The few days I’m able to spend with
the Hoffmaster clan are every bit as therapeutic and regenerative as I’d hoped
they would be, and even more of a detoxification from our road trip than I’d
imagined. I’m fed an entirely
vegetarian diet, much of it vegan and raw; exactly what I needed to flush the
White Castle and Sonic and Lord knows what all else out of my system.
Even my legs get a stretch and, on
day two, having first provided me my preferred breakfast of black coffee and
then a lunch of goodies from Whole Foods, Caitlin’s father Forrest takes me and the
girls up into one of the state parks, where there’s scenic driving and
good hiking to be had. After a
forty-five minute drive or so, we’re up in the mountains.
Crazy how low the temperature
drops, up at altitude. In the
foothills it had been almost fifty degrees. Up here, though, it’s down to twenty-three. At the entrance to the park, a ranger
admits that there’s “some snow” on some of the longer trails, higher up, but
that the nearest one should be hikeable.
So, we give it a go.
When we pull up to the trailhead,
though, next to this little lake, everyone in the car makes these little
noises, like “Ooooh ahhh, ha ha!” which roughly translates as “Damn, it is much
colder and windier and snowier up here than we’d anticipated.
Peyton, Caitlin’s sister, is
adequately prepared for the weather.
And Forrest is überprepared, being the outdoorsman of the family. Caitlin and I, fresh off the type of
candy-ass winter that Virginia’s been dishing out since the so-called
“snowpocalypse” of a few years prior, are decidedly and woefully unprepared, me
doubly so, what with the abandonment of all my winter effects for my migration
to warmer climes.
But, we get out anyway, to scope it
out. Or, to utilize a phrase Caitlin
and I have been abusing recently (I’d just introduced it to the girl), we “case
the joint.” The girls even bring a
blanket from the car, and after some good-natured fighting over it, decide to
wrap themselves up together, huddling close for warmth.
“What do you think?” asks
Forrest. “Too much?”
I’m able to needle everyone on; it
is not so bad, it is a short jaunt around the lake and, in jorts and a North
Face jacket, I am arguably the most exposed to the elements, and therefore have
the final say as to whether or not it is too cold.
“Is it cold, Daniel?”
“I mean, that lake is frozen as
shit.”
And it is.
As we set off, not far past the
trailhead, Forrest announces, “I have to go converse with the trees.” I don’t quite get it, but wonder if the
Hoffmasters don’t have some Indian blood in ‘em. But, the girls explain.
“He always says that when he has to
piss.”
“Oh.”
Actually, I sympathize. The ride up had taken a hot minute, and
the Hoffmaster women had been pushing water on me since my arrival, so as to
counter the effects of altitude sickness.
And lunch had been accompanied by massive amounts of iced tea and
coconut water. I too must piss.
The girls keep trudging along, as
Forrest and I trail them and talk about training in Boulder, specifically in winter. By the time we reach the far side of
the lake, we experience that peculiar thing called ‘the lake effect,’ and the
wind coming off the ice carries on it these biting ice crystals blown off the
snowdrifts. Caitlin and Peyton,
the wind and ice whipping around them ahead of us, look like they are lost in
Antarctica, about to freeze to death.
One of them slips on the trail, and they both go down.
When finally we make it back around
to the car, the girls and my legs are frozen. It is decided that all haste must be made to get to Coffee
on the Rocks, a java shop in one of the little mountain towns a little ways
down into the valley.
We take the long and scenic way
back home, on Rt. 7. So different
from the Rt. 7 back home in Virginia, this one hugs the mountain on one side
and on the other overlooks the valley.
The trip down takes over an hour, and so idyllic that I’m lulled to
sleep, this despite the cup of coffee I’d just ingested.
When we arrive back at the house,
Forrest and I begin prepping for the run we’d agreed to go on. This is a mortal terror for me. Forrest may be fifteen years my senior,
but he’s been rigorously training for an Ironman and, simply put, I am out of
shape. Even in regards to my
running attire, I am outclassed.
Again, I’ve packed for the long haul in Australia, not my stint in the
Colorado mountains. So, it’s
booties and a sweatshirt for me.
Actually, I fare much better on the
run than I’d anticipated. I’d
feared how much the altitude would affect me but, aside from a splitting
headache in the early parts of the run, it’s not much of a factor.
