Silence. That's why I come to the woods. Silence is beautiful, and unfortunately I don't get enough of it. If there's one thing I learned on a rainy weekend in March, it's that you won't get silence by camping with your car.
The day purported to be a perfect one for pitching our large six-person tent (the car camping specialty), taking a hike, building a fire, consuming our favorite beverages (mine-merlot, his-Pale Ale), and kicking back in The Sand Dunes of Southern Colorado. The weather had just started to exhibit spring-like qualities--blue skies, warm sun. I had high ambitions of loading up the Subaru with camping goods and dogs and driving south to even warmer skies.
Songs of Kubaya wound down to a slow gurgle when I realized that it would take a good two hours to even get out of town. I was antsy, as customary, and an overeager girlfriend and grumpy boyfriend do not make for a pleasant combo.We managed to agree on the fact that we weren't going to make it to the Sand Dunes. I was sad, but I was also driving. A shorter trip sounded good to me.
We didn't know where we were going, we just drove. Sometimes this lends itself to the free-spirited mentality I often strive for, but today it meant stress as we encountered bumper to bumper traffic in Denver. The silence in the car between us was crawling with unspoken accusations. I knew better than to open my mouth, so I hummed along with Bob Dylan and secretly wished for a cigarette.
We stopped at the EMS on Colorado Boulevard to look at a map. I hadn't eaten all day, so I walked next door to WildOats and ravenously devoured a Vietnamese Spring Roll and a wild cherry soda while Chris poured over maps. The EMS was stark and clean, the sales people artifical. They didn't sense our growing frustration as they cornered us in the book section and asked if we needed any help.We're Ok, Chris indicated.
I know I wasn't Ok. We were stuck in Denver, the southern half with all of the strip malls, during rush hour. It had clouded up, started to rain, and we had no idea where we were headed. I suggested we get out of there as soon as possible before I started to scream, and all I received was a glare in return. I reminded Chris that the dogs were in the car, and that finally elicited a response. I could always speak to Chris through his beloved dogs.
We decided on the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, but abruptly changed our minds when we again found ourselves in bumper to bumper traffic. Chris proposed a highway into the mountains, but I had warm, southern skies on the brain. Nevertheless, 285 came and I took it, only to find ourselves back in a disgusting, loud train of gridlock.
So much for my soothing bath of silence.
I have a tendency to expect great things. Not a bad trait, but I don't deal very well when my expectations don't pan out. I certainly did not anticipate spending 4 hours in the car, and I certainly did not paint a snowy, rainy mix in my mental landscape. As we climbed into the foothills the rain turned to snow. I was running out of gas. Tensions were high. And we still had no place to go.
I will spare the gritty details about how we ended up on a tiny, muddy dirt road alongside the South Platte River, but that's where we ended up. For 12 miles I drove, sobbing, wishing the rain would stop, that my boyfriend would shape up and offer to drive. It was getting dark. I had decided that I would stop at the next possible place and we'd sleep there, in the car. There was a solid wall of earth to the left of us, however, and river below us on the right. I tried to consult my sense of adventure, my outdoor spirit, for guidance, but she must have been warm and safe at my friend's party I was missing.That bitch.
It was all I could do to see the road, but when a small sign appeared you can bet I stopped to check it out.A campground was 2 miles away. Rain pouring down, we sat up our tent, laid out the futon inside--I know, I know....--and started dinner. We were wet and angry, but it was quiet out and there were no cars around to speak of.
