jducoeur

And all of this reminds me: I never did finish off the diary entries from Colorado, having been a little distracted by the way is all ended. So here is a "blast from the past" diary entry. (Look for "colorado"-tagged entries for the previous ones.)


Old Colorado City is not, blessedly, as tacky as the signs make it out to be. It's more "artsy" and less "craftsy" than Manitou -- more high-end galleries, but fewer cool and funky stores. We poke our heads in all of them, and settle on a lovely vase made of white aspen as our art purchase for the trip. (It's now sitting in one of the bay windows at home.)

We have a quiet day, so decide to go for a short hike -- we wander a couple of miles along the Lower Columbine Trail, which starts right next to the inn. I am struck by a tree growing with an improbable bend in it: it appears to have slid down hill during a landslide, caught itself at about a 45 degree angle, and then kept going. So the base goes about ten feet out from the side of the hill (at said angle), and then it grows upward.

There's an enormous rock (well, enormous by MA standards, puny by CO standards) along the trail. Surrounding it is a brigade of Special Forces. As far as we can tell, it's some sort of training exercise that involves sitting around and schmoozing.

We drive to the top of North Cheyenne Canon. The original intent had been to drive all the way across, but when we get to the top, we discover that it turns into a single-lane dirt road, along the cliffside, for the next dozen or so miles. Between my dislike of heights, the imminent-looking rain, and the fact that we have dinner plans, I decide to wimp out and head back down.

We have dinner at an Italian restaurant with The Powers That Be of the Barony of Dragonsspine -- Seneschal, Baron, and so on. The theoretical intent is that we are to talk about The Care and Feeding of College Branches, but attempts to talk business fall pretty much flat. So we instead spend dinner swapping event horror stories and talking about Comparative SCA Politics, and have a fine time.

The evening's plan is my big commitment for the trip: teaching Dance Practice for Dragonsspine. I'm nervous: the question for one of these things is always "Will anyone show up?" Small dance practices are always a bit depressing, and most of the people at dinner beg off, so I'm a bit concerned. My worries prove unfounded, though: in fact, I get a really excellent turnout of 20-something people, many of whom are actually pretty good at period dance. Master Guillaume is from around that area, and it turns out that he has already taught them the bulk of the Old Carolingian Repertoire. Since the point of the evening is to teach them things they *don't* already know, I find myself challenged to dig deep for New and Different Dances, which is always fun.

This makes eight Kingdoms that I have taught dance in: East, Atlantia, Meridies (or Glenn Abhann, depending on how you count it), Middle (or Ealdormere, depending on how you count it), Aethelmearc, Ansteorra, An Tir and now Outlands. Unfortunately, they're creating Kingdoms faster than I can teach in them, but it makes for a fun collectible project.

We come within fifteen seconds of a perfect dance practice, but I make the mistake of finishing with The Dance of Doom -- Gathering Peascods, that most dangerous of activities. I'm in a goofy mood, so I run Polka Peascods. But between the rough pavement (we wound up dancing outside, on the porch of one of the university student centers), and her long dress, msmemory takes a spill during the "ladies go around and back out" part. She puts a brave face on it, but her shoulder is clearly in pain, so Mistress Elaina gradually talks her around to taking a trip to the emergency room. (Many thanks to her for escorting us to the best hospital in town.)

As we expected, the nurses in the ER look at her arm and the pain levels, and say, "Yep -- it's dislocated". As we *hadn't* expected, they come out of the X-Ray booth and correct themselves to, "Nope -- it's broken". After some discussion, we all agree that it will be better to deal with this when we get home, so they set her up in The Immobilizer, a contraption of stretchy material and Velcro, and send us on our way.

And so home. Overall, a fine trip, with only one disaster. (Which had the good taste to wait until the very end, when there was no remaining fun to spoil...)

[FYI: I posted a number of entries last week and before about our vacation in Colorado, while we were there. Those were f-locked at the time, so as not to be a big public billboard of "we're out of town!". I've just gone and unlocked those, though, so everyone should be able to read them.]

