') We went sledding down a perilously slippery slope that extended for quite possibly a whole 40 feet (even the bunnies were laughing at us - from their vantage point about 500 feet up).

And, not once during our outing did Ethan Frome's "smash up" slip slide away into the recesses of my psyche...  but, luckily, our day involved no desires under an elm, shattered pickle dishes or zeena-phobia.  [I hated that book when I read it at 16, but no amount of topical Wharton remover, applied liberally to my prefrontal cortex twice daily ever since, has proven effective in eliminating its imagery.] Overall, however, it was a very (very) cool experience!
  
During our time spent in Boulder with Bob and his wife, Chaya, we also went to the Dushanbe Teahouse, where the fine service, like the fine tea, apparently cannot be rushed. Once you enter the doors, time stops and all is at rest. We arrived just when we should have - not even close to tea time - and the place was nearly empty with tables plentiful, yet our seating preparation and the ceremonious setting of utensils took at least ten very consciousness-inducing minutes while we stood waiting at the cusp of enlightenment (which is located just inside the entryway, wedged between the hostess stand and mere millimeters from the swinging door - which I can only assume to be intentional and symbolic of our precarious position in the universe).  The unanticipated respite provided us abundant time to examine and accept the futility of our rushed lives and overly eager expectations, as well as gave Bob ample opportunity to select and purchase a tasteful souvenir. When Chaya asked if she could have milk in her tea, the waiter deliberated and answered philosophically 'Why, yes, he thought she might' which he emphasized by agreeably nodding his redhead. It took quite a bit more prompting to move him out of the realm of possibility and into the actual delivery of the milk, but the result, of course, was our deeper appreciation of each and every aspect of our tea time, as well as a savoring of the teahouse staff's superior understanding of the subtleties of service. Truly, at the famed Dushanbe teahouse, my cup runneth over.  

And, now, a final metrospective: Boulder is, due to a tremendous amount of concerted effort on the part of its citizenry, just a bit quirky. Everybody drives either a Prius or a VW van converted to run on veggie oil, conscientiously rehydrates with only organic beer after Bolder Boulder training runs, climbs rock walls in 100% hemp laced birkenstocks or spins around on their tandem bicycles (outfitted with a modified second seat to accommodate their dog who pedals like mad in an effort to reduce its carbon pawprint). There is also a plethora of "Keep Boulder Weird" bumper stickers & paraphernalia, yet I am required by Texas allegiance (& the desire to avoid another scuffle with state patrol border guards on the way back in), to take umbrage and point out that their beloved mantra was plagiarized, lifted verbatim from Austin, TX. True, it is hard to blame Boulderites since that wording is so profound and evocative. May I humbly suggest they try something more local, a pithy summation that is indicative of their own region instead? I got it, how's about BOULDER: WE'RE FULL OF CROCS!

I don't know, it might need some tweaking...  Perhaps Austin just had beginner's luck coming up with our so emulated slogan & no city should expect to coin something that achieves transcendent, world famous status. Oh, shoot, I just remembered the Alamo... Guess it's time for us to return to the only state that can rightfully claim to have the highest density of original weirdos in the nation!




Great (Dave) Scott! I didn't mean to resort to Lance strong Arm tactics there...







P.S. For the record, during our visit to Boulder, we did not once catch sight of Mork nor Mindy. But, I did see several characters who I suspect might be aging backwards... either that, or they're new aging. I admit I can't tell the difference.