The following is a piece of my catalog of travels from the great state of Virginia to the great state of California, up the coast to Washington (also great), and then back east, back home. Nothing in this account has been embellished and/or fabricated. It all really and truly happened. For real. Seriously. I would not lie to you.
Monday, June 12, 2006 (cont.)
COLORADO
Knife's Edge
We crossed the Colorado border in the early afternoon. We drove up and up and up to the Rocky Mountains. On the long road to the top there were many little shops. We stopped at one that was a Native American store. The owner was very friendly and told us how he has owned the store for 35 years. He lives in the middle of nowhere and loves it. "Why would I want to go anywhere else?" He asked. We didn't have an answer for him.
I've never owned a pocketknife in my life. My father swears by them. My brother seems to buy a new one every few months. It's a man thing, I suppose. With a knife in your pocket, you can do anything: cut rope, whittle a stick down to cook food over a fire or stab a fish in the wild--a handy pocketknife can protect you against a bear ... or, at least, make you feel like you're making a good effort to survive while you perish under his massive claws. Yeah, it's a man thing, and I never really wanted one.
Something about being out here on the open road though, something about the whole "back to nature" thing, made me buy a pocketknife from this kind gentleman in the Native American store on the side of the long road up to the Rocky Mountains.
I picked out the perfect knife. It has a Native American on a horse in the wilderness looking up to the moon. It's silver, it's sharp, it's authentic ... wait ... it was made in China?? Yes, that's right, my first pocketknife was made in China. I didn't notice til it was too late. It's quite a buzzkill, to say the very least. But I'm still very excited about it, and I'm going to go cut me up a mean piece of rope.
The Rockies
What can you say about the Rocky Mountains? We stopped on the road to the top many times. We walked along short paths and stared out at the great majesty of the snow peaked mountaintops. I sat on the stones and watched the birds soar below me. They dove and swirled and landed lightly on tree branches while the cold wind rustled their feathers and whistled in my ears. There were many other travelers among us but the scene was as still and peaceful as it is meant to be. We saw quite a few muskrat and even shared the mountain air with some elk! I don't want to say too much about it though. Each individual has to experience some things for themselves. Not only that, but it is hard to say what goes through your mind while you're sitting on a ledge, staring out, down, and up. To be honest, not much does. There's a lot of "Wow" going on inside you. That just about covers it. Some places in this world are too good for words.
Tuesday, June 14, 2006
Fulford
Dan went on a cross-country trip six years ago. At one point on his trip, he found himself in this back-woods village called Fulford, Colorado. He arrived at night and it scared him half to death. I've been hearing creepy stories of this place ever since. So of course, I had to see what all the fuss was about.
We got off the highway and drove about 20 miles on a back road just to get to this place. The back road eventually turned into a dirt road and the dirt road turned into the woods. "We're not getting out of here alive, are we?"
"Nope."
The cabins weren't terribly frightening. In any other setting, they would probably seem like a cozy getaway from the bustle of city life. I didn't really see what the big deal was. Except for the fact that there was not one human being in town. Gulp.
We drove slow. We had to. The road was more rock than dirt. We came to the end of the road through "town" almost immediately after we came to the beginning of it. So much for Fulford. What was the big deal?
We drove a little more and came to a point in the road where we could either go left or straight. We went left. And for the next 2 and a half hours we cursed our decision.
To call it a road would be to insult roads everywhere. No car should ever go down this horrid, 
burped-up piece of land. And from the looks of it, no car had in quite some time, if ever. Jagged rocks jutted up from everywhere. Mud caked mounds rose up from the earth and soiled the car with filth. We bottomed out more times than we could count. The metal frame underneath the car begged for mercy. As we passed numerous bones in the road, we simultaneously prayed they were not human and for our own lives. This had to be the worst of it. Right? Wrong.
"Um. Is that a tree in the road?"
At this point in the adventure, I got out of the car and lifted this gigantic and extremely heavy tree branch up off the ground and over my head so Dan could drive under it. Meanwhile the bugs are biting my bulging neck, my legs are shaking under the weight, and all the time I'm thinking, Dear God, what are we doing?
It went on like this for about another hour. I got out of the car many times to direct Dan around the impossible stones. One time, he got stuck in the mud and I had to push the car while he floored it in reverse and kicked mud up on my legs. I was beginning to think we would die out there. It was truly that awful. If the middle of nowhere has an address, it is Fulford.
At long last we came to a clearing up ahead. With the sunlight peeking through the trees, I prematurely rejoiced. The car was stuck again.
Frustrated to no end, sweaty, angry, and terrified, I ran out to the clearing. The Colorado mountains loomed off to the left, mocking me. I stared straight ahead at the devil's path we would have to traverse. It cut through the field and went straight back into the woods. It was over. Even if we could get over that last muddy hump, who knows what would lie ahead?
I walked dejected back to the car to make my report to Dan, who, by his own right, was ready to set the world on fire. It was then that we made the decision we should have made long ago.
"We’d better turn around."
Back up the long, beaten trail that no tires should ever tread. Back through the unforgiving muck and scraping over the sinister, razor edged stones. When we got to the tree in the path, I tried to lift it again. I could not. I was spent. Physically, emotionally, and in every way possible. It felt like it weighed at least 100 pounds more than it did before (when it felt like a ton). Fulford was not going to let us leave.
Luckily, Dan was able to lift the beast's trunk as I drove under. He dropped it hard on the ground and we continued on our ill-begotten journey.
In the end, we survived. I don't know how, but we did. We somehow escaped that living nightmare and came out all the stronger for it. ... I think.
However, there is a less rational part of me that thinks we're still back there, stuck in the devil's mud of Fulford, living in some kind of sick and twisted purgatory from which we will never escape. If this is the case, please refrain from coming to look for us. Save yourselves. We are done for, deep in the bowels of Fulford.
If anyone out there has ever been to Fulford, please do comment and tell a happy story of the place. Alleviate my fears.
