Have I lost my zest for life, my willingness to take a risk, my passion for new experiences?
In this, my seventh decade of life, these worries periodically drift through my mind. Usually when a new ache in my body makes its presence known or I’m wondering if our investments will hold their value for another 20 years.
I was slapped across the face with an answer in the summer when I had a chance to take a road trip. My trip, really, a spontaneous adventure, started harmlessly enough. An old friend and I decided to drive together to an out-of-town memorial for another longtime friend, Melissa. A fairly short jaunt, about four hours according to Google. A perfect, leisurely trip, packed with stops for useless calories. Visit some locales where my friend and I had once created memories with Melissa.
Little did we know we’d have knock the rose-colored glasses knocked off our optimistic faces. Call it fate, call it bad luck, or that ever-present demon of aging individuals, weak memories.
Both of us were well acquainted with Colorado’s twisting mountain roads. The cloudless summer day held not one threat of bad weather. No longer penniless students, we both had ample funds in pocket, the bank, and in credit. What could stop us?
However, as a dedicated, determined worrywart, surely, I would find some threat to challenge me. I’ve never prided myself on being fearless. As a child, I was terrified of dogs, monster movies, kidnappers.
When I was younger, a trip held ominous hints about getting lost, or breaking down on a mountain cliff, attacks by rabid bears or, my favorite, a sudden and unexpected stroke. But now I was an adult, infinitely more realistic about the slim chance of dangers and could tackle a short road trip with ease. Right?
The only trait stronger than fear in my personality is my intense curiosity about how other people negotiate their passages through life. Maturity has affected this quality. As I gained experiences, I became less curious. By my current age, creature comforts weighed in more heavily than experiences, while the thrill of discovery subsided to a faint twinge of inquisitiveness.
So the twin challenges of fear and vague curiosity motivated me. As my friend Cindi and I settled in our seats, a tremor of excitement filled the car. We both flicked out our phone maps and heard our disembodied hostesses greet us.
We sailed along with no problems for about an hour and a half on a wide, clean, picturesque highway. Our goal was the small mountain community of Paonia. Evergreens and aspens undulated in a gentle breeze, while bright lemony and white wildflowers waved to us from benign meadows. The highway had no traffic jams; every driver was cordial. Yet somehow, we lagged behind our partner SUV, Melissa’s cousins. Finally, we noticed we’d lost sight of them. The other driver was more familiar with the route than we. We pulled into a wide, well-marked parking area near Copper Mountain resort, and called, agreeing to meet later at our destination. Then we set off down the road.
What we didn’t realize is that I’d steered the car onto a completely different highway, the wrong one, a state highway that continued in the direction we’d been headed, south. But the interstate we needed swerved west at that point.
Something about the road’s appearance made me uncertain. It was two-lane, the road bed was battered and worn. The farther we went, the more potholes we hit, and we spotted nary a gas station, café, or rest stop. Both our cellphone maps continued to show what we thought was the correct information. That’s because we could have circled the region and still reached our ultimate destination, Paonia. But we would totally miss our original guide in the other car and throw ourselves off-schedule by hours.
Finally, I offered, “I think we went the wrong way.” We spotted a small town ahead that looked nothing like any of the towns I’d visited years gone by on my way to Paonia. An oncoming sign referred to a nearby town at a much higher elevation than was correct. The sign read “Leadville.” When I saw two girls walking down the street, I jumped out and asked, “Is this Leadville?” They confirmed my grievous error.
Although I’d driven us off-track, off-schedule, and off-kilter, I masked my apprehensions. To make Cindi as nervous as I would do neither of us good. “Still early in the day,” I assured her. “No damage done.”
That day, what was a four-hour drive became an eight-hour inconvenience. We missed the initial gathering of close friends and Melissa’s family for the memorial at the family ranch and winery, and almost lost our places at the burger cookout. Not all was lost. We swapped tales of our earlier visits to Melissa’s cousin and relatives over the years.
Still ample time for our mini-vacation. The second day, in addition to the intimate, informal memorial, our trip was to include an outing in the town, a tour of wineries for which the area is noted. In fact, our host and hostess owned one of the wineries and graciously involved us in all the fun preparations for guests. However, our own personal Comedy of Errors continued as if Shakespeare himself were directing our holiday.
I wanted to be dressed correctly for an exhilarating schedule while on the tour ourselves and becoming familiar with this beautiful, mountainous corner of Colorado. So I chose to dress in a favorite sweater, pulsing with good vibes.