Continuing on to Tuesday:

Pike's Peak is a study in contrasts. At the bottom, it is all lush forest (if strangely piney to my northeastern eyes). From the treeline up, it is all rubble. That's the strange part -- I had expected solid rock (the non-mountaineer's idea of a mountain), but it's anything but solid. All the way up, it's rubble as far as I could see.

We choose the Cog Rail to get up to the top. I feel like a wimp for not driving, but the description we got from Keith (the innkeeper) didn't sound appealing to an acrophobe like me: a dozen miles of switchback curves along sheer cliffside. The Cog Rail is easier, save that I have to spend half the ride bracing myself in my assigned seat, so as not to slip right out of it on the 20-degree slopes. The bottom of the Cog Rail is a pleasant 70ish; the top closer to 40 degrees.

Much to my surprise, life doesn't end at the treeline. The obvious-from-the-distance pines end suddenly, but the two-inch-thick carpet of plant life continues all the way up, healthy if fragile. (The guide explains that it takes a hundred years to grow an inch of height, so every footstep is destructive up here.) Arctic ravens circle, overshadowing the smaller swallow-like birds, and a few marmots placidly sun themselves on the rocks, watching the caged humans being ferried past.

Pike's Peak consists of a parking lot, a variety of plaques (half a dozen celebrating purple mountain's majesty, composed up there), and one very large gift shop. Mostly tacky tourist crap. They are selling flavored oxygen, and I really ought to buy my five minutes' worth (whee -- altitude sickness is *not* fun), but I get stubborn and stick it out.

The store aside, though, the view is incredible: there simply is nothing in the northeast to compare. The guides apologize for the hazy day cutting the visibility down to only a few dozen miles in each direction.

We are alloted only about half an hour at the top before the train is to return. That's okay: by that time, I'm starting to get genuinely dizzy from the low oxygen, demonstrating that three days at 6500 feet has not been enough to prepare me for 14,000. As we reach the bottom, I finally being to recognize my dehydration headache, an old friend from Pennsic. I'm used to avoiding this headache when it's hot, but the idea of getting it simply because it's cold and high is new and strange. I resolve to hydrate better for the rest of the trip.

After the simple majesty of Pike's Peak, the Cave of the Winds is a letdown. We've been up; now we go down. (Relatively speaking: it's one of the *highest* caves in the country -- at the lowest, we're still higher than pretty much the entire state of Massachusetts, or even most of Colorado Springs, since the cave is inside a mountain.)

But tackiness: they make a big deal about preserving the natural beauty of the cave, and not allowing the public to touch anything, but the cave is festooned with lights, covered in obviously-artifical concrete. The clearly-bored tour guide drives us too quickly past things like the water-vortex carved caverns in the ceiling above us. And after the 40-mile views up top, the eight-inch strips of cave bacon aren't very exciting. They require us to take pictures at the beginning, then hand us the prints at the end -- you have to explicitly give it *back*, or pay an extra eight bucks. (We hand it back, being allergic to hard-sell.)

Driving north, we see McMansions, plaguing here even more than at home. Bizarreness: a wide vista surrounds a development of huge houses packed in like cordwood, with scarcely 20 feet between them. I fail to see the appeal, but fortunately this isn't where Mike lives. His property is lovely and big, but his new neighbor is apparently a paranoid loon, and has erected a chain-link fence with barbed wire between them, right outside their living room window.

Visiting with Mike and Crystal; I realize how little I really know of my stepbrother, but we seem more alike than I would have expected. His room of Mountain Climbing Crap is not so unlike our Garage of Holding, full of SCA Crap. We admire his lovely furniture, and realize how much of it he built -- another thing I didn't know about him. We really need to get to know them better: they are good folks...

Breakfast on Monday is quite typical of the Cheyenne Canon Inn, but worth mentioning. Waffles with Creme Anglaise; Pear Apple Crisp; Portobello Frittata; and the best bacon I'd ever had. We chat with Keith, the owner (a professional chef), who describes life in the B&B world and how one has to be distinctive -- he has chosen breakfast to be his weapon against the competition. I approve.

