Colorado - Part 2

There was a guitar never meant to be played, and a golden treasure chest that begged to be opened, but the real treasure was a folding memory foam couch and fresh (relatively speaking) linens, a blanket which I grudgingly traded for a 'cigarette blanket' (the foam kind from cheap motels that always has cigarette burns in it), and a denim duvet cover which looked like the pants from the 'before' segment of the infomercial flickering on the teevee. I'd been up for only 21 hours, but it felt like 40 days, and preparing to sleep for 40 nights. An untimely awakening in a thin bed, I roused unwillingly to push the button on the kettle that my drunk alter ego had prepared to make my then-future, now-present self tea. We schlepped around on the mountain, making copious records of the state of Maroon Bells. Every tourist, every camera, making up the most comprehensive, if narrowly-focused, topographical survey. Oskar Blues Mama's Lil' Yella Pils was on offer—I passed after a sip. "Dream big," I said.