"Yeh," Norm replied. "A good ol' boy. . . nothing like blowing up a few rodents on a weekend..."

The sheer number of his kill was enough to astonish, yet more disturbing was his unrestrainable enjoyment of the event. There was no n.o.bility whatsoever in his action, for no one had asked for his a.s.sistance or solicited a need for a specific harvest of the animals.

Certainly the grazing cattle injured themselves in rodent holes, but killing aside, the man took no interest in filling the holes in the line of duty. Thus, amid hundreds of bodies, the real menace remained.

In context of need, hunting was natural, but when utilized as an outlet, a fulfillment of the need to kill for its own sake, hunting terrified me. I voiced my sentiments to Norm and we wondered aloud about the possible outcome if no such outlet was available. How would the killing need be vented?

We drove into the park and experienced the reminiscent awe of the mountains. It was unparalleled beauty.

After twisting through the pines we pulled off the road at a scenic turn off and roosted atop a pile of boulders for the rest of the afternoon. Occasionally a timid chipmunk would appear, nervously twitching its tail until our presence caused it to scoot behind a rock or bush. Once again, the s.a.d.i.s.tic mailman crossed my mind, and I wondered how the Colorado rodent population would fare. With luck, he had left his a.r.s.enal at home.

The Colorado Rocky Mountains were my vision of paradise. Their immense proportion, viewed against the surrounding pines, deluged my senses with an all-encompa.s.sing wholeness and an aura of well-being. No other place produced such an effect within me; I felt no spiritual rift with the universe and no emotional rift with myself.

I could not understand the stop-and-start tourists who drove through the park simply to justify their b.u.mper stickers; or those who, at a scenic turn off would jump out, peer over the railing and p.r.o.nounce, "Nothing special here" if there were no chipmunks to feed. They wanted artificial, invented forms of entertainment. If there were no b.u.t.tons or k.n.o.bs to pull, no tour guide, nothing that spoke to them through a speaker or took them on a ride, the place had no significance.

Whirlwind tourists rarely ventured onto any of the trails, or if they did, seldom walked further than one mile. Since all social amenities had to be packed in, few sight-seers prepared themselves for adversity of even the kindest temperament. They generally had no poncho, wore heeled shoes or sandals, carried no energy food, and of course, no water. Once their mistakes were evident, they wasted no time retracing their steps, trundling down the trail with parched mouths agape and pouting loudly for the lifestyle they had momentarily misplaced. Norm and I generally encountered these people on our return from a long hike; since our trek had begun early in the morning, we avoided the afternoon rain and completed our hike long before the sun dipped behind the mountains, washing the surrounding land in darkness. When I saw a "typical" tourist attempting a hike while toting a radio or blandly surveying the scenery, I realized how different I was... and how thankful I was concerning the former statement. I knew also, that if it were not for the differences in people, I could not revel in the solitude that was mine to enjoy.

Our days in the mountains were excellent. The rain never lingered, leaving the nights clear and cold. We often returned to the park after supper to drink in the darkness and listen to the wind dance in the pines. Apart from society, but for an occasional pa.s.sing automobile, we felt delivered, not deprived. Cool winds swept through the silhouetted trees and curled between tight creva.s.ses, producing a melodious rhythm which conjured the impression of silence. The noise of society was stilled in tranquility.

By daylight we roamed the trails, packing our essentials and my camera.

I never hoped to confine the actual beauty of nature on film, but toted my camera as a pictorial diary.

Photographs had become my favorite souvenir for their dimensional forms recalled statements attesting to one's destination... they were almost like eyes into the past.

Aug. 8, 1980... Sandbeach Lake (a 4 mile hike). It was gorgeous. Got sunburned. Felt great...not tired at all.

Our last hike was to Sandbeach Lake, which was nestled in the high country at the end of a rigorous trail. I label the trail in such terms because it did not simply travel upward; it repeatedly involved many declines as well, thereby creating a hike which was as difficult upon returning as it was at the outset. However, despite the evils of the trail, the lake was a reward more than adequate; it was a rippling sapphire wonder clenched in the palm of the mountains. Its white sh.o.r.e-line was hemmed by gnarled, yet dignified pines, while the cold and bloodless splendor of Long's Peak presided over all things, living and inanimate.

After reaching the lake, our day was spent lolling about its perimeter as a cool breeze modified the naked heat of the sun. The place seemed a virtually untouched remnant of land; we a.s.sumed the lake's crystal water was no less than pure and wholesome, and without hesitation, drank our fill. As the numbingly cold liquid ran into my cupped hands, it brought back memories of mountain streams and the unspoiled lakes of Minnesota. Such draughts were ambrosiac delights.

When the sun began its westward descent, we regretfully pulled ourselves from beside the lake and shouldered our packs. Both Norm and I had come to view my legs as unstoppable, but my energy level after such a trek was a surprise. As he prepared to rest his legs following supper, I suppressed a grin and asked if he would like to take another walk.

