The Legend Unleashed. L.S. Strange
that familiar smell, the wonderful aroma of “new.” Scott spared no expense, after all, you only live once.
Ron stacked all the bags in the back bedroom with the bunk beds. He then separated the fishing gear to the front bedroom. A quizzical look crossed his face as he gingerly lifted Bob’s ganky filth-crusted bag. His mind could not even begin to imagine how Bob’s fishing pole sustained its injuries. The fact was he didn’t want to know. He contemplated which bedroom to put it in.
“Ummmm,” Ron mused. “Definitely back bedroom.” He decided and chucked it back there on the heap. Loading the gear didn’t bother him since it kept him busy and away from small talk with the others. He was not a morning person and just wanted to be left alone until the journey was underway.
The trailer was hooked up to a two-year-old full-sized Chevy conversion van. The van comfortably sat seven with room to spare. The paint was superb, a metallic deep-prism blue. Fog lights mounted to the front bumper gave it an ominous appearance. The powerful V-8 engine was smartly tuned, all muscle, and would have no difficulty pulling the trailer, just a slight touch of the gas, and she took off. A three-step chrome ladder was mounted on one of the back doors and led to a luggage rack up top. The best thing about this beast is that it was trimmed out in chrome, a feature missing from most late model vehicles and is, to most people, the best part.
Ron walked over to where everyone was excitedly discussing the events they were planning for the expedition.
“All packed up and ready to go. You did the food already, right?”
“Absolutely,” Laura responded with a smile.
“Come on, guys!” Scott yelled with a huge grin on his face. It was a grin that would take a surgeon days to remove because it was the grin of true happiness.
Michael came barreling down the stairs and out the front door, full of happiness and excitement. All the campers clambered into the van. It took on the appearance of a ship at sea as it shook back and forth with the boarding.
“Shotgun!” John yelled as he raced for the front passenger seat. This was very out of character for him. His excitement had dissolved his inhibitions. Bob plopped down in the captain’s chair directly behind the driver’s seat and closed his eyes to sleep. Michael stretched out over the bench seat in the far back. Ron, being the last one to enter, grabbed the captain’s chair next to Bob. At least in this seat, because it was next to the door, he would be the first one out.
Before Scott assumed his place behind the steering wheel, he gently took Laura in his arms and gave her a tender kiss goodbye.
He carefully backed out of the driveway into the street. Scott shifted the van into gear, and they went off down the street, embarking on their mission. By now, the sun had risen over the horizon and shone brightly to illuminate the morning.
The miles of city travel seemed long and endless. Michael could barely contain himself as he eagerly looked out the window, hoping to get a glimpse of something worth seeing.
After what felt like an eternity, Michael’s heart began to beat faster as he saw the sign for Highway 119. They would soon be at the foot of the mountains with the city driving finally over. His enthusiasm caused his pulse to race and breath to quicken. He could hardly sit still.
Scott maneuvered the van to take the exit for this highway. The gentle lull of the van, as it rode smoothly down the road, was a good sedative. By now, all occupants of the van, except Scott and Michael, were asleep. They were not used to early morning hours, but Scott had to remain alert as he commanded the vehicle, and Michael was just too excited to sleep.
He sat wide awake taking in the landscape as the van continued down the highway. It didn’t even begin to lose power or speed on the incline as they approached the city of Golden, nestled in the base of the mountains. The lifeblood of Golden is the Coors Brewery. It stands tall and proud, its buildings towering over the city below. As usual the brewery was bustling with activity at this early hour while Golden was silent, still in a deep slumber.
The van ate up the road and sailed on effortlessly. After passing Golden, Scott slowed down at the last traffic light before entering the mountains. He turned north and continued through Golden Gate Canyon.
A multitude of aspen trees lined every inch of the roadside. Their leaves, heavy with dew, shimmered in the morning sun. Strong bold greens of summer gave a cool relaxing feeling to the canyon. Softer gentler shades splashed highlights over the foliage making it vibrant and alive. It made you feel as though the earth were fresh and young and new. Emerging from between the aspens were small bushes, struggling to break through the dense growth of the trees. It was as if they were playing a never-ending game of hide-and-seek, peeking around an endless array of steadfast magnificent white trunks.
As the morning wore on, the sun climbed higher into the sky. It shone through the leaves illuminating them from deep shades to brilliant hues while dewdrops clinging to them, sparkling like diamonds creating a spectacular sight. Michael stared in awe at the splendor of nature.
The canyon derived its name from the way it appeared in the autumn. Crisp, cool air would cause a wonderful metamorphosis of the leaves on the aspens, altering the greens to hues of yellow, orange, and red. They were magically transformed by the sunlight during the day into a river of shimmering gold that flowed from one end of the canyon to the other.
The bountiful beauty he saw as the van wound its way through the canyon mesmerized Michael. The grandeur of morning unfolded as wildflowers opened to greet the sun, and small furry animals ventured from their abodes to locate a meal.
There was a mystical feeling in the air. At any moment, he fully expected to see a unicorn leap from the foliage and take off galloping wild and free.
Michael was jarred from his daydream when the van exited smooth pavement and devoured dirt as the road transformed. Patches of washboard dotted the route causing the van to shake. Scott slowed down even more to diminish the effect of the rutted way. Dust filled the air as they continued.
Michael found it difficult to survey the mountainside through the sunlight and dust. Eventually wonderous sight appeared, and Scott pulled over to the side of the road. The long wild grass swayed gently, beckoningly in the soft warm breeze. Scott and Michael looked at each other and grinned while he parked and turned off the engine. Michael and Scott, the only vigilant occupants, alighted from the van. Scott could not believe that the others were not awakened by that bumpy ride; they were still sleeping.
Scott and Michael walked twenty feet from the van and stopped. Before them was a large iron archway that read, “Central City Cemetery.” The wrought-iron fence started on either side of the arch and encompassed the small, very old graveyard.
“This is way cool, Dad!” Michael whispered, afraid that speaking would ruin the moment. Scott nodded his head in agreement. After standing there for several seconds, soaking in the atmosphere, they walked through the archway and into history.
The cemetery was old and had been neglected for many years. Wild grass had overrun the gravestones, making the smaller ones difficult to see, indicating that nature had begun her duties trying to cover over the old with new life. Plants and wildflowers stretched out to almost completely erase the paths that lead the way through the burial ground.
The once polished white stones, painstakingly chiseled to bear the names of lost loved ones, now stood pale and gray from the unrelenting weather that vanquished them year after year. Some stones had even begun to crumble, leaving sad forlorn-looking monuments that had, in a time forgotten, stood tall and proud.
The breeze had subsided, and all was still. Michael could hear his heart pounding in his ears. As they slowly walked around, they were seeing a chronicle of yesteryear. Scott bent down to a plot to read the epithet. He gently brushed his fingers over the face of the stone, removing the crusted dirt to reveal the words below. He read in a solemn whisper, “Mary Barton. Beloved wife, mother of seven. Hers was a soul too gentle for the uncivilized world. Born January 4, 1824, died May 18, 1881.”
“Dad, she was only fifty-seven years old. She probably died from having too many kids!”