Balding Old Men and White Washcloths

Miles 13.3

Camped at Super 8 Motel, Buena Vista, CO

Are you Fire? Stone Soup asked them.

What? They said together.

You know. Firefighters. I said.

No, why? They said.

We pegged you for fire crew because you’re in such good shape. We said.

They ate that shit up. But it was true. They’d gone right up the mountain lickety split while we took our sweet ass time. Like Usual.

But the views were phenomenal. And the mountains were huge. So huge. And so significant in our eyes. But so insignificant in the eyes of the locals that they didn’t even bother to give them names since they weren’t over fourteen thousand feet tall. They were only, like, thirteen thousand feet tall.

The mountains towered over us. Watching us carefully crawl along their sides. Smiling at us. Cradling us. The tops of their heads Balding Old Men. The trees, their beards. They gave us safe passage.

And when we eventually got to the top, we said, this is the top! And we were right.

And there was Randy and Kim, a lovely couple who offered us a ride if we could get to the parking lot when they did. Man, did we try to keep up with them. But I was tired and was starting to trip over my feet and slip on slippery slopes.

I’ve got to slow down or I”m going to get hurt, I told Stone. They’re just too fast for me.

But somehow we all made it down the mountain and they drove us to the Super 8, and Stone Soup and I took some lovely showers, turning our White Washcloths brown. She set me up with some ice for my foot and sent me to sleep while she took off to do our laundry.

And I slept like the old mountains.