Lost Lake

Lost Lake

A full moon on Tuesday, but because it likes to rise with the creatures of the night I missed it while wedged in a two person tent trying to be fast asleep at 9:00 PM. We hiked for about 3 miles on single-track with my cumbersome load weighing down solely on my left shoulder, keeping the stress from bearing down on my right side, still recovering from the clavicle break and the later surgery. It was doing much better, allowing a decent range of motion but no weight bearing was manageable. It took about an hour and a half, maybe two, to get to the Lost Lake where we would set up camp.

I road the motorcycle, leading Eric most the way up Canyon Rd., past Nederland and Eldora Ski resort to a dirt road which brought us to where Eric could abandon his car and I could my motorcycle. Canyon Rd is called so because it winds following the canyon carved out by Boulder Creek. The road never bends to sharply, but forces you to constantly change speed in and out of the turns.

I couldn’t help but sit back and swivel my head from side to side, just as I had on the way to Terry’s B&B. The ride climaxes just as you round the bend coming into Nederland. Slightly leaning right, you edge around a protruding rock to reveal the Baker Reservoir flicking rays tossed from the sun toward your eyes and resting at the bottom of a mountain view still holding on to the last patches of snow through the summer heat. We passed through the busy mountain town, know for the Frozen Dead Guy Festival they throw every year to celebrate the frozen man kept in a permanent cryogenic freeze waiting for a cure so that he can be brought back to life and saved. After just half a mile on Peak-to-Peak Highway, our directions take us due west, bringing us ever closer to the continental divide.

With the breathtaking views of the journey up the canyon, the arrival and hike couldn’t match it, except for the fact that we were on foot, passing by one flowing creak just to follow another raging to meet and unite with the other. Passing one rain filled creek to another, we find ourselves following a much smaller trickle to Lost Lake. It ripples small waves matching the winds intensity and peace through the acre of water. To the east, north and south there are immediate mountains, though not topping much higher than ten thousand feet. Off to the west, are mountains still adding a chill to summers breath, as it passes over the snowfields holding on to the mountains shade: The two peaks that must pass the twelve thousand foot mark lurking over the valley.

Back where we had set up our tent, with a view of the two peaks limited only by the surrounding conifers, we begin to realize that the warnings of hail we received from some day trekkers may be more than just a warning as lighting lit the faces of the mountains and thunder rumbled its warning echoed thumping against the mounds of rock. With all that warning, the storm never gave more than bright, booming warnings and the spit of the ancient Aztec god, Tlaloc.

Our dinner of trail-mix and granola bars managed to abate our hunger and led to the realization that with the fire ban, it was nearing the time to go to bed while the sun still offered enough light to ease into the tent and sleeping bags for the night. Six came quickly the next morning, as did seven when we actually got up. Before dinner the night before we did a reconnaissance of the mountain to the south and decided that a direct approach the next morning would be best, not wanting to risk losing sunlight. We stopped very near a fallen mining entrance; the logs that used to support its entrance lie in ruins with the rocks and rusted tin. The climb up proved to be challenging, at more than a forty-five degree angle our hands were nearly as useful as our feet. The view from the top was broken by the tress that claimed residence in the altitude, but still allowed for a calming glimpse of the higher peaks.

Instead of sliding dangerously down that face of the mountain in a vertical prone position, we followed the ridge to a trail that lead back safely to our tent. With only the early part of our day behind us, we packed up our bags and let the earth pull us back toward the trailhead we entered so eagerly nearly twenty-four hours before. The early exit was to help me avoid having to manage the motorcycle around wet curves in the usual late afternoon storms.

A picture taken just steps from the zipper front of our tent.

The Best Locksmith in Boulder

Most people don’t get all that excited about mail after the age of sixteen to eighteen, mostly because that is when you start getting junk mail, more and more junk mail. I have definitely had my share, pre-approval cards, smart shopper coupon books and endless advertisements. There is some excitement if you ordered something online and are anxiously awaiting its arrival or if you know some one has sent you something, but mostly we know that when we open the mailbox, there will not only be the advertisements, but also the bills. Every time I open the mailbox, I am reminded that I have pre-spent much of my income; on the 5 years of university schooling, trips to foreign countries and communication. Do I really pay just to be able to talk to people? And how much did I spend on my phone?

