Grand Canyon to California: Dirtbag Status

The Grand Canyon: A place where endlessness is an understatement
Listening to loads of: Modest Mouse- "Never Ending Math Equation" en route.

The sun setting over the canyons when we arrived.

 Don't touch us, don't smell us, don't inspect our fingernails for dirt—we reek, Corinne and I know.
Sleevey Wonder embraced us with hellos anyhow. We considered him a brave man.
“Mmm. Campfire smell,” he smiled, welcoming us to his stomping grounds.
Steve Wilson, our quirky former co-worker from Yellowstone, set us up to hike the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails. They were roughly 20 miles, roundtrip.
Sweet!
“But first,” he said, “We have spaghetti and meatballs to eat.”
“Nice! I mean, I’m vegetarian,” I relied, “so I’ll skip the meatballs.”
But let’s be real, I didn’t skip the meatballs. I’ve been a horrible vegetarian.
That's been one of the inconvenient trials of traveling.
I hated denying home cooking from hosts, so sometimes I cheated.
Besides, I supposedly needed the extra protein for the trek.

The next day, we prepped our backpacks. Water, check. Sleeping bag, check. Tent. Tent.
Tent, where was the tent?
We forgot our tent.
It seemed we left our only protection from the elements behind at Indian Creek, in Toby's truck, where we had camped. So we got a new one and tried to get stoked on christening the new dwelling.
To be honest, I was in a tizzy to have my own teeny tent -it meant I could Sharpie the insides with landscape drawings when I damn-well pleased. That thing was bound to be covered in stories eventually.

“Alright, let's do this!" Sleeve proclaimed, shooing us lovingly out the door.
 "Oh, and also," he beamed, "it’s going to rain the whole time. It'll be a real adventure!”
Great.
But it was sunshine-central upon arrival. Bright Angel was littered with backpacks everywhere, selfie-sticks throughout, and plenty of gawking eyes. We pushed through the picture-hungry tourists and strode the trail’s first steps. We were pumped. My heart rushed, remembering the footsteps of John Muir, Edward Abbey and Teddy Roosevelt that walked the same steep trails before our clan.

We were off, 10ish miles to Phantom Ranch.

Corinne and I smirking at the trailhead.

The trail was laden with others' company. We were, after all, hiking a natural wonder of any good American’s bucket-list. We rapidly realized why.

Chiseled-this and wind-sculpted-that erupted through the labyrinth of the canyon. The current of the Colorado appeared and disappeared from a great distance as we went down. We could feel the wind of every direction, the same wind that kissed the canyons far out of our view. I couldn't help but hold each breath. More accurately, I gulped my inhales down and held them ransom, hoping they'd divulge some sort of mystery.
I felt a constant vastness being so minuscule in the canyon.
An overwhelming silence set in.

At mile three, we reached Indian Garden.
Green appeared amongst the otherwise naked rocks and we took a load off to explore.
It was cottonwoods, river beds and a little cozy library of borrowable books,
a place where little ladies in hiking gear hid under trees to read field guides.

It got more and more secluded after that, with only rim-to-rimmers (the Spartan athletes) passing us thereafter.

Eventually, we reached the Colorado River.

Steve's photo of the canyon shoreline. 

Corinne left us for the shore, yanking off her backpack and boots as she inched closer.
She dunked her feet into the water, yelped at its chill, then sank into relaxation.
I wanted whatever she was having.
I shoved my pack next to hers and looked down at my boots.
Hiking, I hadn't allowed myself to give heed to my inevitably blistering feet.
They were pain-crammed sacks of tired flesh, impossibly pissed I put them through anything more than a suburban sprawl.
Lace by loosened lace, a tiny heaven unveil.
With the boots and pack finally off, the weight of gravity felt like a cumulus cushion each step
And holy hell, when the water kissed my feet and cradled them in her currents, I could've died happy.

Blissed out, we found camp.
Steve, Corinne and I split responsibilities. Corinne played camp chef while Steve and I set our tents up.
This would be the first time I got to set up the new tent.
Everything looked perfect. I stuck all the poles into the corners and erected the new nylon house of ours, then went to put the rainfly on when I noticed something wasn't right.
The rainfly didn't match the tent.
The general store sold us a mismatched living quarter.
The rainfly fit the tent, but fit it sideways, covering the door, trapping the camper either inside or out.

Being the problem solvers that we were, we made it work after some hangry experimenting.
We kept a corner of the rainfly undone to get in and out.
It was less than perfect, but it was supposed to rain, hence, we adapted.

Corinne, trapped in the tent.