"Noooo. . . " Norm moaned in obvious protest "We've done enough, you dummy," he a.s.serted, one eyebrow c.o.c.ked above the other.

"OK," I smiled, having received the expected reaction. We often bounced our known foibles off each other for the purpose of mutual amus.e.m.e.nt. He was not mad at my suggestion, nor did he think me dumb; consequently I never expected an affirmative response and would not have pursued the issue because of its illogical quality. Besides. . .

he was bigger than me.

Aug 8, 1980... Both of us are feeling sorta' sick. Probably from drinking lake water yesterday.

It was a bitter pill, but it had to be swallowed. The lake must have been the culprit. We knew that pools of water were more questionable drinking sources, but Sandbeach appeared pure beyond question. It would have been easy to say "Things just aren't what they used to be,"

but more likely than not, a pa.s.sing animal had polluted the water previous to our consumption and we were victims of chance.

By evening we felt much better and prepared the car for our early morning departure. Before trying to indulge in some restless sleep, however, we drove to the park and made a final circuit of our favorite scenic views. I branded the magnificence into my mind so I could later return to the mountains in envisioned thoughts.

At 4:00 in the morning we were off, drifting down the black road which wound silently through the mountain pa.s.s. Above, rocky sentinels observed our progress, their formidable figures etched against the dark mat of the sky. As we coasted deeper into the rocky creva.s.se, the stars receded into the morning light, bowing to the far greater sun which sought dominion over the earth and sky.

With the coming of dawn, the spell of silence was broken. and we gained relatively flat land.

"You know," Norm said, "Once I leave, I can't remember what the mountains look like; I just can't see them in my mind."

I was glad that I could; I possessed a h.o.a.rd of images for reflections.

Unfortunately, though, mental pictures could not be shared.

Aug. 9, 1980... Drove straight back. Norm didn't feel good. I helped him get downstairs and all.

It was a long shot, to be sure, but by the time we hit Des Moines, it seemed ridiculous to check into a motel when home was a mere four hours away. We kept driving.

We rolled up to an empty house since Mom and Dad were still on vacation. Opening the door a certain stagnancy a.s.sailed our nostrils, proof that no one had disrupted the air for days. It was home, nevertheless, and a few brisk pa.s.ses and several gusts of wind sucked through the screen windows dissipated the stillness within minutes, transforming the house into a breathing creature once again. I was happy to be home.

Upstairs I found Norm seated on his bed, his eyes unfocused and restless. I stopped and he looked up at me.

"I feel strange. . . it's hard to describe. Nervous and out of touch."

His appearance made me wish I could hold him, shelter him from some undefinable evil. When I asked if there was anything I could do, he wanted me to stay and talk; far more than all else, he did not want to be alone. I sat down on the twin bed opposite Norm's; later he decided to watch television, so I brought his pillows downstairs and made certain he was comfortable. After awhile, he announced that he felt better, and I rose to go upstairs.

"Thanks," he said "I'll stay up a little longer."

"Are you sure you're OK?" I asked.

"Yeh. . ." The fear and bewilderment had gone, leaving a rather placid figure to stare at the television. Despite his stature, there was something about Norm. . . an innocence... a vulnerability... that gave him a child-like quality; and within myself, something instinctual made me alert and watchful of his needs. Involuntarily, I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; I never asked myself "why " and it never seemed to matter.

Aug 15, 1980... Went to (the mall) with Mom. Got china.

Before summer's end, I was able to realize a dream I had maintained since I was 13 years old; Dad submitted to my desire to purchase a set of china, regardless of the fact that it would be in the attic for at least several years. I was elated, after five years. I still liked the same pattern, and I simply wanted to buy the pieces while the pattern was readily available. The rich, coffee hued plates bordered with muted gold vines would one day bring further enjoyment to my dinner table. I wondered when I would first use them. . . in an apartment, to mark the beginning of a new job?. . . or in a house, the first meal prepared for a husband. . .

Mom and I carefully packed the dishes in their boxes and I watched as Dad pushed them, one by one, into the depths of the attic. How could such a plan be a mistake?.

Aug. 22, 1980... Rehearsal dinner with Steve.

Mary, one of my first playmates, was about to be married. It was no shock, she had dated the same young man for eight years. The only comment that seemed to abound concerning the event was, "It's about time!" I had no qualms toward the success of the marriage, for if they had not seen the myriad facets of each other's personalities by now, they were either blind, deaf and stupid, or extremely keen actors.

Personally, I believed in them entirely.

I asked Steve to accompany me to the rehearsal dinner, and to my delight, he accepted the invitation without hesitation. He was my first choice and, in my opinion, best suited for the occasion. Not only was he personable and well-dressed but he knew the bride as well as I did and would have no difficulty engaging in conversation with the other guests.

Aug. 23, 1980... Mary's wedding reception 'til 12:00.

It was a lovely summer evening, and as one of three bridesmaids, I felt elegant strolling down the aisle in my peach gown and picture hat. The wedding progressed smoothly, with no disruptive children or sideshows, thus ending a veritable storybook romance in the typical style.