It’s Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it rainin’ fire in the sky
Friends around the campfire and everybody’s high
Rocky mountain high
“Rocky Mountain High” John Denver
The next morning all of us were hurting. We didn’t start dragging around the motel room until 10 a.m, which gave us about an hour to shower and pack up. My prospects of getting in the shower were slim, so I pulled on my swim trunks and stumbled out into the morning glare. After exploring the motel, I found the quaint little 10 x 10 swimming pool. Without hesitation I tossed my dirty shirt onto the fence and dove in. Instantly the hangover washed away as the chilling water rushed over my achy body. As a lifeguard (many, many years ago) I learned the power a morning swim can have over a drink related headache. Not only did I eliminate my weary head, but I got a quick chlorine bath in the process (my friend Tony takes these exclusively).
Tony preparing for his morning bath.
I swam a couple mini-laps, kick-starting the blood flow in my sore muscles and joints. Refreshed and rejuvenated, I jumped out and let the air dry me as I walked back to the room. On the way I passed a gorgeous woman with jet black hair hanging down to her curvy waist. Her dark almond shaped eyes glanced at me, a dripping mess clomping down the sidewalk. Once I reached our room, I glanced back to her pushing a cart filled with towels – she was the cleaning lady.
“Hey guys, the cleaning lady is hot!” I announced upon entering the room. They chuckled and casually returned to their packing. In fear of irritating the rapidly approaching hot cleaning lady, I tried hurrying up the process making comments like “We’d better get going” and “They might charge us extra if we aren’t out by eleven.” When we finally straggled out, she rolled up to our door, looking annoyed. I gave her a big dimply smile, but she didn’t share the sentiment.
Probably the most American picture ever taken.
John and Tif decided to follow us up the scenic route to Long’s Peak (the mountain Paul and I would be climbing that afternoon). They contemplated pushing back their biker road trip a few days to hike with us, but based on the look of the hung-over couple, I doubted they’d be joining us.
When we reached Lyons, we stopped at a coffee shop to get breakfast and of course feed my desperate thirst for coffee. Armed with a Grande Americano, I noticed an internet ready computer in the back corner. I realized I hadn’t been on the internet for over a week, a fact that would usually drive the web junky in me insane. But lost in the joy of the wild, I completely lost track of my life in the digital world. This of course didn’t keep me from getting online for a few minutes; I hadn’t completely weaned myself from web’s teat.
With tummies full and caffeine rushing through my veins we set out for Long’s Peak, traveling up the winding road lined with signs marking it as Roosevelt National Forest. I wondered if my old fave FDR was responsible for the grandeur or if my new hero Teddy had anything to do with it.
WE pulled into the Long’s Peak entry and soon after discovered a parking lot filled to the brim with Outback station wagons and Land Rovers. Earlier in the morning Paul expressed his concern about the amount of people out on the weekend, and he had been correct. Our hiking experience wouldn’t be as intimate as the Sphinx.
We began filling our packs once again and made sure to include the Cliff Bars we bought at Target. Paul insisted we buy the high priced granola bars that I’d never tasted before. Paul promised they’d be worth every penny. Plus, in a recent SPIN article, Robin Pecknold of the Fleet Foxes said he wouldn’t sell any of their music for commercial use, unless it was for Cliff Bar.
While stuffing my pillow into the pack, Jon Jon approached nervously.
“Hey Andy,” he whispered. “I’ve got something for you.” He stuck out his hand and dropped a little self-rolled cigarette into my palm. “Since I’m not climbing, smoke that for me when you reach the top.” Smoking amidst the thin air of a mountain top didn’t sound very enticing, but I nodded and held the wad of paper awkwardly in my hand.
“Put it somewhere safe.” Having little experience with a hand-made cigarette, I put it into my pants pocket. Upon seeing this Jon gave me a nudge and yelled in a low voice, “I said put it somewhere safe! Here, I’ll give it to Paul.” I handed it back over to him like a scolded child and watched him give it to Paul, who placed it into an Advil bottle, then into his pack. This surprised me. To my knowledge, Paul hadn’t smoked since high school, so I figured he’d turn down the offer. My experiences were also few and far between.
Once we had all our gear packed, we said our goodbyes to Jon and Tif, then wished them good luck on their bike trip north. With memories of Montana still fresh in my mind, part of me wished were joining them. Around 2:30 they rumbled off into the distance and we began our climb. As we made the ascension, we found ourselves surrounded by other hikers: healthy old people, hippie youth, and even church-going families. Everyone was cordial and friendly, but our climb felt far removed from the journey into nature I anticipated. The peak was obviously a big draw for the area with fences alongside the path, stone stairs on steep inclines, and sitting areas every few minutes. Even when I did see beautiful waterfalls and rock formations, it seemed like the fake scenery you’d see at an amusement park.