In the morning, I saw my first pomegranate tree. Steve stole us some coffee and we sat on an old tree stump awaiting the inevitable rain—and finally, it came.
The 7 miles back were all sopping switchbacks uphill and we walked maybe a single muddy mile per hour. We stayed entertained, putting on tacky accents and whatnot then finally made it back to the rim by late afternoon. The rain cleared for maybe a minute and we, feeling victorious, found our last beer and split it at the trailhead.
We made it.
None of us fell off the side of the Grand Canyon.
Good job, us.
We sipped and passed our Tecate can and looked up at the not-so-clear sky, glad to be done walking in it.
Then we felt something on our shoulders. Hail?
Definitely hail. A pitter-patter of ice began falling from the sky and in two minutes flat, the red, muddy ground was transformed into a white, crunchy ice-fest.
How the hell? It came out of nowhere.
But who could've timed that better? We took one last look at the Kaibab trail and bid it farewell.

Our next stop would be at Sedona, AZ.

Sedona, Arizona: Psychic Disneyland

The view from the (almost) top of Cathedral Rock in Sedona.

The place was said to be a spiritual center, a sort of realm where energy swirls made trees grow tornado-twisted trunks. We wandered through the trails of Cathedral Rock's grounds and learned the landscape, wondering if or how these so-called vortexes would affect us.

We spent the day ambling,
stopping under the green meadow to write, to read, to braid flowers into our hair.
I laid down and melted into the bed of soft grass, thinking of nothing.
We heard mourning doves and listened.
It was serene.
In the stream, we dipped our toes, stacked rocks and meditated.
On the rocky path, we climbed to the slit between the two rock formations.
The trail bore white dashes, painted among the rocks like a treasure map leading to the 'X'.
We followed that Templeton trail all the way to the top and took note of all the strange new cacti we came across along the way.
Cryptobiotic soil grew crust.
Ocotillos shot thorny, swordlike stems from the ground.
Prickly pears dared us to pick their splintery fruit.
Mormon tea awaited steeping.
We found treasure, the view of Sedona from the bird's eye, and looked down upon it.
I heard music where sounds echoed and levitated,
this was the spot legend said was a portal.
I knew I was somewhere I didn't quite understand the significance of.
But I felt moved.
Sedona was tranquil.

That night, we found a free campsite in Cottonwood, but when a camp neighbor warned us about some meth heads about 3 sites up, we kept our eyes peeled and our mace close after we set up.
In the middle of a bunch of RVs, we felt awfully exposed.

After dinner in the dark, Corinne and I flicked the last of the ants off our stuff and exchanged an uncomfortable look.

Instead of settling, we broke down the tent and calculated the distance to Joshua Tree.
We would arrive at 2 am—we would sleep in the Walmart parking lot and just deal with it.
Besides, we were wide awake.

We set off.

The Night Drive: Silhouettes of Sleeping Desert Towns

In Pheonix, we passed armies of old girthy saguaros, towered like green, haunted soldiers.

Outside of Blythe, we had to pull into the highway shoulder to let a wide load pass.
When we slowed down further than 10 mph, our car made a weird noise.
When we let the wide load pass, our car stalled.
When we started it back up, it wouldn't stay alive unless it quickly caught speed -the low gears were acting strange.
Neither of us knew much about cars, so our haphazardous strategy was to stay fast, stay moving without any stops, and hope to make it.
(When I had to pee, I had to remind myself of that.)

By 3am, we made it to Joshua Tree.
Home sweet Walmart.
We put up "curtains", namely cardigans and sleeping pads for privacy,
then curled into our sleeping bags to listen to the lullaby of cars parking.
We agreed neither one of us would've done this without the other.
We were bums, but we were bums together.

Corinne sleeping in the Joshua Tree Walmart parking lot.

Joshua Tree, California: Without a Car, in the Middle of Nowhere

First things first, we needed to find a mechanic.
When we went to find a place, we broke down -right in the middle of the intersection.
Then, low and behold, the car behind us was a work truck, able to tow us to the side of the road and jump us. As we got help with a jump, the building manager of the lot we were next to came out.
"Hey! Car broke down?" he asked.
Yes.
"We have a mechanic in this plaza who can take a look. Need a push?"
Boom. Yes. Then three men came out of the woodwork and shoved the car uphill.

We waited to hear what was wrong with it, oblivious to our near future when -wham-
"Your engine is toast. You need a new one." $2,300.

We were carless in the desert. We weighed our options.

We could fix the engine -to the car that kept having one thing after the another go wrong with it-
or
spend $3,500 on a craigslist Subaru that was in San Diego. It was a decision we needed to sleep on.

But while we waited to hear back from where we would sleep,
namely, while we waited for our Couchsurfing host Olivia to reply with a time for us to come by,
Corinne and I made friends with some people at the shop.
The plaza was a small-town hangout where all the workers helped each other.
Darrell at the granite store would grab his tools and assist with car stuff at Collin's place.
When their work was through, they closed shop and popped open Bud Lights in the heat of the afternoon.

