After three days of drizzle and even a bit of real rain, the trails were singing their siren's song.  The overcast sky suggested that curling up with Middlesex, the book I'm currently reading, might be the wiser choice but Intrepid Sally asserted that we should brave the elements.  I agreed, telling her that we've been wet and even miserable before without suffering any long term damage.  In fact, I reminisced that some of our most memorable rides were memorable because they were so miserable.

There's something about flawless traction that makes everything easier.  Each pedal stroke returns maximum thrust.  Every knob on my new Smoke tires bit into the dirt like the claws of a cheetah in pursuit.  The downside to the damp conditions was that there was absolutely no evaporation going on and by the time we reached the summit, we were both soaked with sweat. 

Sally, a copious sweater, has learned to carry an almost complete change of clothes for the downhill trip home.  I, who only glow, rarely bother with such amenities.  We paused to prepare for the descent, Sally stripping to the waist (if I wanted to increase my readership, this is where I could describe how beautiful this fifty-something woman looks naked, because she does look more like thirty-something with her unblemished skin and pert little boobies, but I won't) and changing into dry bra, jersey, jacket, gloves, and head band.  I put on my leg guards and windbreaker.  We had to wait for a couple of ascending male cyclists to pass by and pedal out of sight and so, had lost all body heat by the time Sally was dressed and mounted.

The first mile or so, is boring ole' fire road, not so steep as to be interesting, but steep enough to coast pretty fast.  The wind chill factor on soaked clothing felt like riding naked in a 40 degree (That's Fahrenheit for my European friends) wind.  Suddenly, I realized how easily I had made light of discomfort when discussing it in theory and how uncomfortable it was in reality. 

Fortunately, as soon as we reached the rollers of the motorcycle trails, the effort of climbing the ridges and the fun of descending erased all memory of the brief discomfort.  Having ridden this trail several weeks in a row, we were familiar with every rut, every whoopdy do, every lock 'em up slider downhill.  The improved traction only fed our confidence as we dropped into the rut, using it like a rail to track down the narrow path.  The final hill (of that section) requires that we dismount and push our bikes to the top.  It's steep enough that we have to pause briefly part way up to gasp, "Whose idea was this?!", but we know that the steep, tricky, off-camber descent from the top is worth every bit of the burn our screaming legs are suffering at the moment.

Sally snapped this just before we dropped off the last really fun (read "steep") descent back to the fire road.

On the climb up Joint Point I had already decided that we would descend Joint Point North, a sometimes frighteningly steep slope.  We hadn't taken this route since last year because during the dry season there's not enough traction to control the rate of descent.  Without pausing to give ourselves time to debate whether to take the southern descent or the northern, I steered right.  I could hear the glee in Sally's voice as she acknowledged my choice.  The first part is tame enough and we let our steeds pick up some speed but when we reached the point where the trail begins to descend precipitously, I slowed to pick my line.  The traction on the trail proper looked a little sketchy so I steered to the left using the gopher-pocked grass to control my speed. 

The next steep section looked better on the right and I crossed the bald path the motorcycles had worn and used that side.  Evidently, Sally was feeling frisky because I soon heard her on my left, sliding almost in control as she gained on me.  We both rode the trail as it became less steep, allowing our bikes to choose their own speed, bucking and hurtling over the small humps. 

Sometimes I wonder if my enthusiasm for this sport looks silly to others.  Do I look like the infatuated schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush?  I swear, it feels like that at times, and at others it feels like the comfortable love of a dear friend.

It dawned on me today that I'm one of those people I felt so sorry for in my previous smug blogs about how perfectly my life was arranged.  I remember longingly how I used to have time to ride my bike; work in my garden; visit with friends; blog on Xanga; cook four course meals from home-grown vegetables; ride my bike to the fruit stand, the grocery store, Home Depot, the egg ranch. 

But things changed.  First, I took on the responsibility of tending two horses.  It was nice to have a little job with flexible hours, doing something that I love.  It only took about twelve hours a week.  Then a great four hour a week job came along that actually paid really well.  I was a happy camper!  Then the church job was offered.  Only twenty hours a week, great working conditions, good money...how could I resist.  All went well as Mike was working out of town and I had plenty of time to do all of the things I'd taken on. 