More debilitating, actually, are my
biomechanics. I’ve always had some
level of muscular imbalances and, having not run in so long and atrophied
somewhat, they’d only gotten worse. Further wreaking havoc on me are the cumulative effects of
the road trip, and my insistence on driving is coming back to bite me,
now. All those hours with my foot stomping
down on the gas pedal had worked up a good bit of tension in my lower back, and
I can feel it, now, manifesting first as a stiffening in my left IT band that
pulls my stride, and finally translating into a grinding in my right hip.
But, you do what you’d learned to
do as a long-distance runner; you grit your teeth and you man up. Because the alternative is pussing out,
which is no sort of alternative at all.
And, somehow, Forrest does not break me and, against all odds, I do not
die.
The last half of the run is all
uphill, back to the house, and when finally we take the last turn and it comes
into view, Caitlin is out front, taking advantage of her break from being
compelled to entertain me to finally unload her car. I pull up short, and she asks me if I’m ok.
“Yeah, fine. Still got it.”
(Caitlin would later tell me that I
looked like death, but admitted that her father said I’d “kicked his ass,”
thinking I’d taken it easy on him.
Well, I don’t know if that was the case…)
But, as these things go, the moment
you stop running is the moment things start to lock up, and real pain sets in. I gather a few of my lingering
possessions from the car, and then make a strangely agonizing trek up the
thirty-six steps ascending the Hoffmasters’ own personal slice of the mountain.
Forrest is taking the first shower,
and so I sit down on Caitlin’s bed, zombed out, watching her unpack. Well, I soon lay back, feet still
cemented to the floor, and flirt pretty hard with sleeping. So, Caitlin takes off my shoes, throws
my legs up on the bed so that I can curl up all fetus-like, the way I do, and
throws a blanket over me. Thus, I
sleep.
And am consequently woken up, all
too soon, and am told to take a shower, become presentable and ready myself for
dinner. The hot water actually
does wonders for my back, as does a generous dose of Tiger Balm. Still, the walk down to the car is a
limping torture, as is the trek through the parking lot to the Mexican joint
where we’re eating out.
Peyton and Ali have gone to pick up
one of Peyton’s friends, Delaney, from circus practice, of all things. So Caitlin, Forrest and myself hold
down the fort and wait for reinforcements. (Read as: eat all the chips and guac and talk about
Forrest’s overly and unwantedly sexually aggressive hairstylist)
The girls arrive, and we tuck into
food. It’s killer veggie tamale
for me. I’d heard food in Boulder
was killer, and this affirms the sentiment.
Back on the mountain, the girls and
I gravitate towards the basement, and listen to Mitch Hedberg, whom Caitlin and
I had rediscovered on our trip. It
is good and keeps us lighthearted, and we spend an hour giggling together. After getting our kicks, we settle in
to watch Yojimbo.
Well, no one yet has ever gotten
through Yojimbo in one sitting, and we
all drop asleep where we are.
* *
*
Next morning, and I’m up fairly
early by my standards and, back stiff and feeling old, I do some rudimentary stretching, a dose of the
good ol’ Tiger Balm and pop a few ibuprofen, and am thus readied for the day.
Great majority of my morning is
spent, over a cup of coffee, trying to get the happenings of the last few days
down on paper, and then from paper onto the computer and then out into the
ether.
This is actually somewhat hard to
do, what with the girls giggling away and carrying on and such in the kitchen,
concocting some sort of egg, tortilla and salsa dish, calling Ali in every few
minutes to come save the day.
Actually, for all the girlish antics that take place, the meal turns out
to be quite excellent.
Caitlin and I had meant to get
moving early on things and do another round of hiking but, well, I’m barely
moving at all, early morning. We
fall back on the contingency plan, which is to hit thrift shops and the army
surplus store, then visit Oskar Blues for a free tour in the afternoon.
Downtown Boulder is a happening
area, and we meander down Pearl Street, scoping the little shops and coffee
bars and people busking for a living, as Caitlin wants to do. Overwhelming homeless population in
these parts, though.
On the way down the strip, I have
trouble keeping up and Caitlin notices the limp. What can ya do?
We tool around the army store for a
bit, mostly and ostensibly to find boots.
But, nothing pleases me aesthetically that would serve practically, and
so we pick up only a few odds and ends: bandanas, work gloves, a shirt to be
thrashed during harvest. I toy
with the idea of getting another knife, too; something more practical than the
nigh-Bowie knife I’m currently operating with. But, again, the right knife is not here.
On our way back to the car, Caitlin
and I linger over a busker, a kid on a steel string guitar. A genuine cowboy stands nearby, doing a
jig and sporadically throwing bills into the guitbox case.
