A COVID Christmas

The holidays were coming. I had no plans to travel, but at the last minute decided maybe I should set up a little vacation for myself. That's what normal people did, wasn't it? I booked an Airbnb in the town of Crestone, which is more of a mecca for spiritual seekers than a resort destination. I had never been there but it seemed like it would be pretty laid-back.

When my travel day arrived, it turned out to be the coldest day of the year. It was -6 degrees as a packed up the car. I think this is the coldest temp I have ever been outside in. Thankfully (and strangely, given that it was at much higher elevation), my destination was supposed to be a balmy 20 degrees.

Normally it would have taken around four hours to drive there, but it had just snowed in the mountains and chain laws were in effect along large sections of road. I chose to go the long way, meaning the lower-elevation way. Along the way, I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a rotisserie chicken for Christmas dinner.

The roads on my chosen route were not too bad. But the weather was strange, the air hazy with ice crystals and low cloud. I was delighted to see this full halo around the sun at one point. I had never seen one in person before.

As I got closer to my destination, the snow disappeared, and temperatures rose toward 20 degrees. I entered the San Luis Valley, where dust storms blurred the horizon.

By the time I reached the Airbnb it was dark. I stepped out of my car to find that the air outside felt nearly warm after the -6 of that morning. The unit was a nice little studio over someone's garage. It had a loft for sleeping and a gas fireplace, and a full kitchen so I could cook Christmas dinner.

When I arrived I went to close the curtains, and realized that only the windows on two of the walls had them. The others were bare. I peered through the windows but couldn't see what was out there in the darkness. For all I knew ,the entire town was watching me unwind and make dinner. It was a little unnerving.

In the morning I could see that a couple of the curtainless windows faced only trees, but another faced my host's home, where the blinds were drawn. Are they ever opened? Who knows?

The unit

I tried to go for a walk, but soon my feet started hurting terribly and I had to turn around. The plantar fasciitis that I had developed on my Moab trip had revved back into activity. Still, I was able to get a picture of my rental beneath the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo range.

Well. I hung out. I wrote, and ate. There was a nice deck where I could see across the San Luis Valley to the snow-crested San Juan Mountains on the other side.

Eventually I decided I should go for a scenic drive. I went up one of the Forest Service roads that goes to hiking trails, and had the good luck to spot this bighorn sheep.

It did not seem impressed with me.

Afterward, I went and toured some galleries in the little town. When I say little, I mean very little: Crestone's population is only 144. One of the galleries was basically a woman's house, and her large living room was filled with paintings, antiques and oddities, as well as two dogs and a cockatoo. She was making beet soup in the kitchen. She was Polish. I said I'd never had beet soup and she said I should come back tomorrow and have some.

Somewhere in all this activity, I developed a tickle in my throat. That evening, it turned into a true sore throat, and the next day—Christmas Eve morning—found me hurrying to get to the grocery store before it closed for Christmas, so I could pick up a COVID test.

I brought it back and shut myself in, but didn't take it, since the symptoms had just appeared. Instead ,I ate junk food, and tried not to be bummed that I wouldn't get to hike or visit any hot springs or other attractions like I'd planned, or even go back to the gallery for beet soup.

Slowly my symptoms worsened. I couldn't keep warm, and spent the whole night half-awake at the edge of shivering. Christmas day found the freezing cold joined by bouts of fever, then by an immensely productive cough. The cough became a constant companion.

I still managed to make some collard greens and cranberry sauce to go with my rotisserie chicken. I tried to make some gluten-free ginger snaps, too, but they ended up more like pancakes. Sadly, my illness can't be blamed for that.

Between the fever and the exhaustion and coughing I was nearly miserable, but not quite. It was, at least, peaceful. I put on some classical Christmas music and turned up the heat until the gas fireplace flickered into blue-flamed life, and read some books.

That night I coughed more than slept, but was still fit enough to walk about the next day. I decided I ought to go visit something where there was nobody else around to infect. I went to a stupa.

Stupas are shrines or monuments that may act as reliquaries, holding artifacts or remains of saints. This one was dedicated to the Buddhist teacher Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche and contains "tens of thousands of tsa-tsas (miniature replicas of a stupa containing relics of the Buddha and mantra scrolls)," among other objects. You can read more about it here.

When I arrived I was alone. It was a bright winter day with the prayer flags flapping in the wind.