Tyler, the blond, buff EMT student with a love for strawberry-pesto-pizza and longboards sat with us.   He was innocent-eyed, a classic-rock car-karaoke type cat, and he introduced us to the coined phrase, "snailed it" while we waited for a call back from our host.

When we finally made it to Olivia's, it was like a dream.
Nestled in Yucca Valley, Olivia, the sweet, wise writer, had built a little cottage from a shipping container and lent it out to couch surfers and Airbnb folks.
The inside was a perfect space equipped with a kitchenette, steel-bin bathtub, fluffy queen-size bed and a bunch of National Geographics by the toilet. She even had a tea collection to sort through.

This is the cozy storage container cottage where we slept.

Olivia boiled some water and sat with us for evening tea outside.
Her little prayer flags followed the wind in the trees.
She spoke of her life in India, in France, in the states, and showed us her book while sipping chamomile. She was a witty, charming lady that laughed and nodded along to our travel tales.
When our cups were empty, she bid us a good night.
She was like our fairy godmother.
She invited us to knock on her door if we needed anything throughout the night.

Olivia and Corinne protecting the little Chihuahuas from the chilly wind.  

We were tired.
We immediately buried ourselves into the soft sheets and thousand silk pillows and sighed.
"We had a car this morning," Corinne said,
yes we did.
Yes, we did.

Corinne and I taking a break from hopping rocks with Tyler.

The next day, Tyler took us to Joshua Tree in his proud Buick. We climbed rocks and talked about San Diego and Corinne and I offered gas money and food for a ride to the city. He said he had nothing to do and agreed-
so we had a car to buy in a day
we would be carless no longer.

To San Diego we were bound.

Moab, Utah: Becoming a Missing Person

Moab:

Just imagine a 1999 Ford Escort packed to the brim with two travel-hungry ladies,
barely fitting up front, tapping hands and feet to Leadbelly - "In the Pine"
John Hartford - "Don't Leave Your Records in the Sun"
and First Aid Kit - "King of the World" on repeat and repeat and repeat.

Corinne soaking up the sun by UT 128

We just drove.
We didn't mean to go missing,
it just happened.

Corinne and I traded cold, white mountains, frosted pines, snow-piled roofs and sidewalks

for ancient red walls, steep, dry buttes and sandstone baked by time.

The canvas of Moab wasn’t powdered white, it was chiseled crimson.

We had no signal, but we had no need for phones there anyhow.

Besides, we'd wandered dead-zone wilderness plenty by now.

On Highway 191, we shed our winter skin and let the sun caress our shoulders, carefree.

We followed La Sal Loop Road at sunset,

The view from La Sal Loop Rd.

Smack in the middle of the desert, we drove to castles of snowcaps
surrounded by moats of hot canyon cliffs.

Corinne and I set up while the sky set from blushing sun to waking stars. We used headlamps to stake our tent.

Our fire at the La Sal Loop Campsite

And it got damn cold.
 Our socks weren’t thick enough and our jackets were jokes.
We shivered like nervous Chihuahuas until I remembered what Zoey, a friend from Taos, had mentioned about warming stones for sleeping bags. I wrapped three hot rocks in a fleece pajama-top, tucked it by my toes and hid in my bag until morn.

Frost caked our tent by morning. I read Kerouac and stayed put.

Soon enough, sun cooked the cold, woke Corinne, and amped us up to hike the mountaintop. At the snowy summit, the red-rocked city fit into my hand.

We gobbled the views and descended into them, finding a hidden beach in the buttes of UT 128.

The day-shelter we found by the river

Down the path, a man-made shelter looked out to the Colorado River and a huge tree shaded the stretch of shoreline.

We threw down a blanket and sunbathed through siesta. 

We found the Sand Flats at sundown and climbed their sandstone mounds until we had shadows ten times our size.

Long shadows on the Salt Flats

Realizing it was Corinne's father’s birthday,
she found signal by town to leave a message.
Just after, she heard her phone ring. Expecting it to be her pa, she answered and instead heard Toby’s voice. Toby from Taos was driving from Albuquerque with Dave to climb crags. He said they’d be there that night. Hence, we gave them directions and expected them at camp around 11PM.
Then 12AM came and went. 1AM snuck up. At 1:30, Corinne and I killed the fire, giving up on their arrival.

Just as the last coals dimmed, a smoking truck chugged up the gravel road.

Toby and Dave arrived, barely.
Their radiator had a bad leak, but they’d worry about all that tomorrow.   
Welcome to Moab, y'all.

Negro Bill Canyon:

Tomorrow came quick.  
Corinne and I left the boys. We roamed Negro Bill Canyon, bouncing our voices off acoustic-rich trails. The trail was full of sandstone towers the heights of cathedrals and lengths of city blocks, so shade blanketed most of our hot afternoon. We welcomed it.