But then, Mike returned, and with his return, the home renovations commenced.  In preparation for the kitchen remodel, we had to revamp my mom's septic system as I'll be cooking in her kitchen for several months.  Gray Kitty and Other Gray Kitty inspect the progress.

Then the old, cracked, and badly designed concrete in the patio had to be removed and then replaced. 

The outside of the house had to be painted to match the roof we installed last winter and new awnings were installed to match.

Because Bob is growing too frail to safely climb over the patio wall, Mike installed a cat door in it so he doesn't have to go over.  Bob and Shola learned to use it immediately but the others still go over the wall. 

This is ironic as the sole purpose of extending the height of the wall originally, was to keep him confined.  That didn't work out so well.  Our fattest cat, DB whom the neighbor calls "The hippo", leaps from the ground to the top of a six foot fence without hesitation to grab an extra meal at the neighbor's house.  Walls and fences mean little to these agile felines.

We went to the nursery and picked up a strawberry tree and some quavas for the planter boxes in the patio.  We figured we might as well revamp the outdoor shower while we're at it since it looks like it's a permanent fixture.  Bob and Other had to investigate, of course.

The city decided it was going to replace the water line (long overdue) but because funds were short, they hired the cheapest contractor they could find.  They've made a huge mess of the street and probably destroyed my carefully tended cactus.  They placed their outriggers for the backhoe in my hedge, destroying at least two bushes, and leaving gaping holes in it.  One of the workers blithely said they would replace anything they damaged.  I'm skeptical.

The good part is that I'm growing increasingly fluent in Spanish.  It seems that all of the trades people speak Spanish, and even though they act as if they understand English (they nod and say, "yes, yes") but when I try to convey my concerns in Spanish, I get much better compliance.  "Ten cuidado" (be careful) is most useful.

Sally and I managed to squeeze in two bike rides during the four day weekend.  I had new tires so we put them to the test and did some nice steep stuff.  What a confidence builder!  There's nothing like traction.  Back to work tomorrow.

Last year, the U.S. Army requested that Congress stop sending them more tanks.  That was after legislators ignored the Army's objections and approved a defense appropriations bill that included $255,000,000.00 for 42 new M1 Abrams tanks.

I deliberately put in all the zeros to emphasize how much money this is.  Put it into perspective, if I had to muster up that amount of money, it would take every penny I earn for 5,100 YEARS.  Even Mitt Romney would require over eleven years to pay this before taxes. 

The Army currently has approximately 5,300 of these tanks, 3,000 of which are moth balled at a base in California and they're running out of parking spaces.  But, like the military aid to Egypt (as you may recall is $1,300,000 per year or 26 years of my life) American jobs depend on this wasteful spending.

So, I have a question.  With our electrical grid failing, our bridges and dams decaying, our public transportation system nonexistent, our schools allegedly underfunded, and our social programs sinking, why is it essential to protect jobs in the manufacturing of weapons?  If the 800 workers at the tank plant in Ohio couldn't be retrained for constructive work in building infrastructure, I'll bet Congressman Jim Jordan could pick up the 800 votes he lost at the tank plant from the new infrastructure workers and his constituents who benefited from the improvements.

And on a lighter note...

Sally @MtnBikeMom invited her 21 year old son, Tim, to join us on our mountain bike ride yesterday.  He's a fun kid, smart, thoughtful, and a beautiful specimen of young manhood.  Tim was wisely riding within the limitations of his inexperience so I was in the lead, and riding at a bit less than my usual breakneck speed down the singletrack.  Our training buddies, the gnats, opportunistically swarmed the moment our speed fell below 5 miles per hour which made waiting for him at the side of the trail less than pleasant.

Rounding a bend in the trail I spotted a shaggy, chestnut colored horse, walking purposefully down the trail ahead of me.  It was riderless.  As I skidded to a stop so as not to spook it, it turned to look at me.  It wasn't a horse!  Obviously, if a bear looks even briefly like a horse, one is at a safe enough distance to thoroughly enjoy the experience.  He quickly ambled out of sight and I remained rooted where I'd stopped.  Within a minute or two, Sally and Tim rode up and Sally asked excitedly, "Did you see the bear tracks?  They were really fresh!" 

