STOMPING GROUNDS

As I mentioned last night, yesterday I broke my cabin fever in one whirlwind day. The first big event was visiting the Great Sand Dunes National Park. The dunes are pushed up against mountains on one side of a lonely, windswept expanse between ranges. I'd driven through this region in 1999, when we were looking for land, before we settled on 14 acres outside of Trinidad.

It seems like a tough place to survive in any circumstances.

A visit to any of our National Parks blows my mind every time. They are invariably clean, elegant portals into amazing American treasures. They make me proud to live here. Yesterday only added to that belief.

Walking across the broad beach that leads to the rolling swells of the dunes, I spotted something unusual half buried in the sand. I captured it just as I found it.

Then of course I had to know what make and model we had here.

You're kidding me. So good. When was it lost, by whom? Buried and unburied for years? The sand's secret.

Then this happened. Two things about this shot:

1) As the maroon pant/red boot combination suggests, the only statement my clothes are making lately is, "She's dressed."

2) An expert sand tracker would be able to read the foot prints below me and tell this story. "Woman, probably about 5' 3", approached the dune, attempted to climb, and was frightened by the volume of sand that rushed over her boots which likely clashed with her pants. Walked away looking for an easier ascent, returned to the spot after concluding that the National Parks system is not in the habit of letting citizens and/or international visitors wander around dunes that are likely to swallow them whole. Sucked it up, decided to attempt a diagonal climb. Conclude from no half-buried body here that she was successful."

I was. But it was really hard—I felt like I was trying to not become passing time in an enormous hourglass.

From there, I made my way to Highway 12, also known as the Highway of Legends. Even Wikipedia doesn't know why.

I drove the entire length, from La Veta to Trinidad. Beautiful twists and turns, up and down mountain passes, through forests and small towns that are built around something other than skiing.

At Weston, I took a detour north up Wet Canyon to see if I could find our old property. In 17 years the road has been paved and improvements made, so things look different. I went up several turnoffs, requiring 4-wheel drive and one 12-point-turn when I realized I couldn't go any further. No luck. I was disappointed, but had to move on.

I asked these guys, and they weren't any help.

I raced on to Trinidad. Seeing the places we used to shop, work and live made me a little wistful. That was the only year of the boys' lives that I got to see them all day, every day, and it was a precious time for me—despite our unusual circumstances.

We lived in the top floor of this building—my family and me on the left side, Dad and his wife/kids du jour on the right. Writing my screenplay means reliving many of my happy memories from this time, describing the scenes and characters in detail. Even if my book is never published or my movie is never made, I'll treasure the writing.

Finally, I turned the truck north up I-25 in a race straight to Denver for the concert I'd committed to the night before. The highway between Colorado Springs and Denver is a speedway between 6 and 7pm, congested and fast. I made it with five minutes to spare.

DakhaBrakha, a Ukrainian quartet featuring dominant percussion, powerful voices and a playful attitude toward music created an experience that I couldn't have enjoyed more.

I drove the hour back to my cabin in silence, enjoying the aftersound they left in my ears. Beautiful end to a beautiful day.