The day was sunny and clear. No guarantees about this continuing, for Colorado is notorious for its instantaneous, fickle weather, the very reason I carefully prepared for chills and winds by toting the gorgeous sweater. Heck, it even bore the word “Merci” in fancy lettering on the front. A perfect sentiment for my mood. Merci for friends, merci for excellent weather and wine, merci for simply being alive. Yes, I was missing my old friend, now gone, with whom I’d vacationed here several times years ago. But really, wasn’t that the whole reason for the trip? To recall good memories?
Determined not to let one misalignment the prior day jinx our holiday, we participated enthusiastically in making refreshments, then trailed to local wineries to sample their wares. We learned about local specialties: Riesling, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir. We heard of the challenges of too much and too little rainfall, listened to a folk duo of familiar tunes, tasted cheeses, nuts, and sausages.
Weather continued balmy, even sweltering. I had long before peeled off the sweater in favor of the simple tee-shirt I’d worn underneath.
For the evening, we were ready to feast on homemade pizza, baked in an outdoor oven. The temperature had dropped and my sweater would be perfect.
If only I could find it. Yes, somewhere it had disappeared. I remembered toting it to the car, then nothing. After searching the car with no results, I considered had I dropped it out of the car? Left it at a winery? Draped it over lawn furniture outside? No answers.
The evening began with an intimate memorial ceremony next to the roaring mountain stream. Melissa’s son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter spoke briefly about how much they missed her and her love for these mountains. One person recited a favorite poem and another recalled a failed attempt to fish in the rapids. Then we raised a glass of wine or beer or soft drink to Melissa.
Hour after hour passed that evening with no results for the missing sweater. I got more frantic. My husband had given the sweater to me the previous Christmas and he’d selected it completely on his own. My pointed, rude inquiries to all the guests at the festivities yielded no information. I braced myself to admit my failure to my husband when I returned home.
The next day, our final day, we said goodbye to our old friends. We checked our maps several times and were convinced we had the correct route for this venture. Adding to our general feeling of optimism, I vaguely recalled stuffing something into a deep glove compartment in the car. I opened it and there it was—the missing sweater! Surely nothing could go wrong now.
We made good time on our way to the final destination—Denver. The highway, yes, the correct one, wound over and around, up and down, as we tore through yet another fine day, old rock ‘n’ roll booming on the radio. “Me and Bobbie McGee,” “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” and, of course, “If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco.” Yet another thing Cindi and I had in common with our departed friend Melissa. After graduation from college, we’d packed our bags and took off for San Francisco, just in time for the Summer of Love. It missed us; we had to earn livings.
In the midst of these heartwarming reminiscences, Cindi and I took a break for coffee and pastries. Back on the road, we resumed burning rubber. About an hour later, we decided to fill up the tank. That was when Cindi discovered her purse was missing. Standing by the pump, she reached for a credit card, only to realize she had none. Nor any money, driver’s license, cosmetics, tissues, or comb. Certainly not a purse or bag. Cell phone she had, safely tucked into a pocket.
We froze and stared at one another. “Look in the car again,” I gasped. “Between the seats, under the luggage, in the far back.”
“No, no, no,” moaned Cindi. “I think I left it in the last restaurant.”
“Do you mean back 60 miles behind us?”
“Yes. I remember hanging it over the headrest of the chair.”
“Call them. Call them.”
Thankfully, she remembered the name of the restaurant and also the waitress, who had a distinctive accent. We’d both agreed she was most pleasant and helpful. She continued by quickly advising Cindi the purse had been found and rescued from oblivion. It would be waiting for Cindi when we drove back 60 miles to collect it.
Despite the extra detour back, some 140 minutes passed before we circled and pulled into my Denver townhouse. We achieved a kind of fatalistic joy as we reviewed lessons learned. Among them, we were not too old to have an adventure.
I envisioned Melissa peeping over our shoulders and having a great time. I like to think of her cracking up in giggles as we made error after error, the way good friends always do.
Most important, old friends present or remembered gift you with amazingly tender, warm feelings. Our trip had been a worthwhile pause in our normal routine.
Today, I add this adventure to the list of reminiscences I hold dear. I may not travel to foreign climes at my advancing age, but I still can challenge myself, build friendships, and treasure memories, including a final one in the collection that had begun in high school with Melissa, 63 years prior.
Bonnie McCune is a freelance writer with numerous credits in local, regional, and specialty publications for news and features. She is co-author of Recruiting and Managing Volunteers in Libraries (Neal-Schuman Publishers, 1995). She has written for Denver Woman, Sasee, 303 Magazine, Christian Science Monitor, and Denver Magazine.