Then off to Manitou Springs, perhaps the earthiest-crunchiest place on Earth. First the annual Commonwheel Arts Festival, held on the green: dozens of artists vying to separate us from our money. A triptych of magnificent photographs tempts me, but my more rational better half points out that we really can't afford two grand for them. We do wind up buying an iron pelican, though.

The town is made up of a strict alternation of kitschy tourist shops and little craft stores, the tacky side-by-side with the beautiful.

The dead center of Manitou is The Arcade, certainly one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. It stretches on for half-a-dozen shopfronts, the most remarkable collection of entertainment devices ever assembled. From four different baseball games (the pinball-shaped 1920s ones that roll a ball and let you swing a flipper to knock one out of the park), through dozens of pinball machines, every classic videogame console ever made (Centipede, Joust, Tron, Space Invaders -- you name it), to the most current devices (one DDR Extreme set dominated by teenage girls) and even a couple of air hockey tables, I realize that I have found Geek Paradise. I don't even start, being unsure that I am capable of stopping once I do.

A few silly purchases made, we retire back to the inn, and its hot tub. There are few better ways to relax than just the two of us in the tub, looking out and up at the Rocky Mountains looming right outside the window.

Sunday afternoon, we get to the reason we've all been called to Colorado Springs: the wedding of my stepbrother Mike and his longtime lady Crystal.

The gazebo sits in the middle of a small pond. For a larger wedding, the guests would sit on the mammoth stones of the amphitheater along one side of the pond, and watch the entertainment from there. But we are only twenty people (plus two children, one dog, and approximately 35 cameras), so we fit nicely into the gazebo. It is hibernating, and does not eat us.

Joshua and Riley (my sister's children, 5 and 2) steal the day comprehensively. Joshua proudly bears his first suit through the ceremony, before proudly losing his first tie.

The ceremony flows elegantly, as the bride and groom have designed it. While being mostly devoid of religion, it nonetheless has good ritual -- the bride gives stones to each attendee, asking them to seal a wish in the stone and then return it to the bowl designed to hold those wishes permanently.

The ringbearer is Ciana -- the dog. The rings are extricated from the pouch hung from her collar; everyone oohs appropriately.

Staring into The Wall of Cameras, one cannot quite tell whether there are actually people back there: they are too hidden by all the lenses. It doesn't seem possible that so few people can take so many photographs at once.

Dinner at The Blue Star. (Gratuitous Galaxina references go through msmemory's and my minds, but we don't bring them up to the family, because it would require describing that wretched movie.) One long table: the Tegers (the groom's side) settle at one end, and the Shaws (the bride's) at the other. All are friendly, but the difference in taste is evident from the choice of salad on.

The cake is unique: a literal mountain of chocolate icing, with the bride and groom scaling it. Joshua eats the bride's (marzipan) head, and informs the crowd that it is hard.

Continuing the pointillist view of our vacation, on to Sunday:

Morning in the Garden of the Gods. In with the other tourists, wandering amidst sandstone. These are not hills, they are still rocks, 300 feet high, river-tossed haphazardly around the landscape. Red dominates the view, everywhere you look.

Among rocks carefully labeled with "No Climbing (except as authorized)" signs, are of course the authorized technical climbers, making their way ant-like up and over every stone big and steep enough to be interesting. A young woman is being tutored in the art of the climb, braced by the rope that her instructor has fastened to the rock face above.

We clamber up one rock, amateurs getting as high as we can before the signs tell us to stop, only to find a guide sitting placidly up there, a guru of rock-lore, stationed there to tell us about the weird erosions of the stone, and how they all got there.

As we wend our way out of the park (a single-file line of cars, conga dancing around the perimeter), I spot an improbably sheer rock, flat enough that it would be perfect for a giant's skipping-stone, stuck end-on into the ground in the distance. Atop a summit that can't be more than a yard across, and 200 feet up, is a lone man standing proudly.