This is not the only stupa in town, and definitely not the only religious site. Like I said at the beginning, Crestone is a kind of spiritual mecca. In 1977, a Canadian businessman named Maurice Strong—once dubbed "the most powerful Canadian" by the CBC—and his partners purchased a large tract of land here, intending to develop it. After Strong and his wife Hanne moved their family down, they found themselves visited by Glen Anderson, a local mystic. Anderson told them that in the 60s, he'd prophesied that a commercial real estate development would make way for a spiritual community.

Hanne, already spiritually-minded, took to the idea. She consulted with spiritual advisors, until she and Maurice were driven to form a foundation that began giving land to spiritual organizations from around the world. Now Crestone has more than two dozen dozen ashrams, monasteries, temples, retreat centers, stupas, labyrinths, and other sacred landmarks—quite a bounty for a town with a population of 144.

Well, sacred mecca or no, I needed to get back to my rental and rest my sick body. I did venture out onto the balcony to record the sunset, where a sliver of moon balanced over a strip of orange.

The next day was my final in Crestone. It was also my day to test for COVID. Guess what? It caught me.

Since then, I've been asked many times what COVID felt like. For me, it was like a flu, and yet I've had worse flus. Of course, it wasn't fun.

When I packed up my rental I sent a note to the owner warning her that I'd tested positive for COVID. Then I went out to look at another spiritual site before my drive home. It was a ziggurat.

The signs did not explain the purpose of the ziggurat. Perhaps it doesn't need one.

When I got home, I mailed a thank-you card to the beet soup woman, apologizing for not being able to visit but saying I appreciated her hospitality. I had to estimate her address via google maps, and wasn't sure it would reach her. But a month later I got a card back. She said it was all well because she ended up being sick too.

That is my story of going to Crestone.

Fall Back

I returned (as usual) to Moab last fall, this time for my longest trip yet: eight days. Since I was going to leave Denver on a Saturday afternoon instead of my usual Wednesday evening, I would need a guaranteed place to stay Saturday night, rather than counting on there being an open site somewhere. I chose to reserve at the North Fruita Desert Campground, to which I had never been.

It was nice to have most of Saturday to pack, rather than having to cram it in during a work week, but between the packing and grocery shopping I still left later than I meant to, and didn't arrive at the campground till after dark. There were no lights, and while I found my site without much difficulty I couldn't see what the area looked like. It sounded like there were only a handful of other groups in the whole campground. It was very quiet and extremely peaceful, with a wonderful sky full of stars.

The morning gave me a glimpse of what my site actually looked like:

In fact, that was what every site looked like. A patch of gravel surrounded by treeless hills. Hey, it's great for stargazing.

I headed out early for Moab. Unlike the North Fruita Desert Campground, most of the campgrounds in Moab are not reservable. I timed my arrival on Sunday morning for when folks would be starting to pack up and head out. I do have a favorite campground, and a favorite site at that campground. It is a very good site, with copious shade. When I got to the campground, it was occupied... but the folks there were starting to pack up.

The site next to it was empty. I pulled in, took out my laptop and started writing. Soon the man at my favorite site came over and said, "Hey, we'll be heading out in about an hour if you want our site."

I smiled and cheerfully thanked him, as if this weren't my plan all along. While I waited, vehicle after vehicle drove by looking for an empty spot. They all eyed the Very Good Site. It made me nervous. But when the other couple moved out I very quickly moved in and began setting up.

Site with car, tent (partly in trees), hammock (blue), and of course view

I hung out, ate, and wrote, then went to Arches for some sunset pics.

When I woke the next morning it was raining, but by the time I got out of the tent the storm had moved on to the east. And it was beautiful, the light of the unrisen sun turning the falling rain to gold.

After that, I explored Canyonlands.

I stayed until sunset.

On another day, I drove down to the Needles district of Canyonlands, where I haven't been in years. 

I was enjoying my hike through Chesler Park among the needles. It was the longest hike I'd taken since my surgery five months past, and amazingly, the ball of my foot wasn't bothering me. It hadn't bothered me much at all this trip. I was in a state of mild euphoria. Maybe, after six years of troubles and a difficult surgery recovery, my pain was finally over.

But as I closed in on the point where I meant to turn around, my feet began to hurt—both of them. And it was the heels, not the ball of the foot. I had a long way back, and I had to do it limping.

Beyond the immediate necessity of a painful walk back to the car, this new event didn't trouble me that much. A little rest, and I felt well enough to go on another hike later in my trip, this time to Tower Arch. 

Often, the harsh lighting of midday makes photography difficult, but this time the hard-edged shadows made for some wonderful shots.

I later took a sunset hike not too far from the campsite.

As I drove back to my site, I ended up behind a train of ATVs. In the darkness and the dust they stirred up, I felt like I was on a Mars exploration foray.

