2000-11-14 - 10:28 MST

November 14, 2000

Egotist

It is hard to pinpoint my exact age, but I was probably five to seven years old -- more likely five. Dad, Mom, my uncle and his girl friend decided on jaunt to a place called "Devil's Head," a picnic grounds and a trail head (I am not sure that the term had been coined yet) for a trek to the fire lookout on top. It was high adventure to me when we turned off at Sedalia, Colorado and headed to the Rampart Range Road, and I am not sure if that had been named so, yet.

Soon we were on the gravel road winding through the evergreen trees amid the emanation of the true pines -- sure beat Pine-sol all to heck, I found out in later years that pine scent was almost impossible to duplicate.

After a nice ride through the forest the car was turned off road and twisted and turned and went down to the picnic grounds. In those days population was not so high here. A picnic grounds used during just daytime was pretty empty. The high use areas were the places where camping out could be done. So, we had much elbow room there, and a degree of privacy unobtainable now. The gear was unloaded and Mom was settled with a book as her exertions were limited in regard to hard physical effort so she would be staying down there while the rest of the band prepared to make tracks on the uphill trail to the Forest Service Fire Lookout. The grown up plans of course were for me to be left with Mom to play down there while the big guys adventured into the wilderness. I can't remember now just what fit I pitched, wanting to go along but finally probably because everyone was tired of this brat's noise I was herded into the uphill bunch.

In those days everyone did things that would have caused today's environmentalists to drop dead from pure horror. After going up a slight rise we were in a grove of Quaking Aspen trees where hiking staffs were cut from young trees by the men without a thought - - - - foot traffic there was so small then that probably it just amounted to a thinning operation. In later years of course it became law breaking to do something like that -- the population had exploded and vast areas would be made barren by such acts now.

Armed with my sturdy staff and smartass optomism I set out like a puppy dog up the trail, traveling four block stretches for everyone else's one block progress. Cool humididty was with us at the start -- just coolness up higher. Oh, what beauty and strange sights to a city boy moving upward into the coolness that altitude brings. An occasional scurrying sound indicated the existence of small animals near. A whole new world was opening it's doors to me.

Our party rested a bit by the rangers cabin which I accepted with patience while examining the new thing to me, his log-cabin. Then we started the long climb up the stairs to the Ranger Fire Outlook on the highest point of Devil's Head. By the time we got inside the lookout I was leaning back trying to get comfortable but very interested in what the ranger had to tell us about fire spotting.

Up and down the Front Range were Fire outlooks, each one in sight of the the one north of it and the one south it. The distance between each was known and the sighting table in each lookout was oriented north - south, so when smoke was spotted, the sighting rangers would report the bearing degrees from their station and by a process of triangulation the exact location of the fire could be determined. I was fascinated beyond words.

We went out of the outlook and stood looking over the prairie to the east and the mountains north and south until the moved down to the picnic grounds was proposed. The trip down those damnable stairs was uncomforable for my short legs, more so than the trip up them was. So, reluctantly I was granted a rest down below by the rangers cabin for a short time.

My Dad and my uncle had told me before we started up that I would have to walk the entire round trip on my own. And I was soooo sure that I could, yeah right, the over ambitious attitude of a young dummy.

On our departure from the rest by the ranger cabin before going down, the fun in the hike was pretty well lost for me and it became a mechanical matter of mastering the descent. About a third of the way down I began my "stumble bumming," staggering, tripping and falling and bouncing off trees. Not on purpose, I was still trying but was by then too tired to walk on my own.

My memory tells me that my uncle carried me occasionally to spell Dad, but most of his effort was spent griping at me in an effort to destroy what little self respect I had, I think.

Our arrival at the picnic grounds, load up and departure is in a dim haze for me and the trip home was slept through.

We arrived home and after a light snack I was petty well revived and went over to the school grounds to play on the swings. Ever the idiot I tried the big boys trick of twisting the chains on my swing as far as possible so that I could experience the drunken whirling of the world around me. I tried that a few too many times and distributed my cookies liberally around the area. I went for home and stopped by the water tap and got a long drink from the hose, trying to rinse the bad taste out and wash away the smell of vomit.

It didn't work too well, there must have been some on my clothes -- so, came the third degree and my begrudging confession of the swing thing. For the second time that day I bore my Dad's criticism, but totally snapped when my damn uncle stuck his oar in to a place it had no true business frothing up the waters of our discontent with each other. With a stinging, red butt I was forcibly bedded.

Growing up ain't for sissies either and was very hard for this Egotist . . . . . . .

Blog