I had to laugh because, while I'm looking as far down the trail as I can to pick my line, Sally is actually enjoying the experience of being in the natural environment.  That's just one of the things that makes her so much fun to ride with.  She opens my eyes to the natural wonders around me.

I just watched the now infamous video of Mitt Romney dissing 47% of the American population.  I realize what I am about to say is purely anecdotal but I think he's out of touch with his own constituency.  My mom is one of those 47%.  She worked hard all of her life, raised two kids (one of whom was a real brat I hear) and now, living modestly in a converted storage shed in my back yard, pays no federal income taxes.  Not only that, but she's on the dole, sponging off the government collecting her entitlement, the abhorrent Social Security and Medicare.  And here's the real surprise...she's a staunch supporter of the charming candidate.

But what impressed me most is how even his own wife isn't immune to his careless, condescension.  He casually comments that they are "using Ann sparingly so people don't get tired of her and start attacking her".  What is he saying?  Is she so vapid that despite her beauty the American public will soon weary of her prattle as he seemingly has?  

I think Mr. Romney is the answer to my wish:  I've long wished that politicians would cut the crap and say what they really think.  Now I'm thinking I should be careful what I wish for.  And so should the GOP 

I think it's been at least twenty minutes since I've complained about the heat so here I go again.  I came home from work and the thermometer on the back porch read 120.  Along about three o'clock the thunder heads roiled up over the mountains, the wind commenced to whip my poor little fig tree to and fro, and I went to bed.  I did stake the fig tree and I watered the new squash and bean plants but that minimal effort sent me indoors to read in air conditioned comfort.  I'm reading about a woman's solo motorcycle journey from Alaska to Tierra Del Fuego.  As I read about her camping in a snow storm, I enjoyed her adventure vicariously.

Big Bad Bob had to have a blood test today to see how his kidney disease is progressing.  I couldn't find the door for the big cat carrier and he wouldn't fit in the small one so I put a harness and leash on him and took him in like a dog.  He sat next to me on the bench as we waited our turn, casually observing the goings on.  A woman walked in with a 120 pound Flanders de Bouvier and Bob immediately wanted to get acquainted.  The dog's owner wisely kept her distance.

The Animal Health Technician ushered us into a treatment room where she instructed me to put Bob on the scale.  He flopped down as if it were is own bed and acted a little put out when I picked him up to take him to the exam room.  He suffered the indignity of the rectal thermometer without complaint.  In the exam room we waited for the doctor.  Bob's only sign of agitation was the twitching of the end of his tail.  Otherwise he laid calmly with his front paws hanging off the edge of the table.  Dr. Tall Dark and Thensome came in and proceeded to poke, prod, and palpate, all of which Bob tolerated with relative good humor.  I was astounded because Bob is usually rather unrestrained in his expression of displeasure and makes it clear that "You're not the boss of me" at home.  Then the doctor took him to the back to draw blood and urine. 

Do you know how they draw urine?  Well, I didn't so I asked.  They stick a needle into his bladder!  I asked the vet if we couldn't just ask him to pee in a cup but he didn't think that would work.  Personally, I didn't think they would have much success with their method either.  I reminded him that Bob was fully armed.  He smiled indulgently and assured me that he had his ways.  When he saw my worried expression he softened and said that they would not traumatize him and they would not do the procedure if he appeared stressed. 

A few minutes later the technician brought Bob out looking quite unperturbed.  I had to set him down while I settled the bill and he stood near my feet eying the big Flanders bitch.  They instructed me to remove the bandage from his rear leg, where they had drawn the blood, in about an hour.

An hour later I went to remove the stretchy tape and he hissed and swiped at me as if he were going for blood.  Emulating the doctor's demeanor, I took him gently by the scruff of his neck and tried again.  Histrionics ensued.  Well, I figured it wasn't worth fighting over and let him be.  A short time later, I heard his rough tongue scraping on the tape.  I knelt beside him and began to remove it for him and he flopped down, purring happily.  Typical guy, it has to be his idea.

This is the final posting about my Colorado/Michigan vacation.  By this time it's just a fading memory.  Thank goodness for photographs!

