Other than an Ansel Adams, have you ever seen a black and white that really looked like the landscape enough to call it beautiful? We didn't have anything but a brownie camera anyway, when we did have one, and if the relatives took pictures of us in the mountains in the 50's and 60's we didn't get any copies. In the early 90's we went back and shot a few pictures of Evergreen. The visuals were the same but it was disturbing to hear what sounded like urban traffic bouncing off the canyon walls and see houses glistening with satellite dishes where it had been National Forest. Even more disappointing was to go to Red Rocks Amphitheater and lean over to look out on the prairie only to find you were looking into someone's back yard. Times 500. There was no prairie left-just an ocean of houses.
So you see, I have to tell you how it was in its' glory or no one will remember. Our car was cream colored in those days, a beetle sort of shape with a visor over the front windshield. The seats were horsehair and smelled heavily of my father's chain smoking. We would sometimes just find ourselves in the car before dawn headed toward the shelters at Evergreen, a few miles up in the mountains. A bed made over the picnic baskets and cooler was cushioned by quilts made of wool and corduroy. We would doze back off to sleep, still in pajamas and under heavy covers until we arrived and mother woke us to bathroom and dress in the frosty morning air as the sun lightened the sky a little.
The bathrooms were permanent structures, a slightly nicer-than-an-outhouse small log cabin with a painted concrete floor and a metal lidded toilet. I was always afraid of falling into the seemingly endless hole to stinky nowhere. We washed hands at the water pump just outside.
The shelter was a different story. Rock with heavy log frames on a slab, wooden benches built in, and a picnic table. No wonder they got us up early to ensure we got one. There was a fire pit and a grill. I never remember the grill being used but it might have been so. Building a fire was an art both parents were adept at. Within moments of our arrival they had embers flaming and a coffee pot percolating. A dutch oven held the biscuits and an iron skillet sizzled with bacon. When it was done there would be scrambled eggs followed by gravy, the drippings for the bacon having been saved in a jar or can. We had milk from the cooler to drink as the sun came up and we huddled beneath our quilts. When we could see the sun over the tops of the gentle foothills of the Rockies, we would be warm enough to run and play, but first our bellies were filled with the unequaled biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs.
We didn't have much to do with the clean-up since we weren't allowed near the fire.
Mother had an enameled pan full of sudsy water to wash and the rinsing was done at the pump before the dishes were put aside. We would stay all day. Three square meals worth.
Along with us frequently was our teenage brother, Doyle, our Great Uncle Rufus and Aunt Esther, and sometimes Great Aunt Jessie, and while he was living, Uncle Smitty.
But often it was just our little family. The rocks just a few feet from the shelter were red, rose quartz. The eons of time had created hollows in the sandstone tops where rain had pooled, just the right size for a child to sunbake on the warmth of the rock. We ran up and down the mountain sides. We laid on quilts or the rocks and declared to one another what the cloud shapes were. The wind rustled the trees, ebbing and flowing like an ocean that would start it's stir in a distant bend and work its' way toward and through you. The soft, cleansing breeze would pull at you dreamily, making you one with the trees and the birds and other creatures of the wild. An occasional deer would come near the camp, unafraid. We would sit still and watch until he ambled away.
Daddy would sometimes bring a book or newspaper to read, but often just lay under a tree to nap in the healing surroundings. Mother was busier, usually having something she wanted to get done for the next meal and always with an eye on us. But Daddy would make sure she had a little time under the tree as well, and take over chasing and teasing us.
So familiar were our surroundings over time that we could anticipate the next turn, depending on our destination. The road toward Estes Park was a maze of pink and gray granite that climbers frequented. There were several stop-offs where we would picnic and watch the chip monks eating our bread crumbs. Daddy was ever in search of a mountain stream to camp near. It was a ceremony with him to take off his shoes and put his feet in the icy water. The sounds of water over rock were calming and soothing. Every sound and sight testified of a Divine Creator blessing His children with unspeakable beauty. This was one of His sanctuaries.
We were so lucky, so happy, so blessed. Only on this side of life can I understand that while we were the recipients of this simple happiness, this was a great time of healing for a man and woman who had both suffered great and repeated losses, and who carried burdens we would take years to fathom. Ever in their minds with our presence were the four other older children, each entering their teen years and young adulthood elsewhere, with other family members.
For each of those children a separation from their family was its' own trial, and each of them also carried the memory of two infant sisters born and gone within the first few years of the family coming together--we couldn't know. We were too young to possibly understand.
It is good to remember those days with gratitude. For our parents and for our older brother,Doyle, when he could come, the much-needed respite was found in the cleansing beauty of the Rocky Mountains. For us, still very small, they were a foundation we would need to build on in a few years when beauty and peace were harder to find.
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