As the sun disappeared, I snapped this shot of other sunset-watchers:

For the most part, it was an uneventful trip. The only thing that made a halfway worthwhile story was that I ended up with the same neighbors for the whole week, a German or Dutch couple about my age who had rented a van and spent every day mountain biking. They would come back and shower in the late afternoon via a shower hose outside the van. They did not use a curtain. I didn't have the heart to tell them that public nudity isn't as accepted here in the US (possibly because whenever the subject comes up I feel the need to rant on the gross mix of puritanism and hypersexualization that is US culture). I just took care not to look in that direction.

But the trip has stayed with me, because the heel pain I picked up on my journey through Chesler Park has stayed with me. I was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis. It's been with me for six months, despite rest, despite physical therapy, despite ultrasounds and MRIs that show no inflammation in the area. At this point I'm limited to brief walks for necessities like picking up medication. No walks, hikes, no bike rides, no dancing. Since these are some of my favorite things, and the main things that mitigate my depression, I've been pretty depressed.

And yet I'm hopeful. Many more people recover from plantar fasciitis than not, and there are more treatments for it than you can shake a night splint at. Copious time spent on online forums for PF shows that everyone responds to something different. I will be methodical.

In the meantime, instead of getting exercise, I'm trying to get my blog up to date. On to the next entry.

No Sir, I Did Not Molest That Horse

 Memorial Day weekend. I wanted to have an adventure. I settled on backpacking a loop of about 18 miles in the Little Book Cliffs Wild Horse Area in western CO. In this natural area live actual wild horses that you can actually go to try to see. And I had never tried.

Unfortunately, I was feeling poorly on Saturday so I didn't leave till about Sunday midday. I wouldn't get to do the whole loop. But I'd get to hike in and camp for the night.

I debated not going at all, but the weather was going to be miserable in Denver, with chill temperatures and lots of rain. Out on the west side of the state, the forecast was sunny and 80 degrees. So I drove across the state. I didn't escape the bad weather though--I got slammed by a hailstorm halfway there.

Unfortunately the bad weather seemed to follow me. When I arrived at the trailhead the weather was nice, but as I started my hike it shortly it turned to rain, then pouring rain, then hail. When I got tired of being pelted by tiny rock-hard peas I backed into a tamarisk and waited. So much precipitation issued from the skies, I was nearly soaked through by the time it stopped. I'll need to re-waterproof my rain gear.

Cactus flowers!

It was pretty exhilarating. And when the storm stopped, the canyon smelled so strongly of sage it was like I'd put my head in a blender of it. This was a huge improvement on before the storm, when the scent of the canyon could charitably be described as a delicate blend of horse urine and half-dried manure. There are worse smells, but I wouldn't pick it out of a catalog.

I continued to hike along, soggy track shorts clinging to my butt. The dry creek bed in the canyon had filled with a good quantity of chocolate milk.

There were some nice flowers blooming. Cactus, yucca, globemallow.

Then I found some horses, grazing on the slopes of debris below the canyon walls. They even had a foal with them.

I did not go close. When viewing wildlife, you're not supposed to disturb them. Basically, if the animals react to your behavior, even to the point of simply watching you, you're too close. The trailhead signs are adamant about this, and exhort visitors not to approach the horses, touch them, or ride them (???).

So I stayed far away and took pictures. After a while it got pretty dull because wild horses eating grass aren't all that different from tame horses eating grass, and neither one is what you'd call thrilling.

I hiked on.

Strolling along with my head down, I happened to look up to see a horse only about twenty feet of me, to the side of the trail. I froze.

It gave me a fright, that's for sure. The horse glanced at me, then went back to feeding. Didn't snort or walk away or so much as keep an eye on me. Figuring I wasn't disturbing it, I stood there taking pictures like a tourist. He was a pretty boy with a white star on his head--though he'd recently rolled in the mud--and I admired him. I haven't seen a lot of horses up close.

The horse started to walk toward me.

I freaked out. Internally, of course. Knowing that one mustn't run from bears or mountain lions, I guessed the same could be true of horses. Who knows? I stood completely still as it came on, until it lowered its head before me and sniffed at me, mouth an inch from my hand. My heart was clawing its way into my mouth. This thing was wild. And it was big. It could bite me or trample me.

I didn't grow up on a farm, okay? I don't know horses.

Its eyes were big and brown and liquid and gentle, just like they say in books. It passed around to my other side and sniffed the back of me too, then continued to wander into the grass on the opposite side of the trail. When it passed--its body six inches from mine--I reached out and touched its side, just barely. It didn't react.