Cousin Karen and I rode bikes out to the beach.  This is a photo of her cresting the railroad overpass, the biggest hill in the area.  We took a couple of wrong turns on the way which only made the trip more pleasant.  Lake Michigan beaches don't resemble Southern CA beaches in that they are sparsely populated.

We walked down to the electric plant water discharge pipeline.  They now run the pipe far out into the lake because in the old days, when the water dumped directly into the lake, people would swim in the warm discharge and the current would carry them away from shore.  It was dangerous for weaker swimmers.

When we got back to the bikes I reached into my pocket for the key to the padlock that kept the bikes shackled to the rack.  No key.  Karen said, "You did pick it up after you set it down in the sand, didn't you?"  Evidently, it had fallen out of my pocket when I pulled my camera out.  She saw it near my shoes and figured I'd put it there intentionally.  So, I ran back down the beach on the hard packed shoreline, perhaps 3/4 of a mile, and found just the end of the red zip tie sticking up out of the sand.  Since I'd quit running a couple of years ago when my knees gave out, I was surprised that I was still able to run out, and most of the way back, without much discomfort.  Of course, the next day was a different story.

We took the kids and the dog for a walk down to Pigeon Creek.  The county has created beautiful paths through the woods with wooden bridges over swampy areas.  While it looks pristine, there is a problem with the water, perhaps due to some type of industrial activity conducted in the area around the turn of the century.

We did plenty of the activity depicted below and I gained back the three pounds I had lost in Colorado. 

At the family reunion, I took many videos to share with my mom who no longer travels.  With the exception of her older sister, all of her living siblings were there though her younger sister, Elaine, was a shadow of her former self.  Elaine is battling cancer and we were surprised to see her as she has little energy.  Of Mom's eight brothers, six are still kicking.  We of the next generation wondered if the reunions would continue when Grandpa and Grandma's kids are gone.

Sunday morning, Karen dropped me at the airport.  It was with some sadness I said good bye, but I still had one more thing to look forward to before the end of my vacation.  Thanks to a three hour layover in Denver, Tamera had said she would meet me at the airport for breakfast.  We gossiped about our relatives over bloody Marys until it was time for me to head for my gate.  Again, the sadness of parting was mitigated by knowing that within a week, she would be in CA for her high school reunion.

I LOVE this girl!

Sally and I went to the mountains for our weekly ride today because frankly, it's too !@#$% hot to ride down here.  Even at elevation, we figured we would need to start early because it's been in the 90s up there before the afternoon thundershowers break the heat's grip. 

The highway was littered with rocks, from insignificant to the kind that would probably kill you if they came through your roof.  There was other evidence too that the monsoonal rains had been deluginal. (Like that word?  Spell check says it's not a word but it should be.)  Our pulses quickened with the thoughts of forest single-track, fragrant and sticky. 

We unloaded the bikes next to the Santa Ana River (we use the term "river" here to describe any trickle of perennially flowing water, even when it flows underground for miles) and began the forty minute climb up the forest road to the trail head.  My cycling friends who read this are wondering how we manage to stretch that climb into forty minutes, but in our defense, we have a lot to talk about.

Sally is the mother of three teenagers and the wife of a man who is pretty laid back about organization, so she has plenty to commiserate about.  I suppose commiserate isn't quite accurate because I have no kids and my husband is perfect (as long as he remains working out of state anyway).  So, she wails about her messy, loud household and I sympathize, privately reveling in my quiet, tidy home.  Occasionally, I succumb to temptation and attempt to give her my views about how to gain some control over her life, which never turns out well because..."You just don't understand."  

And I suppose I don't.  I don't understand how my friends who are parents can love their children so much that they can't say no to them.  In my strict Protestant family the old adage, "Spare the rod, spoil the child" was scripture, an edict from God to demand conformity, respect, and love.  Over the years, I've modified my views about corporal punishment and conformity but I still adhere to the idea that certain measures are essential to raising likeable, independent adults. 

My niece tells me that she fears her son's wrath and that when she gives him what he wants, "it's just easier".  Sally's 20 something son takes umbrage when she refers to him as a man/boy, preferring to think of himself as a man even though he still turns to Mom for his room and board, he is resentful when he is expected to participate in household chores, and speaks disrespectfully to her. 