Minor down note, here, as we
approach the car. We’re just in
time to see parking authority ticket us.
Well, such things happen.
With all haste, we set out in the
general Grand Rapids direction.
Somewhere between here and there is the Oskar Blues Brewery. We know that a free tour is conducted
at 4pm, but we are running late and also don’t really know where we’re going.
At five minutes past, we roll into
what seems far too much like a dive to be the brewery proper, but sidle up to
the bar anyway, and a typically hip she-Coloradoan in turn sidles up to
us. We inquire about the tour.
“You just missed them,” the barkeep
informs us. “Let me get you a
drink, and then I’ll walk you in.”
Excellent. I get a Ten-Fiddy. What with me being a real man and all,
I can handle the 10.5% abv and 550 calories per 12oz pour. Caitlin, being a lady and only slightly
more delicate than me, goes through a flight and orders something lighter. Pils, or something.
Drinks in hand, we catch up to the
rest of the tour, which is actually surprisingly small, consisting of just
three other people. There is one
decidedly motherly type, a slightly metal chick, and a kid just out of his
teens who is either a skinhead or has alopecia, I can’t decide.
The tour is good, and I’m kicking
myself for not bringing a camera.
Even Caitlin, who’s not much of a beer drinker, enjoys herself.
By the time we circle through the
facility and back to the bar, it’s 5 o’clock, and everyone who’s just gotten
off their shift on the production side is there at the bar. Bunch of regulars, as well, one of whom
sits down on the stool next to me, is asked how he’s doing and is slid a beer
before he can finish his sitting.
Bunch of dogs, here, too. A
pretty boxer, a fat and old chocolate lab, and a French mastiff and a Great
Dane, both huge, brindled and obviously companions.
I love Great Danes (circa Meredith
Wilson, concerning my affinity for the breed: “You know, they only live seven
or eight years, right? Aw, you
like the heartbreak, don’t you?”), and this huge, bone-thin and loping lady
comes sauntering up to us, and gets a lot of love from Caitlin and myself.
The tour guide comes up, and brings
us a couple of double dry-hopped Deviant Dale’s. The brew is thick and indulgent, the way Oskar Blues likes
to do it, and hoppier than hell.
Delicious, but kicking.
Caitlin really likes hers as well, but asks me to finish hers, and drive home.
Well, okay…
We order some chips to try and
sober up, and Caitlin flirts with the barkeep, who we both agree is the most
attractive person we’ve yet seen in Colorado, male or female. For all the talk about the generally beautiful
health-nut hippie chicks haunting Boulder, I’ve been fairly underwhelmed by the
local fauna thus far. Tipsily, we
make our way to the gift shop, and pick out a t-shirt. Oskar Blues bandana, too.
Back at la casa de Hoffmaster, it’s
spaghetti squash for dinner, which is excellent. But, my mind is elsewhere, me finally getting nervous and
flighty, realizing that there’s nothing but sleep between now and tomorrow,
when I make my break with the States.
After dinner and a bit of wine, we
gravitate towards the living room, where there’s a fire going and the girls are
doing homework and Caitlin is reading.
I try to get some writing done, and hope some black tea will help
facilitate. This is a tea family,
and everyone else is indulging as well, but with those lesser, caffeine-free varieties. Everyone balks at my decision to drink
black.
But, despite this and my intentions
of staying up all night to prep, I quickly nod off, in that cozy environ.
I wake up in a panic a few hours
later, being sure that I’ve missed my flight. It’s quiet and late-seeming, the fire having died down and
everyone else having gone to bed except for Caitlin, who’s asleep on the coach
with me.
But, it’s only 11:34pm, and I still
have hours ahead of me. I set and
double-set and check and double-check my alarms, then put myself down again.
Two hours later, and it’s the same
drill: wake with a start and go reaching for my watch or alarm clock or cell
phone or whatever. But still, I
have time.
But I know now that I’m not going
to be able to get through the night like this. Better to try and be productive now, and try and sleep on
that long flight later. I try to
get up without waking Caitlin but, half-conscious, she murmurs, “Aw, don’t
leave me…” Which is a cute and endearing and a little bit heartbreaking of a thing
for her to have said. “Aw” is
right. Aw, Daniel… She’s just a
kid.
Well, because I guess I’ve become somewhat attached now, haven’t I? Even in this short a span of time. Daniel you sucker, that’s not
like you.
Despite these protests, after a
wide-eyed hour or so in the dark, I get up, and start making my final
preparations.