Yes. I touched a wild horse. Just what I was supposed to not do. But I did not molest that horse. I did not even approach the horse. That horse approached me.

In truth, I don't know if I could say it was really a wild horse. I wondered if people had been coming in and feeding the horses, having contact with them.

He hung out for a while. A mare and foal were around too, though they kept their distance. Here is the foal looking at me. I didn't want to bother them, but I did need to go past them to get down the trail.

It began to look like it might rain again. I found a nice campsite and set up my tent.

Thanks to the dry air, my clothing had mostly dried. I finished eating and read my book for a bit, and decided maybe I ought to pack things up and get them into the tent. Just as I thought it, it started to rain again. I tossed in the things I had hanging up and climbed in to read.

I read about 3 hours before falling asleep, as the rain pattered. That was pretty great. I woke up too early--5am--and read for another 3 hours until I heard a horse whicker outside the tent.

That convinced me to get up. I got my stuff ready for a day hike further up the canyon.

This little guy lost his tail.

As I hiked on, the trail became less-used, more overgrown. I was pushing past sagebrush and tamarisk everywhere. It didn't take long to find a tick on my leg.

In a review, I'd read that the canyon had a lot of ticks, but I hadn't thought about it until now. Now, as I walked along, I looked at the fronds and branches hanging over the path and saw ticks every few feet. Some had their little legs extended. That's what they do. They're blind, you know. But they sense vibrations or carbon dioxide, then wave their little legs in the air trying to find an animal to cling to. I know this because I spent a summer working as a tick collector.

Here's one.

Well. I went up the trail about an hour and a half, but it was hot and very ticky and I decided to turn around. The experience made me a bit glad I hadn't been able to do the full loop. I'm not sure it would have been a grade-A experience.

Back at the site, I enjoyed writing and reading for a couple hours, then headed out. So many cacti were in full bloom.

I saw another horse who didn't seem concerned by my presence, a very glossy one. This one also turned and started to walk toward me, but he came on quite a bit faster than the black one had, and I got nervous and walked away. He followed me a bit. I just have no idea how to tell if a horse is being aggressive or hoping for a treat. Or maybe just wants to go in the same direction.

I headed back to the trailhead, taking a moment to snap a shot of one of the massive piles of horse manure that are everywhere in the canyon. These are apparently called "stud piles" and are left by stallions, and are effectively the equivalent of a fire hydrant for dogs. This one sits along the trail, as if it were marking the way. Just like a cairn, but made of poop instead of rocks.

I said goodbye to the canyon and climbed over the final hill to my car as afternoon drifted into evening.

That was when the real adventure began. Going 70 down the highway, my car began to shake badly and start thumping. It was like riding a washing machine on spin cycle and was very alarming. I slowed down, urging the car to make it to the next exit, which took forever to come. I pulled off and parked at a gas station.

The tread on one of the front tires had split and was pulling away, exposing steel wires. The part of the tread that had pulled away had been thumping against the edged of the wheel well. It was still holding air.

I thought about things for a bit. By now it was 7pm, and there was no chance of popping into a tire shop and getting a new one, and there was no way to get back to Denver without taking the highway, which seemed like a sketchy thing to do on a spare tire, especially since the drive was about three hours.

My phone told me there was a campground three miles away. I tried calling but couldn't reach them.

My backpacking food was pretty much gone, so I went in the gas station and bought $17 of overpriced food for dinner and breakfast. They didn't have much I could eat--almost everything had wheat or dairy in it--so dinner was a Slim Jim and Fritos. Then I drove very slowly to the campground.

They were open. I took a lovely tent site on a rushing creek for a low rate that made me very happy.

I was massively relieved. First that the car problem had only been a tire, and that it hadn't killed me, and secondly that I had a place to spend the night. I no longer had cell service, so I borrowed the campground office's phone to call my friends and let them know where I was. Because like a good backpacker, I'd told them where I was going and when to expect me back.

After that, I had nothing to do but relax and wait. I read my book.

In the morning I drove very slowly to a nearby tire place. Here's an unspectacular shot of what happened to my tire.

Going on trips, a part of me always worries that I'll have a car problem somewhere hours from home and will have to figure out how to get off the road and get to a shop and find somewhere to stay, and miss work and all that. In 23 years of adventuring, it's never happened. This weekend it did. And everything was fine.

It took the tire place hours to fit me in but as afternoon came I was driving home on four new tires, munching on Fritos, exhausted and several hundred dollars poorer but still very glad I had gone.

And that was my weekend.