Perhaps they're right, I can't understand how hard it is to be a good parent but I do understand what it takes to BE a good parent.  I benefited from my parents' willingness to do what was hard and necessary to prepare me for making my way in life.  My folks made a man out of me!

By the time we reached the trail head, we were ready for some downhill.  I've described this section of the Santa Ana River Trail in previous posts and it's always a variation on the supreme E-ticket ride.  Today was no exception as the sticky traction, recently exposed rocks, and steamy atmosphere created a new dimension to an old favorite.  I had stopped to adjust a shifter cable when a young man came toiling up the trail.  It's amazing that we rarely run over other trail users  considering a) how focused we are on the line we need b) how fast we're traveling and c) how limited the visibility is as the trail weaves through trees and ravines.  Admittedly, some near misses have been largely due to the vigilance of the cyclist struggling uphill.  I have this policy that the downhill cyclist has the right of way because the one climbing secretly wishes for an excuse to stop anyway.

The last half mile of this section of 2E03 descends consistently, has few really tight turns, and generally lends itself to smooth, fast, acceleration and inevitable exhilaration.  Just before the end, there's a rocky section that effectively slows us down before it crosses the paved road.  As I swept into this section I was thinking how I hated this part, not because it's not fun, but because it signals the end of the trail (the trail continues on the other side of the road but we park near this junction).  When Sally skidded to a stop behind me, she exclaimed, "I hate this part of the trail!"  I burst out laughing that we were thinking the exact same thought.

Like Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz, my flight home was a bit bumpy.  Despite weeks of rainless skies, there was some turbulence over the Mid West. 

Seat selection is important for the first leg of my journey, from California to Colorado, because the flight path follows the Colorado River, passing over some of the most scenic parts of the desert Southwest.  The massive lakes of the dammed river, Mojave, Mead & Powell, are easily visible (actually, I didn't see Lake Mojave, possibly we were traveling too far to the North).  One can imagine the Grand Canyon below, though truthfully, from 27,000 feet nothing looks particularly grand.  Nonetheless, it's fun to follow along, remembering more intimate journeys, by bicycle and boat, through the labyrinthine canyons below.

But, the flight from Denver to Grand Rapids is just as well spent sitting comfortably in an isle seat because the view is either the tops of clouds or an endless patchwork of cultivated prairie.  There's the occasional highway or city, and even a river or two, but mainly the flat prairie stretches monotonously on in every direction, making a two hour flight seem much longer.  America's bread basket just isn't that much to look at from the air.

At last we descended through the clouds over Lake Michigan and soon the shoreline appeared.  From the air Lake Michigan looks like an ocean; water stretches as far as the eye can see before and behind.  Normally, the runway in Grand Rapids is flanked by neatly mowed, green lawn, but this year the grass was yellow and flat.  Uncharacteristically, the area had not seen rain in thirty days and had experienced nearly unprecedented triple digit temperatures for many days in a row. 

My cousin, Karen, was waiting at baggage claim for me looking absolutely MAAAVOLOUS as always.  The population of the airport in GR is even more white than in Denver, and yet her platinum hair and slender figure made her stand out from the other white folks.  I'm always aware of the dearth of ethnic diversity in the Mid West as compared to Southern CA where we gringos are a minority.

We drove to her house to pick up the things, mostly home grown food, we would need to feed ourselves and the others who would be staying at Cousin Mila's house for the week preceding the family reunion.  Karen was driving a rental car because her own was being repaired.  A deer had collided with the side of her car, damaging both doors.  Karen lives in farm country where there are woods and fields where wildlife still proliferates.

This rural life allows her to eat the way I can only dream of eating.  Milk comes in glass jars from a friend's farm, raw and not homogenized, from cows who live in an environment that makes antibiotics unnecessary.  Fresh fish, caught by her brother; eggs from the hen house out back; chicken meat, from the roosters who were superfluous (one is plenty in a hen house); and fruits and vegetables grown in her own garden or the gardens of neighbors filled an ice chest to overflowing and several bags.  She also buys whole grain and grinds it as needed to make the most delicious pancakes in the world!

As if this bounty were not enough, first thing in the morning we set off for the farmer's market. 

There was entertainment.

We bought smoked fish, artisan cheese, peaches, peppers, and onions. 

Then we went to pick blueberries. 