Back to the point, the mailbox could potentially contain some day threatening material. So when I lost the mail key, I didn’t think of it as an important loss. I would just find it in a couple days, call the property management, or pay for a new one at the post office. A few days went by, and I still couldn’t find the key. I had to mail a letter to some one, or maybe even pay a bill. I walked into the post office in downtown Boulder on the corner of 15th and Walnut to mail the letter and to see if they had a key for our mailbox. The woman at the counter said that she wasn’t sure if she had the key because it was out of their delivery area. She came back from the back room without a key, and no new answers as to how I was going to replace the key.

A few more days went by, and I had to go to the post office that delivered to our apartment complex because the second motorcycle helmet that I had ordered was waiting there in a locker. It had been delivered earlier that week and I had to get there before they sent it back. It had only taken about thirty-three days to get the delivery, and I didn’t want it to get sent back to sender, as Thailand is a pretty long way. While there I thought to inquire about the mail key, she went back to get the parcel and check to see if they had the keys for our mailboxes. Apparently, the mailboxes at our complex aren’t owned by the USPS, so they don’t have the keys.

At least an answer that begins to point me elsewhere. I let Justin, my flat-mate, know that I was having no luck with the key and that he needed to send off an email to the owner of our condo to see if she had a copy of the key. The day after, he received her response. She had also lost the key when she was living in the apartment and had to have a locksmith come by and replace the lock.

I had no other choice at this point. I had to pony up so I could have the excitement of unlocking the box to find bills and junk mail. The locksmith I called quoted me a fifty-five dollar charge just for showing up, and wouldn’t give even an estimate as to what it would cost. The second call I made was a sixty-five dollar minimum charge. I was beginning to think that telling the first locksmith that if they wouldn’t quote me a price, they had no chance in pulling it in. To the third locksmith, again a fifty-five dollar minimum, and they were going to give me a call back for a quote. A much better chance, I was willing to wait for a minute to get the quote. After about fifteen minutes of waiting I decided to take a look at the yahoo yellow pages one more time. There was a locksmith not but a few blocks from the house. I thought that while I waited for the others to call, I would try this last one, Alpha Locksmith. He answered the phone himself – the first locksmith to do so – and seemed to be a nice guy on the phone. Already having that in his favor, I asked if he could give me a quote on putting a new lock in the mailbox. He said that his fee for just coming out was twenty-five dollars. I liked the sound of this, already thirty dollars less expensive than the others. He continued explaining, “I don’t usually replace the locks, I usually make new keys for the existing lock.”

I couldn’t pass this up, a master locksmith. I asked how soon I could set up an appointment. We settled on twenty minutes from the end of the call. I gave him my information and he was there in twenty minutes. Well, almost there. He was a bit hard of hearing and misheard my address, called from around the corner and asked again where I was. I asked him to sit tight and explained the clothing I had on. Rounding the corner I heard his voice. We walked easily over to the little shelter for our mailboxes chatting about his hearing and the fact that I don’t even know how to follow the numbering system in our complex. I showed him which mailbox was mine. He opened up his bag, similar to the house-visiting bag doctors used to carry, picked out two tools that he used to pick the lock. He gave me my mail, popped the lock out, and we walked back towards his unmarked, white van. He said he would bring the keys to me as soon as he finished. I offered to stay down by the truck so he wouldn’t have to bring the key to the apartment, but he knew it would take him a few minutes more than I may have been willing to wait. I sat in my apartment playing a bit on the nylon string guitar that my aunt had given me. After about ten minutes, he brought up the key and said in an almost fatherly tone, “Don’t keep these together. Separate them now.” I assured him that I would and placed the keys on the table where I keep my keys and my helmet.

Having finished his work, I needed to pay him, and asked how much it was. He thought for a moment and replied with the surprising thirty-five dollars, less than all the others had stated was their fee to simply show up at the apartment. We talked for a minute about my picking of the guitar and his picking of locks, both arts in their own right. I wrote out the check for the mentioned price, but wanted to give a tip. It ended up being only five dollars, but he was grateful none-the-less. He bid goodbye and I closed the door and called a friend to let him know that the book I had promised had in the mail. After leaving a message for him, I received one myself.