The straight cliffs eroded into stories of age,

their sedimentary timelines all unveiling through the course of millennia.

The canyon was still morphing, constantly meddled by the winds and streams of time. 

Some spots were babbling streams, moist and flower-filled.

Steps thereafter would scald sun rays into our bones.

We climbed, we hiked, we waded while the boys fixed their car.

When we found them at the day's end, Dave and Toby were car-less.

They needed a new radiator. The mechanic waiting for the part until tomorrow.
Hence, everyone had to miraculously fit into my car.

We did some rearranging, took a lot of stuff out, then mashed the boy's things and them into the auto.

Toby rode on top of the stuff in the back, sprawled an inch from the roof. Dave and Corinne shared the front seat. Every bump, I may or may not have heard Toby's head clank with the car roof a few times. 

Sorry, bud.

We reached Porcupine Rim while the full-moon beamed. La luna era enorme.

I wanted to sleep under the moon for once. I never had, not without a tent.

The whole canyon stretched in front of me with just a baby pine and a foot of solid ground between me and the cliff face, so I had a perfect view. I had a perfect night.

I slept with a twinkle in my eye, revitalized.

Indian Creek:

The next morning, Toby and Dave invited us to join their rock climb in Indian Creek.

Sure, we thought. We could tag along.

They didn't mention the distance, the need for 4-wheel-drive or the length of their intended stay.

But who needed all that? 

We drove our half-empty tanks to camp a day or two with our favorite set of Taos folks.

Toby, Dave, Corinne and I at our campsite in Indian Creek, Utah

Along the way, we met a witty retired man traveling in a welded airplane-frame camper.

The man, Dave (who we called Dave #2), said he lived in the desert all winter, skiing and mountain-biking, then returned north to sail the great lakes all summer. 
"Do you climb?" Toby asked, and Dave #2 said no, but he did have the right shoes.
Hence, he joined us.
Up the east face of Bridger Jacks we went.
Shoes in tow, Dave #2 became a part of our camp.

Dave belaying Toby on Sunflower Tower.

At our first climb, Dave took the lead. 
He organized his cams, checked his figure-eight rope knot and slapped chalk on his palms. 
"Ready," he announced, initiating the climb with Toby on belay.
He said the climb was rated 5'10.

On the way up, Dave's feet were en pointe and his face was flat.
He climbed in well-calculated, graceful movements, anchoring to the top with ease.

Next was Toby. He marched up with no hassle.
I followed suit.
The climbing crag became a zen space. 
It was a vertical hideout from gravity -a perfect, beautiful adrenaline rush.
The climb demanded a lot.  
It required a lot of trust as well, 
both in the tiny rope and the partner holding it.

Dave #2 went next, nervous at first, but completely committed and quick to pick up technique.  
"What a rush," he kept exclaiming. A rush, indeed. He sped all the way up that crack climb.
Corinne took a go and held tight to the rock, casually cursing like a sailor on her way up.

We all made it.

At that point, the sun was coming down but Toby and Dave continued climbing. 

Dave climbing the East wall after dark.

 Corinne granted Toby her dimming headlamp and we split up.

Dave #2, Corinne and I went down the darkening trail and lost our way.

Luckily, everything trailed downhill and downhill was where we wanted to be. 

Without sunlight or an official trail, we bushwhacked through the sagey, boulder-filled alluvial fan until we reached our camp.

The boys joined us later and said Toby's headlamp died while climbing, he fell in the dark but kept going. They sure had an appetite for ascension.

Mostly, they had a constant appetite. We found food.

We feasted on "self-checkout bananas", pounds and pounds of them, and rested for day 2 of climbing.

 Day two (to a few):

Dave #2 and Corinne waiting their turn at Bongo Flake.

Supercrack was the name of the wall we would climb- you know, 

once we made coffee, ate breakfast scramblers, did yoga, translated Neruda and hid from an afternoon dust storm.

It was 2'oclock by the time we started the truck's engine.

We packed in and double-checked our essentials- 

rope, harnesses, chalk, cams and 

lest we forget 

beer, cheese, crackers, yerba mate, water and Dave #2 snacks.

We rock climbed into the evening once more, getting familiar with twilight trails and talked about tomorrow's climb.

"We'll get up early tomorrow," I heard Dave say, just as he said the day before.

Dave free climbing while Dave #2 backs up my belay.

Once more, dust storms and gloomy clouds doomed our early start.

We climbed Donnelly Canyon. The day ended too soon.

The next day would be Sunday, Corinne and my day at Canyonlands National Park.

We would leave the boys to climb on their own. 

And we would try fasting, a new activity Dave #2 sparked our interest about.

Canyonlands National Park:

Canyonlands' Chesler Park hike

Dave and Toby ate up while Dave #2, Corinne and I drank our caffeine-free tea and dreamed of grapefruits in the morning. 