Sounds like this trip revolved around food, doesn't it.

Karen and Ted cleaned up the smoker because we had about ten pounds of fresh salmon that needed to be cooked right away.

And I cleaned my old mountain bike.

Sometime during the day we found time to ride the bikes to the new nature center at Pigeon River Park.

The creek was too low for kayaking this year.

Kremmling sits at the confluence of Muddy Creek and the Blue and Colorado Rivers at about 7,300 feet.  It's a bustling little town of around 1,500 people until shortly before dark when the sidewalks are rolled up and everything but the Kum 'n Go Market shuts down.  I'm not kidding, there's a gas station/convenience store chain of that colorful name, along with a bar called the Glory Hole and a hardware store named Nail it,Screw it, Glue It.  I guess those long cold winters lend themselves to pondering suggestive names.  Or maybe it's just my slightly perverted sense of humor.

When Janet returned from her church service, we packed up our hydration packs and headed into town to meet some friends who were willing to go on a local hike with us.  After grabbing lunch at Subway, we drove out to a huge, drought-stricken reservoir, and then up a lovely valley to where the stream still flowed freely.  There we parted with the cars and followed a trail that skirted the lake and eventually led to a waterfall. 

I walked with the two kids who were bright and interesting.  They are home-schooled and live in a secluded valley, far from worldly influences but one would never guess by their broad range of interests and knowledge.  We discussed books that we had enjoyed, and I was surprised to hear that they had read many of the same books I'd read at their age.  Sadly, I couldn't keep up my end of the discussion when the topic switched to computer games and more modern fantasy literature.

The following day Janet and I headed to higher country for a more strenuous hike.  We started briskly up the trail, enjoying the splendid views of the Flat Tops. 

We came to a fork in the trail where three other hikers were examining a trail map, trying to determine which way to go.  When we determined that they were headed for the same destination as we were, Janet confidently told them that she had been there before and to follow us.  We had been walking for perhaps a mile or so, steadily up hill, when Janet began to have reservations about her choice of trails.  We were reluctant to admit to the guys behind us that we had led them astray so we continued for another half mile before admitting our mistake.  They were having a good time and good naturedly ribbed us and we bantered that they had been the ones foolish enough to follow a woman. 

We were nearly to the top of the climb when Janet's feet, blistered from the previous day's hike, suggested that we should consider turning back.  Reluctantly we retraced our steps but soon the thought of lunch in Steamboat renewed our enthusiasm for the descent.

The recommended restaurant we sought, The Creekside, was no longer serving lunch by the time we arrived so we cruised the picturesque resort town in search of something appetizing.  After striking out a couple of times, famished and thirsty, we settled on a Mexican restaurant.  I think it was called the Rio Grande.  The music was too loud and I was dubious about finding authentic Mexican food in a pure vanilla environment like this, but we were growing desperate.  Janet acted like she wanted to bolt but I persuaded her to sit and relax for a moment over a drink and maybe a bowl of chips & salsa.  Our waitress brought menus and took our drink order, and when I mentioned the loud music, she cheerfully went to the back and turned it down.  Reading the menu, hope sprang into my now anticipatory taste buds.  It boasted of freshly roasted chiles; grass-fed, hormone & antibiotic free, aged beef, (a commodity I don't normally consider food, but had been salivating over as we drove past the creatures who were contentedly grazing in alpine pastures); equally sustainably grown pork and chicken; and locally grown fresh vegetables.  By this time, I couldn't carry on a conversation without spewing saliva at my dinner companion.

When I had expressed concern over the amount of refined sugar in a margarita, our accommodating waitress suggested a margarita made the old fashioned way: tequila, triple sec and lime juice, nada mas.  Now that's the way to make your sugar calories worth while!  Though the dead animal flesh was tempting, I decided to put this place to the test and ordered the chiles relleno with black beans and rice.  I think Janet had the fish tacos plate.  If I have ever had better chiles relleno, I certainly can't remember when.  They were lightly battered, oozing with cheese, and garnished with a sauce that didn't overwhelm the flavor of the sweet chiles.  Janet enjoyed her fish tacos too.

