Date Composed: Tuesday, October 9, 2018
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| Walter Walker State Wildlife Refuge, Grand Junction, Colorado |
It has been just over a month since we set out on our great adventure. In that time, our world here at Dry Creek has changed greatly. When we left, our day-time highs were still reaching into the low 90's. And it was dry--oh so dry. Day after day of heat and smoke filled skies. Grapes were still on the vine. We had squash and tomatoes piled on the kitchen counter. There were still plenty of green tomatoes in the garden, and some bright red ones too. Even though I left my brother in charge, I worried things would dry out and die. He had even more to water at his place; perhaps he would not be able to handle it all. Despite past seasonal patterns and a few scattered patches of yellow aspen high on the mountain tops, all signs indicated that our long summer of drought-driven wildfires would continue.
Now the ground is soggy. It has rained and rained and rained. Thick white snow covers the mountains. Friday night it is suppose to freeze. Sunday I lit a fire, and yesterday we turned on the furnace. Summer is over. Two weeks ago I would have thought "At last!" Now, it is sad to see my favorite season go. No more crickets, no more cicadas, no more dragon flies, no more bees, no more humming birds. True, the deer are back and the wild turkey are ever present. Soon even our local bald eagle, Harold, will return for winter. Still, summer is gone.
And so is our great Texas road trip. I feel it slipping though my fingers before I really even have a grasp on it. Those amazing long days of only worrying about getting from here to there and where to stop to eat a sandwich and have a pickle are gone. All I have is a bunch of inadequate pictures and the yearning to keep that magic alive. It's futile, of course. None the less, I will try because that is what writers do: we try to preserve the vanished and make tangible the intangible. Ours is a profession grounded in sorrow by its very nature. We are here to bear witness to loss.
This is true even if it is a good journey, for every step forward leaves something meaningful behind. This, of course, is true for everyone, but it is the writer who is keenly aware of it because it is he who has been recording his travels all along.
Still, even writers are not always aware that everything is slipping into the rear view mirror. We too can be forward thinking, driven away from the intensity of the moment by anticipation for what's ahead on the highway.
And so, even in my tired state, I leaned slightly forward in my seat, as if the car couldn't go fast enough, and somehow my forward incline would speed us towards our destination. Where? Not necessarily Garden City, Kansas. I don't think anyone is ever in a hurry to get to Garden City, Kansas, even if they know people there. It was probably in anticipation of the Rockies. Oh how I love to be up where the air is rare.
First, however, there would be Grand Junction. We talked about how we had to go to Walmart. I hated the idea. I always do. Yet, I knew it was true. I certainly was not willing to spend another cold, sleepless night of tossing and turning if we didn't have to. We needed mattress pads and we needed a sleeping bag. We also needed to get breakfast. We talked about stopping for fast food, but it was too early in the trip to already be breaking our budget.
We found a place to stop, and a glorious stop at that. It wasn't right off the road. We had to go hunt for it, but it was worth it: Walter Walker State Wildlife Area on the Colorado River.
It wasn't a planned stop, so when I say "hunt for it," I don't mean like looking for your lost wallet, where you know exactly what you must find. We would have stopped to eat anywhere that didn't cost us any additional money. I was just looking for any place that might have a picnic table when I saw a brown sign that said Wildlife Area. We turned and followed a maze of streets--I think it was only two, but it might as well have been half a dozen, the way things spaghettied about--that led us across the railroad tracks through an industrial area along Railroad Ave--bent tin, rusted metal and ugly industrial buildings sprawled all over the place. I thought about turning around and going back, but we were too far in now. I was too famished. If we didn't find our destination soon, I'd gladly find a smoldering dump of tires and set up the breakfast table on an old rusted Kenmore washer with dirty diaper hanging off of the cycle dial. But, we didn't have to. Just when it looked pointless, the road turned left, and I could see a gravel parking lot. Behind it was a glorious line of cottonwood in front of a pinkish sandstone cliff that is part of Colorado National Monument.
The sought-after picnic table didn't exist, which is odd, because there were extensive concrete trails winding around along the marshes, and if you've ever paid to put in a sidewalk or a patio, you know just how expensive concrete is. There were thousands of dollars of concrete before us but not a single picnic table. So, we just opened up the doors and ate in the car.
It was well worth it. Afterwards, we followed one loop of the trail to stretch out our legs for the long journey ahead. I don't recall a lot of birds, but the light on the cottonwood even in late morning was magnificent. Other than the ribbon of concrete, all was wild, which is always enough for me.
Had I not just driven through a rusting industrial park, I wouldn't have any idea we were anywhere near a city--and quite an ugly one at that. Grand Junction, Colorado on first sight has all the appeal of Farmington, New Mexico. In both places, two great river valleys that have been turned into industrial and commercial sprawl. Ain't that like America.
Luckily, here a small portion of the river has been preserved by the government. Listen up Republicans! Somebody's hard earned tax dollars made this amazing stroll along the edges of cottonwood filled river bottoms possible. Without those taxes, and without the environmental regulations to protect the area, my envisioned picnic on a smoldering heap of burning tires would in fact have been a reality. There is absolutely no doubt about it. Wilds near civilization without government intervention equals a dirty diaper hanging from the tree and a shot-up pick-up in the ravine in the best of scenarios, and toxic water and oily sludge in many others. Too many people would just rather not be bothered with the landfill fee and a trip to a designated disposal area. Often it's the owner defecating on his own property that ruins it for everyone else. It's obvious, but for some odd reason it needs to be stated again and again: we need zones set aside for everybody, including the animals.
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