After reaching the top of the tree line, the path split into three options. We decided to set up camp quick, and then explore one of the paths. We walked back into the woods and found a nice flat space to throw up the tent. We had it assembled in minutes and rushed back to the path. The far left path was the only one Paul had never been on, so we decided to give it a try.
The walk wasn’t very exciting, although I did enjoy the constant appearance of animals. Chipmunks and marmots skittered across the path every couple minutes and they didn’t seem scared in the least of our approach. An hour into our hike, we began to realize the path didn’t lead to much and headed back to camp before sun down.
At camp, we both grabbed our books, him Harry Potter, me Kerouac (you decide who is the douche). We headed into different directions, finding our own personal reading solitude. I made my first venture into The Dharma Bums and quickly found myself once again engrossed in Kerouac’s words. (I still prefer the depressed, self deprecating Jack of On the Road over the happy-Buddhist-Zen-mad-man of Dharma Bums).
With our reading light setting behind the mountains, we began to gather firewood and lit the kindling. Paul soon had the fire raging, so I put a couple soup cans into the red coals, letting the flames lick the edges of the Chunky soup, performing cunnalingus on Donavan McNabb’s smiling mother.
"Keep toking that fire boys!"
Paul broke me from my soup can fantasy, asking, “Soooo, you want to smoke Jon’s little gift?” It felt like we were teenagers trying beer for the first time, a combination of curiosity and guilt mixing in our jerky filled stomachs. I thought it over for a while, and finally came to the realization: why not? How many times in my life would I be sitting on a mountainside with Paul and a little jay of joy.
With only matches to light the cig, Paul unsuccessfully lit it several times before finally succeeding. Sitting next to the fire, we began trading drags from the little roach. When there no longer remained paper to hold onto, Paul threw the remainder into the fire and awaited the affects of Jon’s little gift. The few times I’ve smoked I’ve had the opposite affect from the lethargic, slothful interpretation you see in the movies. Instead, I become overtly energetic, bouncing off the walls and spouting random, moronic thoughts.
I grabbed the soup from the fire with my BloodRayne beanie/oven mitt and handed one to Paul and then grab one for myself. I sprawled back onto a rock and stared into the night sky. The glistening lights above seemed to be smiling down upon us. I sat up for a moment and opened up my can of soup to enjoy the medley of steak and potatoes. Out of no where, Paul broke the silence muttering, “Wouldn’t it be crazy if Bono suddenly floated down from above, singing ‘In the Name of Love’?”
“What?” I asked. This surprised me. Paul despises U2. He had to be in another state of mind to be dreaming of Bono.
“Yeah, like Bono just floats down, and then Edge emerges from the trees playing guitar.” I giggled at his idea, and added, “Yeah, and then the bears and marmots come out of the trees singing along to the chorus.” Caught up in our imaginings, I stood up and yodeled into the night sky, “In the name of love, what more in the name of love!” We both chuckled at the echo of my howling voice.
I then had a sudden flashback to childhood, remembering when The Muppets performed Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth”. “Dude, dude! I’ve got it! What if Bono and Edge were on the Muppets, and it was like a bunch of puppet bears singing along.”
Paul looked confused (in hindsight, he might have just been stuck in a stupor). “And then like Fozzie bear comes in and ruins everything yelling ‘Wok ka Wok ka? Eh? Paul?” He stared at me glossy eyed. I lost him with my random Muppet reference, but didn’t care, thinking back to the classic Muppet scene, hunters and all. I began pacing around the fire, continuing my random ramblings while Paul just kind of lifelessly laid there, much like the rock beneath his head. I looked down at him and asked, “Are you feeling it already?”
“Yeh,” he mumbled. “Aren’t you?”
Feeling chock full energy, I should have known the affects had taken over, but for some reason I was convinced I remained unaffected. “No dude, this sucks.” I then continued rambling – talking about what a strange word “pertinent” is, questioning where soup was invented, and spouting off a jumbled mess of ideas for the upcoming Repeater and the Wolf album. Paul finally broke my stream of consciousness, asking, “Aren’t you tired?”
“No!” I responded.
“Well, I’m ready to crash,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Um…okay.” I looked at the time on my i-Pod, and realized it had already reached midnight. The night had flown by us, lost in our fire side reverie. I crawled into the tent and laid back, trying to find the calming solace Paul was feeling. Unfortunately, my crazy legs continued kicking and my brain couldn’t stop wondering where marmots sleep at night.
To help ease my mile-a-minute mind, I put on my ear buds and began listening to some Opie and Anthony, letting their conversation occupy my brain. I don’t remember much of the show I listened to, but O and A have never seemed quite as funny as they did that night on top of Long’s Peak. I’m not sure what time I finally went to bed, but the next morning Paul complained that he could hear my maniacal giggling into the early hours of the morning.
"To answer your question, marmots sleep where ever the hell they want. Now go to sleep before I eat your toes you giggle-y fuck."