We hit the road, happily sated.  The road back to Kremmling, though mountainous, wasn't one of those white knucklers that perch on the side of the cliff.  Instead it ascended a gentle pass and then descended through seemingly endless stands of pines and aspens and open meadows.  I imagine the drive in winter, or even after dark, could be hazardous, but on this summer evening it was pure heaven.

Janet and I enjoyed our last evening together, sitting in her kitchen with

Cosmo, Bennie, Moffee, Einstein, and shy Missy (who only peered down at us from the loft above).  In the morning we headed down the hill to to DIA

where I had a 10:30 flight to Michigan. 

I stepped into the baggage claim area of Denver Airport scanning the sea of faces for my beautiful niece, Tamera.  She's tall, with long blond hair, and green eyes that sparkle with mischief so she stands out in any crowd.  There she was, holding a sign as if identifying herself as the chauffeur meeting the "Beautiful blond California girl".  Casting my Dutch stoicism aside, I threw my arms around her, laughing, and hugging her with abandon.

Tamera's the closest thing I have to a daughter.  I was barely in my teens when she was born and I adored her from the moment I looked into her big green eyes.  Somehow I think I could tell that she was a kindred spirit even then. 

We went straight to a really cool neighborhood restaurant that touted locavore cuisine.  I hadn't eaten since breakfast so I ordered a salad and a cocktail to start, thinking I would power through the intriguing menu after that.  The cocktail was some house specialty with grapefruit juice and vodka with some kind of jalapeño infusion.  It was fabulous so we had another.  Tamera had ordered lamb sliders with sweet potato fries and I couldn't resist tasting the dead animal flesh.  It was delicious!  We were too full to order a main course so we went straight to the rhubarb crisp with raspberry sorbet and French pressed coffee. 

We headed back to Tamera's place where Holiday, her elegant, long-haired tuxedo kitty was waiting for dinner.  We chatted until about 1, catching up and reminiscing about old times.  I wish I had taken more photos of Tamera's beautiful little home.  Immaculately clean, it's decorated for comfort and eye appeal.  Since I'm not much of a decorator, I'm always impressed by people who are talented at putting things together.

Saturday morning we drove up to Grandby to meet Janet.  We had lunch at the Brickhouse before Tamera headed back to Denver to take care of some business.  I felt a bit guilty for allowing her to drive such a long distance, only to turn around and go back home, but she insisted that she didn't mind at all.  Indeed, the drive was spectacular!  Interstate 70 penetrates the Rocky Mountains just west of Denver, climbing steeply into beautiful mountain canyons and meadows.  We exited the freeway at Highway 40, a nice wide road that scales a canyon heading north, deeper into the mountains.  Tamera was occupied with navigating the sharp hairpin curves while I kept up a running narrative of oohs and aahs.

By the time Janet joined us at the restaurant, Tamera and I were almost finished with our wine (mine) and bloody Mary (hers).  As I had hoped, and expected, Tamera and Janet hit it off right away.  I felt conspicuously short walking between these two tall beauties.

Janet and I continued north and west towards her house in Kremmling, stopping along the way to explore a couple of dirt roads that crossed the Colorado River that was flowing within view of the highway. 

She gave me a private tour of a Dept. of Wildlife natural history display where she cleans twice a month.  She pointed out several ranches where she has cleaned houses, some large and obviously expensive, and some more modest ranch homes.  The tiny town of Kremmling has an airport with a runway suitable for small jets, testimony to the wealth of some of it's residents.

Janet gave me a tour of her little town before driving me up to her house that sits a couple of blocks from the highway and not very far from the Muddy River.  The inauspicious exterior heightened the experience of walking into her sanctuary.  Here I did take pictures because a thousand words could not describe this lush, cozy mountain retreat.

Bennie stalked me, peering curiously from behind protective furniture.

Cosmo, with a Maine Coon personality like my Bob's, welcomed me to his castle.

Janet's home is a veritable museum and a cat paradise.  I don't have the vocabulary to describe the rich decor.  Everywhere you look there are photos, paintings, floral arrangements, furnishings draped in gem toned blankets, throws, and pillows.  Janet calls it her whorehouse decor; I call it the harem.  It makes me feel like lounging naked, eating grapes and figs.

Now I must clean up my little messes and get ready to go for a hike as Janet will be home from church in a few minutes.