Dave #2 recommended we hike Chesler Park.

He said it was an acid trip for the sober mind, made up of nothing but pinnacles and needles.

"The farther you go in, the better it gets," he suggested.

 "And if nothing else, the park has running water, gas and WiFi."

Those were the magical words, as we needed all three of those things.

Dave #2 said he was off to civilization but we'd grown used to having our Celtic-flute playing pseudo-uncle around. It would feel awfully quiet and barren with no awesome Canadian or his '70s airplane camper.We didn't want to think about it. We said our goodbyes to Dave #2 and wished him luck on his journeys.

Corinne and I left. We wandered, ambled, sat on, jumped off and explored all the rocks that Elephant Hill offered our sluggish, hungry bones. 

We filled our 5-gallon bladder with bathroom water, washed our face with running taps, tried to find a signal for home and failed to find an open gas station.

We figured our parents wouldn't worry too much about our lack of reception. 

Our cars, however, would worry about their emptying tanks-

both Toby and our car would soon be running on fumes.

Toby and Dave showing off their wicked-great finger painting skills.

We paid extra attention to our resources. 

Toby said, if all else failed, he could siphon some of our gas. At least then they wouldn't be stranded. (We had more gas at that point than them.)

As days progressed, our climbing confidence increased

and our water and gas decreased. We, at this point, had only a gallon of water left and another night to go.

Water-wise, we worried less about the quality of our dish rinsing and began "camp cleaning" with paper towels sprinkled with as little water as possible. 

We ate our morning oats and didn't bother rinsing cups before putting milk in after.

We implemented  baby-wipe baths rather than using soap and water to clean off. 

 Things got "campy",

and by the last morning, I ate oatmeal with a stick because we couldn't find a spoon- who cared?

It was the end of our 5-day camping bit.

We ran into adieus far too quickly.

Corinne and I wrote our love notes to everyone and hoped Toby and Dave would find enough gas to make it out of the creek.

Leaving:

Indian Creek from the top of Bridger Jacks.

What a week.

We felt different, not just because our hygiene was dreadful.

Sure, my head was dreading. Yeah, my legs were hairy. 
But we had working hands, climbing hands.

Corinne and I were spent, sore, satisfied. 

I placed my hands on the steering wheel, stared at their reptilian brown 
and felt proud.

We started driving to our next destination, 

the Grand Canyon.

A few miles down, the moment our phones gained signal, they blew up with messages. 

Corinne told me to pull over.

She repeated herself, the second time with more urgency. 
"You need to call your parents," she pleaded. 

She told me my parents posted to Facebook that we were missing.

I pulled over.

I dialed dad's number.

He answered.

His tone, upon hearing my voice, was the sound of a man hearing a ghost,

of a father hearing his daughter's voice after believing she had gone missing,

or worse.

He told me he'd called the Moab Sheriff.

I was an official "missing person", as was Corinne.

He needed to call them back to let them know not to pull me over if they saw my license plate. I told him he should do that.

He added that he was discussing my eulogy.

The way it came out wasn't disciplinary, but rather sad and sincere,

still shocked that his daughter was on the phone.
A eulogy?

"Buried or cremated?" he asked. Cremated. Buddhist funeral. What?

He was writing my eulogy.

He was writing my eulogy...

I had no idea what stress I had put on my folks.

I lived in the woods for summers at a time without calling them but once a month,

how was this any different? 

I empathized.

I felt a heavy burden of guilt.

I set a daily alarm to remind myself to share travel plans with them.

A eulogy.

They thought I was dead. I was at a loss for words. I kept driving

pondering mortality

and wondering what he would've written.

Colorado: Chasing Beloved Ski Bums

Winter Park:

Mason, Cody, Corinne, TJ and I camping on the Colorado River, a little ways away from Winter Park.

Arrived:

 

It was 2AM.
Corinne and I took turns growing drowsy behind the wheel.
When we arrived at Cody’s apartment, no one answered but we walked in anyways. The lights were on, the kitchenette smelt like Indian leftovers and we heard Cody snoring from the plaid sofa pillow.

We tackled and tickled Cody’s sleeping limbs but he was gone, blond hair shagging past his eyes still-closed, so we set up our sleeping bags and switched off the lights.

Within ten minutes, our old folk-playing friend from Nantahala stretched from his slumbers- rather surprised to step on two cocooned humans snoozing in his pitch-black living room. He squeezed our bones in half-asleep hellos and squirmed right back to dreams.

We planned to play open mic the next day.
My voice was cracked and my throat felt like habaneros and needles, but I didn’t give a hoot.

