There was only one picture in my camera to download this morning.
It was the last one of the camping trip, the once-a-year vacation that was supposed to be 5 days long with a leisurely pack-up and road trip home all day Monday.
Instead, it's of Katy and Evan, looking like all of us felt: completely shell-shocked at dusk after a panicked tear down of camp in the mad dash to get over Independence Pass, which no one should ever attempt to drive in the dark.
A big shout-out to our new camping neighbors in camp site #2 at Silver Queen who arrived yesterday at mid-day, letting their large dog run into our camp unsecured. I'm sure they are having a lovely, crisp and cold morning in the mountains today while my mom consults with an orthopedic surgeon about the two surgeries she now has to have, one within the week before her right broken wrist sets wrong, the other to put a pin in her broken left thumb.
I woke up this morning thinking: I should be waking to the sounds of the river and the birds singing, curled up in my sleeping bag, watching the early morning light play with the tree branches swaying overhead and casting patterns on the tent. I should be watching the sun rise over Maroon Bells for at least a few more days, enjoying the baby geese lake side, and spotting marmots and deer in the forest. I should be watching Dad making the blueberry pancakes we'd planned for Saturday morning, Mom tending to the sausage or the coffee, everyone still bundled up from the 40° temps that would shoot up 40 more degrees once the sun rose over the ridge.
But I'm not.
The new little family of neighbors ruined our vacation because they couldn't be bothered to follow the rules. Later yesterday afternoon, as I was napping on the hammock, here came their large dog again, up into our camp from the river with its muddy paws, heading towards the tents. Mom got up to try and shoo it back to their camp site; Katy got up to protect her space, despite being, as always, on her lead that kept her in our camp. The dog turned, jumped and hit Mom square in the chest, who fell to the ground. According to Sam, she bounced and then didn't move.
We all sprang up from our napping places at Sam's shout and ran to help. Bob grabbed the dog by the collar and took it over to #2, who were playing down by the river, oblivious. Dad helped mom up and then went next door to find the people, too. Some of the park rangers had been nearby and apparently did nothing but stand around and say, "Well, he's a friendly dog."
Nick, Sam, and I helped Mom get over to the water bucket to try and clean off the dirt and check her out. Her wrist had already swollen to the size of an orange. Her thumb wouldn't work to get the watch off of the swelling wrist. I got my keys to Dad (their car is hooked to the trailer) who drove off with Mom to the hospital within minutes of his returning to our camp.
And there we stood.
It was 2:00 on Friday, just under 48 hours since we'd arrived at Silver Queen for a five night stay in the shade of the aspens, beside a river, in the middle of the mountains of Colorado.
And then we sat.
For three hours, we sat and talked and worried and wondered. There is no cell service to be able to receive texts to find out what was happening at the hospital. We had no keys to their car should we want to unhook the trailer and drive into town. The father of the family next door came over to apologize, with the excuse they did have a dog lead in camp but had been down at the river just cooling off. I wanted to tell him his dog had already run into our camp earlier when they were setting up the tent. I wanted to tell him our dogs went down to the river to cool off with us, too, but they were always on their leashes. But I just sat there and nodded and let him walk away.
At 5:00 the car pulled back in and I was relieved to see both of them inside. At least they hadn't had to admit her. Then I saw the sling. When she got out, I saw the thumb in a splint. And then the news: we have to get home tonight so she can be seen tomorrow and get into surgery as soon as possible.
We travel like a camp of gypsies. This is not a light bedroll and dutch oven operation. And we all knew the road back. Independence Pass is spectacular. It is also hair-raising even in full sun, filled with switchbacks without shoulders or guardrails, and sides that are entirely mountain rock or entirely nothing down the side of a cliff. There are portions where two cars cannot fit side by side with blind curves on either end. Driving it in pitch black would be suicide.
So the insanity of packing up took over. The disappointment and tears and anger could wait.
We were on the road in two and a half hours, miraculous by our standards and with one person short, since Mom couldn't work either hand. Thank God they gave her good pain meds.
We made dinner out of Hershey bars and almonds grabbed from the food box before it was packed away as we drove for the Pass at dusk.
Nick, who has now decided his grandmother is the bar of toughness against which all others pale, told me I had inherited my nerves of steel from my mom. He'd stood there and watched her wrist growing gigantic without a single tear or cry. He kept saying, while they were at the hospital, "Mimi is the boss."
We came down off the last perilous switchback pass with enough light to see Mom and Dad just behind us. It went completely dark soon after.
We got home at exactly midnight.
It was a beautiful two days I will hold on to forever. Pictures, video, and memories to follow.
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