“Yeah hey, this is uh Gary, your favorite locksmith. Um thanks again for the tip and uh here’s a tip for you, your mailman is at your mailbox right now so you might have some more mail. So, uh, again have a good weekend and chat with you later. Bye.”

I later talked to Peter Jullian about the experience. He had a similar experience with a garage door repairman. The guy even helped carry his extraordinarily heavy treadmill up the stairs. Simple artists at their trades and good people too. It helps appreciate their work as well.

The B&B

I just took off my wet socks and put on some dry clothes. This morning, after a great run up Boulder Creek Path with Ramiro, Precious, Bryce and Dan and blueberry pancake breakfast at the apartment, I rode up to Terry’s place in Estes Park. Not three or four moths ago, he moved from England to Boulder – after having too many coincidences not to come – and began looking for properties with his wife to start an athletics focused bed and breakfast. Now called Active at Altitude, it resides in a beautiful home in mountains in Estes Park (http://www.activeataltitude.com/)

While still recovering from my surgery to help mend my broken clavicle, the ride promised to be a winding climb northward with simple yet inspiring mountain vistas as the rode clung for some time to the creek working its way down the slant as I followed the water toward its source. It was like any other first ride through the mountains on an old cruiser that had never seen mountain streams and snow capped peaks. The winds seemed like gentle curves. If a car came up behind, it was enough just to let him pass so as to prolong the view for even just a moment more, not rushed by the impatience of motorists enclosed in their boxes rushing to get to the views of the mountains, their destination with views ahead, rather than those they passed so anxiously. As I climbed higher with the road, the temperature slowly dropped, never to an uncomfortable chill, but cold enough to remind me that I neared the high peaks in the Rocky Mountain National Park. I arrived to the pull-off, CR 122, with the view of the peaks resting in the “V” on the horizon, created by the walls of the valley that closed in to point towards them, and slowly inched up the dirt road and down the driveway to complete the short trip from Boulder to Estes park.

After a brief tour of the B&B – a wooden retreat the presents itself as humble and has all the all the qualities that would allow boasting – we stepped outside on the top of two balconies. It allowed us to observe the surroundings, to talk a bit about the various animals that frequented his backyard haven, and to slide into a conversation about encounters in life that enabled us to be where we were.

During the mini-tour, I noticed a guitar sitting in the corner of his room, and mentioned something to the effect that it needed to be taken out for a moment while sipping tea. It happened that the silver needles white tea came before lunch and the guitar after, but I managed some attempt at Spanish Guitar on a steel string just before Sandcastles, a song that fits more the mountain B&B atmosphere. Terry then wound his fingers around the neck and wore the tips of his fingers for a moment on the metal strings, easing out some old notes that hadn’t been brought out for some time.

After a short while on the guitar, I remembered that Terry hadn’t ridden a motorcycle for ages. He borrowed my helmet, gloves, and jacket and rode for about ten minutes on the minimally crowded Highway 36 of Estes Park. After he came back down the hill of his dirt driveway and took off his helmet I asked him, “You enjoy it?”

To which he replied that he experienced two sensations while riding; one was the same feeling had the first time he rode a bike, a feeling of terror and fear, explaining the feeling of being exposed and unprotected. The second feeling he described was the feeling of being re-acquainted to an old friend and the images that may accompany.

We walked into the house and debated whether it was a good idea to leave at that moment with the rain coming. I handed him the burnt cd of Viva Flamenco cd, packed up the computer and tea bits, and hurried my way to get on the road. There was definitely going to be a bit of rain on the trip back to Boulder, and I didn’t want to make it more by waiting for the skies to really open up near the B&B before I left. Realizing a ride in the rain, while without a proper license, and with a broken clavicle that was suffered on my last ride around dry, winding roads, was a bit risky, I eased myself down the rain soaked bends and exited the watery roads after about ten or so miles. With enough clothing on to stay warm and convince my body that I was completely dry, I could release the tension carried in my hands and cruise back to Boulder where a good drink and a few friends awaited for dinner and a film.

The drive was worth the stay and the stay was worth the drive.