Crooked Creek Saloon Open Mic:

The next day arrived and the ever-inconvenient reality of Corinne’s 20-year-old-status set in. The bar, Crooked Creek Saloon was 21+.
With a bit of charisma and a few promises to behave, Corinne, Cody, his friends and I plopped to a high-top and signed up for spaces to play.

Framed vintage photos, neon lights and occasional TVs scattered the dim-lit walls. Some regulars eyed us from the pool table, beer pitchers dripping from their hands.
Mason went first.

 

Mason playing guitar in the living room.

Mason, the character I’d later learn was hit by a train and lived, sang like a wounded angel. His original songs echoed off the bar walls like stories old souls solemnly shared. They swayed the room until the sound of a pissed off bartender drowned the music out.

Shandon, Cody’s Indian roommate, was thirsty.
He was thirsty for drinks the bar didn’t provide- like cans of Dale’s Pale Ale- so he brought his own and cracked it open. The bartender, of course, didn’t find humor in his resourcefulness and snatched the table’s drinks, spilling one in the process. Fuming, she told us to leave, threw a bar towel right past his face then stomped off.

His welcome was wasted. Corinne had to leave as well. We all did.
On the way out, somehow Cody swayed the doorman to let the majority of our group stay, for we were performing next. Cody was a regular, so the guy agreed -as long as we didn’t cause any more trouble. We’d be good, he told them.

I swigged away the sting in my throat with an Old Fashioned and we played “That’s Alright, Mama” like Eddie’s Attic times. I rasped like a veteran smoker.  He smiled that big, warm smile of his, said it sounded just fine, and started strumming the chords to “The House of the Rising Sun”.
I whaled my way through it, forgetting to save my voice for the next day, and afterward a spectacled, gingerly man came forward and asked if I was signed. I said no. Derek, who recorded the last song and sent it off to some folks, said "we'll see about that". 

Humbled by it, I was.
Humbled and stoked. Cody and I left the bar giddy.

Cody ran off to get the car, but after a cold, long while I just took the free ski-shuttle home instead -they ran until the bars closed. At home, there he was -going through the details of how he got punched walking to his car.

"Right in the neck," he said, showing me.

Said all he knew was that he didn’t punch them back. 

It was a long night. A fun-as-hell night up until that last less-exceptional-ending bit.

It was about to be an even longer tomorrow.
I learned my brother, Jon, was only a few hours away and there was no way I’d pass up visiting that stinker.

Karaoke with Jon, my Brother, that usually didn't live there:

Gross, Jon and I get along so well. 

Jon is the brother that built a quarter pipe in the backyard and threw parties when our parents left town. Our paths would soon cross and I was sure shenanigans would ensue. I wanted to unrealistically ski down the slopes with my screwed up shoulder and drink beers and see what that cat had been up to, welding in China and whatnot.

He was the brother that, when growing up, got a drum kit at the same time I got a guitar -but he actually got good. He started snowboarding when I tried skiing but shredded down backcountry slopes while I lingered in groomers. He excelled at whatever he did and meant business when he tried new things.

I looked up to him in a lot of ways, and it was great that our paths would cross while we traveled. 

Karaoke unfolded that evening and he was to join once he found a plot for his camper.

We caught up over drinks whilst partaking in Basement karaoke.

We were in my element, what I excelled at -singing my face off to a bunch of drunkies.
He kept forgetting Corinne’s name and somewhere in the night decided he ought to get it tattooed on his hand. (He didn’t, no worries, but the tattoo would’ve been a diagram of the earth’s Core, a plus sign and an open box with an arrow pointing in it. Core+In=Corinne.)

Corinne laughed, responding that she was "honored and slightly creeped out" about the idea. 

We had a ball. He joined in for "Bohemian Rhapsody" and we all tangled bodies and limbs in a swaying, drunken mass of bad karaoke. 

We hugged it out and parted ways. Time went by too quickly.

We wouldn't see each other again for a while, but what a great time, getting to meet up and all.

I already missed him, that hilarious, candid brother of mine. 

Radium Hot Springs: 

Cliff view of the Colorado River from our campsite.

By now, we needed to escape the snow. Our toes grew tired of triple-layered socks.

Radium Hot Springs, a camping spot that sounded rather radioactive, beckoned.

Corinne, Cody, Mason, TJ and I stuffed a night's worth of goodies into our backpacks and crammed into the auto. I'd never had an official backpack before this trip, so finding use of my newly-gifted camping gear felt riveting. I felt like an outdoorsy woman. We were doing outdoorsy stuff.

We even had s'mores.

-That we acquired from the campers before us, coming down from an acid trip.

They let us have them after we took the liberty of watching their backpack

because they left it behind when their messy minds left the camp without it.

Who leaves their campsite without their backpack? Who cares, we got s'mores out of it.

Then, during the s'more making, Cody melted his precious socks.

I stomped them out, but they were goop. It was all good, 

"I brought spares," he said.

