Summer is here. And with it comes powerful ennui of mid-afternoon in the heat, when lackadaisical reading and napping and half-hearted plans for cleaning the bathroom fade into “I don’t care.” Then, somewhat miraculously and regularly, 4:30 PM arrives and so does my real self. Time to get dinner going, cut the garden lettuce, make that phone call.
Summer is here.
Two weeks ago my husband and I defied the doldrums and drove four hours to the Marble valley: the town, the marble quarry, the Coors falls (the picture used to be on the Coors can, our hostess thinks, and I choose to believe it as gospel truth), the most impressive stand of aspen I’ve ever seen, and best, mountain serenity broken only by a late afternoon thunderstorm, my favorite thing, by the way.
We hiked up to the base of the falls (well, one of us did while the other of us stopped in the middle of the giant scree); we toured that giant, up-to-the-minute town of Marble, including the stained glass windowed church that had been hauled from Aspen; we touched the new Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, languishing for years now in the dust waiting for Congress to attach funds for transport to a bill funding something preposterous like placing commemorative plaques on Mars; we walked around our hostess’s cabin in the wet cool evening rearranging (her words) the rocks we could carry (somehow they ended up in the back of the van, and do I admit this?); we identified Dame’s Rocket, and to top the evening off, one of us fell into Milford Creek. Not completely, but enough to change sopping wet clothes immediately.
Too bad you don't know the way to Bobbie's cabin!