We are coming out of the Great Plains. Viewing out across to the west and the first glimpses of the tall Colorado Rocky Mountains. The sky opens. It feels celestial. I feel like the westerner that I am, is coming home. Now, I want some undisturbed nature.
We visit with old friend in Denver that DF used to work with. Formerly a psychologist, these days, she is into good eating and organic landscaping. Out in front of her home, there is a cherry tree and it is loaded. We are invited and readily accept the invitation to pick these cherries.
There are three baskets filled in no time. They are absolutely delicious. There are different flavors with the changing colors. She gives us preserves that she has made. Dinner is good and from the garden out back.
Missouri had pot, everywhere there are billboards for pot. Save Oklahoma and Indiana, every state that we have visited has legalized pot. Friends have it, grow it and there is no surprise to find three specimens growing here.
DF and our hostess catch up as I enjoy playing her actual sized guitar. My half size one for the trip has been difficult.
We drive up to Boulder to visit with a friend who is also traveling on the road. He travels with two dogs, most of the time. He has a place in Tucson and one in Massachusetts. He says that he can show us where we might camp and there is a music fest on the street.
The traffic of the city and the crowded conditions of Colorado on a nice weekend day are impairing our serenity. We follow him out of town to where a creek flows. It is a Rocky Mountain looking place.
Steep walls of the canyon encase water, which is flowing like rapids in the river rock creek. That’s why it is called Boulder Creek, I suppose.
There is a crowd of vehicles in the parking lot. There are two young men who are traveling in a handmade motor home. We check it out. “Compost shitter works well,” we’re told.
We go across a bridge and down the trail, which is an old road bed that must have been here first, before the highway. Our friend leads us through the bushes to the creek. There we find a small island with a tree. There isn’t much room, but we manage to sit on the uncovered roots in the shade of the tree.
DF is informed that Colorado is a topfree state. She decides to try it out, discarding her clothing. Soon, we notice another younger woman has followed her lead. Others watch. It has people thinking.
We eventually visit the music fest stages. Well done stuff, but we dislike just jazz music. We wander, through the sales stalls. We have no more room in the car, which eliminates buying anything and that’s for the best. We later have dinner on the sidewalk in front of a restaurant.
Our friend shows us a spot to perhaps camp, but there is a sign around the corner to the contrary. We’re not going for it. He also has a map that someone has given him. As it grows dark, we follow this paper with lines into the mountains above Boulder. Difficult to see in the dark and with no good markings as to what is Forest Service land and private land, we finally use our best judgement. We decide to pitch a tent on the pull out on the side of the road. By that time, we’re tired and just want to sleep.
After setting up the tent, a car drives up. A guy in it states that he owns the land where we are camped. I tell him that we’re just sleeping and leaving early in the morning. It isn’t anything near the idea of an ideal camp. He says okay. Still, he is concerned with fires. “You’re not having a fire are you? I almost lost my house last year.” He hasn’t been listening and he has a weird look in his eye. We see him drive by again, later.
About sunrise, the wandering worrier again pulls up next to our tent. It is just harassment, now. We’re leaving, before traffic picks up.
We take a walk across the two lane road to explore the trees over by a creek. There grow magic mushrooms next to a very pleasant stream.
We walk and meditate; we check in and pray. It is a charming respite. We are back in the mountains.
While we break down camp, several bikes come by huffing and puffing uphill. I run along beside them, like spectators do at a professional race like Tour de France. I joke around, encouraging them like bike heroes. It puts a smile on each of them.
On the road again, we make a wrong turn and get wrapped up in a bunch of bikes working out on the mountain country roads.
Driving south in the clutter of Boulder and its traffic, there are bikes everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like this! Driving amongst this, myself nude, I have to cover up a couple of times. I ponder, “What if nudity would become legal like pot has, minus the taxes.” Nudity could become a popular pastime like these bikes. Naked bikers and hikers, nude families walking and sitting in the morning sun, having brunch on a beautiful day like this.
Next week, the Nude Across America series will bring us into a few days of resting in a Rocky Mountain high, before we head south toward the border.
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