Those high campers weren't the only ones with forgetful minds, Mason failed to grab his sleeping bag.

It was far past dark by time he noticed and had no intention of walking the miles to grab it. 

When he went to bed, he couldn't find his hammock either.

He slept by the dying fire instead.

In the morning, Corinne and I crawled out of our tent, freezing. 

We had sleeping bags, we had double trouble socks, we had body heat.

Then we saw this man, Mason, prancing happy as a loon, not cold at all.

He, being the optimist that he was, froze all night without a wink of sleep then used the first of all first specks of daylight to forage firewood. His cheeks were white with ash and his glasses were completely opaque. He was nothing but pink lips and a big grin.

When Cody and TJ emerged wiping sleep from their eyes, we grabbed our towels and climbed down the cliff. The sulfur spring welcomed us, steaming and sunny and smelly and ours.

We dipped in, one frozen toe at a time, until all of us sighed with newfound warmth on the submerged rocks. 

The waters made our nerves tingle and we melted in delight. 

Under water, blue highlights seemed to float atop our fingers, orange shadows clung to our hands' outlines.

We watched the light diffuse -the colors were electrifying, natural neons. 

We polar plunged into the Colorado River when we acclimated to the heat.

The shock of the chilly steam woke our nerves and reinvigorated the euphoria of the hot spring. 

It must have been ages that we were in there.

Our care to tell time diminished but we eventually realized we'd soaked long enough to tarnish our silver rings. We just gave the springs another minute or so, then dried off to explore the grounds.

We made wishes in the Colorado sands of time and walked through the canopies of fragrant junipers, leaving the campsite feeling satisfied but hungry for massive amounts of Mexican food. 

This was our last adventure before leaving for Denver,
and we went barbarian on our plates then slept soundly. 

Golden: 

Cody moving all of his belongings into and onto his truck. 

Cody's season at Winter Park Ski Resort was over and he was off to Denver. 

We all cleaned his dude dorm then followed him to Golden, Colorado.

There, Corinne and I learned Cody was named after Buffalo Bill, (William F. Cody), the legendary man buried in the Golden city-limits. 

We went by the grave, looked out from Lookout Point and made our way to Mountain Toad Brewery.

Corinne and I parked while Cody went inside to see if Corinne could lounge around, alcohol-free. 

Inside, he made friends with the fiddle player and somehow landed us an impromptu fireside gig. 

Yes, Corinne could enter, but more so, yes, we could play a few songs for a free beer tab.

How the heck did he manage to do that? 

Cody's just got that New Orleans blood in his cheeks, the sweetness of a southern peach. 

If I didn't mention before, his voice is like warm honey, his demeanor soothing like a spell.

He sang when he talked, danced when he walked -it was no secret he had rhythm in his bones.

A hell of a music partner, he was an even better friend. 

We sang some songs, 

acquired beer money we didn't spend on beer

and small-talked with folks who wanted to know what we called ourselves.

I guess we just called ourselves Cody and June, our projects were together and apart.

It was a good time, it was another one of those Cody-and-June moments we sank into a rhythm like we always did. It's this grand thing, understanding someone's wavelength through music like that.

I live for that stuff.

I thrive on it.

As does Cody.

And when we were through, Corinne and I met Colleen, who thrived on rhythm too. 

Cody and Colleen playing old folk songs in her backyard.

She let us stay at her home once she got through with the recording studio.

She was dead tired but invited us to partake in some wine before bed, we obliged.

She had a long, strong story behind her and she carried it in her wise, whimsical stride.

That woman had fever for life and let it out in her music. 

She discussed meditation over tea, about re-wiring synapses to the subconscious, to the connections that get pushed behind day-to-day clutter. 

She talked about the fears of not having enough. She talked about mantras and ailments and healing.

Then, when the guitars came out, she enlightened us on 1-4-5 chord progressions.

Ex: If something is in the key of C, the progression moves from C to D to E, F, G, and finally A.

1=C, 4=F, 5=G.

Jazz often moves in 2-5-1.
You know, music stuff. 

Anyhow, she was brilliant and I was sad to leave her bright yellow living room full of instruments.

To Denver we went, for we had Red Rocks to play in and rooftops to sing on.

Denver:

Cody and I playing around to the cross-fit crowd at Red Rocks.

Cody came to Denver to visit Cheeto, his guitarist ginger-friend from the band Blackjack Jesus. 

Chad, his Thai friend from the ski resort, took a Greyhound to join our mix.

When we made it into the city, however, Corinne discovered Denver held yet another potential reunion,

with her brother Jason.

Two brothers, one state?

Both of our brothers, one from Florida and the other from Montana, somehow ended up in the same random place as us.

She was floored.

