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.