Apparently Jason was driving a broken airplane wing to Colorado Springs from Bozeman, Montana and needed to find a hotel for the night. He learned Corinne was in Denver and immediately shot her a hello.

When Jason came into sight, Corinne leapt up and sprinted to her brother’s open arms. They hugged for a long and loving while, making up for lost time. It had been practically a year since the two had seen each other.

Corinne leaping into her brother's arms.

We all piled into Cody's weathered white Jeep seeking rooftops to climb but parted ways when we found the destination less secluded than Cody depicted.
The roof was a rather well-lit domain that shone brightly behind a busy bar with an outdoor patio.

Cody, Cheeto and Chad took to the graffiti-filled alley and climbed the power box to the rooftop. Corinne, Jason and I took to the streets and rode bikes.

The rooftop dwellers came down after midnight and unraveled the happenings of their bird's-eyed evening.

While they played, some folks walking the alley caught wind of their melodies and joined them.

The crowd grew, and by the end of the night the two of them had a fan club and a newly earned pocket of change, namely twenty bucks a pop.

We drove back to Cheeto's and plotted our sleeping scenario.

He had a quaint room with floorspace for the lot of us. 

Corinne and I slept on sleeping pads, Chad, Jason and Cody slept on blankets and towels.

Everyone's toes hit everyone else's heads. No inch was left unclaimed.
We hoped no one had Jack-in-the-Box gas. 

Then at 5:30AM, Jason had to get back to his semi-truck. 

Cody drove Cheeto to work.

Our squad separated. 

Our dip into Denver was done.

Eventually, after breakfast, all that remained was Corinne and I
and we were off to the next snow-capped ski town - Breckenridge. 

Breckenridge:

Austin, Daniel, me and Corinne taking a powdery hike to nowhere.

Sure, Corinne and I could've quit chasing snowflakes,
but Breckenridge beckoned.

Benjamin, Austin and Jake, our river-rat friends from the white waters of Nantahala, awaited us there.
These were the boisterous, brilliant-souled boys that glued our summertime family together.
Benjamin was the long-maned, pure-souled sweetheart.
Austin was the goofy storyteller with a constant grin.
Jake, or "Jesus" (as he was so lovingly called), was the mellow, mustached sage man.
They were the judgement-free joy makers that melted our snowy little hearts to pieces in those Breckenridge blocks.

Our summertime siblings welcomed us and scrounged for free rental gear so we could ride with them.
We layered up and had ourselves a swell ole powder day on the slopes, lift-fee-free.
-Homie hookups. We were big fans of them.
We tried to bake cookies for the rental shop guys
to say thank you,
but we forgot and everyone ate them instead.
-I guess it was the thought that counted.

Our timing there was perfect. We arrived just in time to catch two feet of powdery wonderfulness dump down and make the whole Breckenridge world look like Christmas.
The only logical thing we could do was sing Christmas carols, cook up some mulled wine and Chinese-downhill-sled, arms linked with strangers, on the fresh heaps of snow.
It was a grown-up playground of snow games and we flailed like five-year-olds, fancying every snowflake that stuck to our sleeves.

That night, we wrote lime-a-rita inspired love notes for "Christmas gifts" and sang many a jazz songs.
Inspired by the fuzzies that writing sweet things brought,
Corinne and I founded a new road-trip tradition:
To writing sweet somethings to every lovable folk we encountered throughout our journeys.
We would hide the notes in hopes that those someones would find them at an opportune moment.

However, with constant good feelings distracting us, we lost track of time.
Open mic night snuck up and we realized the next day meant departure, so we partook in last-evening activities.
Andrew, the boys' quick-witted, theatrical next door neighbor, took to the stage first.
With a comedy act written on his arm, he had us boiled over in laughter and I forgot I was up next.
Forgetting the lyrics to a song I'd just written earlier in the day,
I sang all the other songs my brain could remember my words for-
it turned out just swell, with our little booth whistling and hollering after every stanza.
It'd never been a better crowd, having loved ones to serenade to.

Finally, when the Australian Karina took the stage,
we danced like wild wolves, ignoring gravity with every twist and stomp.
The night ended with a breakfast invitation to sing with Karina
and a business card to play a gig if I ever returned to Breck
but most importantly, it concluded with jazz hands and huge hugs and sincere farewells and sweet dreams.

Ben Phillips loves America. He also loves spraying people with sink hoses.

Corinne and I decided we would make little traditions, and from then on we followed through:

Mornings, Corinne and I taught ourselves Spanish with Pablo Neruda poems.
In the evenings, we cocooned in our blue sleeping bags and shared highs and lows of our day.
Our sleeping bags and pads held a sense of consistency -one of the few that we had.
We were getting used to the constant race from town to town,
but then we got moving again,
and to new places we would go,
but at least we had something to make us feel at home.

Now we just had to get better paper to write love notes on.
To Moab we would roam.