It happened again. Next time we quarantine like Apollo astronauts before the big moon shot. Did the Jamestown settlers have one last hurrah in England before bringing their brand of infectious disease to the New World? Were they sick and miserable on the crossing as they built up their antibodies? Teddy Roosevelt stomped off into the Amazon Rain Forest to clear his mind after losing his bid to be the Bull Moose Party President and spent the first three weeks battling sweats and high fever. It nearly killed him, but despite the pleas of his son, Kermit, who had been carrying TR day after day, he would not turn back. It would be the greatest adventure of his life. The “Comfort Kills” T-shirt took on new meaning. Maybe “Comfort-25” is a CDC code name for a virus that is actually out to get you.
Boss was confused. While Eric slid in and out of consciousness, 1800 miles rolled under the wheels with 3 stops in indistinguishable roadside hotels over 4 days. Comfort-25 came on around Fallingwater and took hold firmly somewhere in Ohio. At first we thought it was the sheer boredom of I-70 that had his mouth hung open, throat gurgling and gasping for air. Couldn’t be the flu since we followed CDC guidelines and got vaccinated. Were the aching muscles and pounding headache in the aftermath of Trump tariffs giving him the shakes, causing him to fight for consciousness? Like the lucky holder of a middle seat on a cross country flight wedged between two business travelers both coughing up a lung, Sheri at the wheel thought in Kermit-like fashion, I better put some miles behind us before the inevitable happens and there is no one left to drive because we are not turning back.
Complimentary hotel breakfasts of ubiquitous waffles, microwaved scrambled eqgs and mystery meats, and later, while on the road, various versions of a sandwich made from a loaf of pumpernickel and stack of turkey slices that was going to go bad anyway started to blend together. Eric wedged himself in to the door-seat gap under a fuzzy blanket by day and paced small hotel rooms in the dark at night. Sheri held the pedal to the metal wondering when the tell-tale zombie sign would show.
Eventually the rolling pandemic pulled into Cherry Creek State Park. 4200 acres of high plains in the middle of Denver/Aurora. 4200 acres is big – five times the size of NYC’s Central Park, three time D.C.’s Rock Creek Park. If a space is defined by its sight and soundscapes, it looks like an enormous swath of Colorado high plains with the snowcapped towering Rockies looming in the distance. It sounds like a cross between the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on Memorial Day and a bird aviary. Aurora may make the news for its gangs of MS-13 coyotes, but the real Coyotes, and every other wildlife that once lived on the high plain and failed to purchase a starter home when prices were reasonable in greater Denver, have made home in Cherry Creek. Coyotes howl, barn owls hoot, every variety of bird inhabit the Cottonwood trees. A deaf person would think they had gone to the middle of nowhere. A blind person would expect to be hit by a car while visiting a zoo.
Shaken by the virus, we fumbled through the ballet of making camp. Eric had ten good minutes every hour or two. Sheri started coughing commenting on the effects of the Colorado altitude knowing full well what it really was. No one escapes the zombie apocalypse. Making one good decision at least, we delayed meeting up with the Sergeants until we could assess the risks. Calling the nurse hotline, we moved on to Plan B, urgent care. Having ruled out the big “COV” and the Walking Dead virus we were cleared to socially engage after 72 hours of massive ingestion of pharmacology. Obviously, this medical course of action had not been “RFK let-it-spread” reviewed yet.
So here we living our best #tentlife taking (prescribed) drugs, watching all wonder of versions of camping come and go before us. Cherry Creek State Park is FULL. First time campers are throwing new REI equipment tech at each other screaming “you are not doing it right.” Rocky Mountain High hippies stroll in off-the-trail with everything they own strapped to their back to grab a $1.50 shower for a night. Forty two foot 5th wheels arrive in slow motion looking like ocean liners pulling up to dock. We’ve done most of it and enjoy the spectacle. For once there is something streaming that is fun to watch.
For No Reservations advocates, we are eating our words and darn glad we made just-in-case reservations months ago. The Denver weather is actually perfect. Days are warm(ish) and nights stay just above freezing which the Doctor told us was perfect for lying in a mummy bag and shaking with the flu. At over 5,000 feet mean sea level, one can never be sure if it is the bronchitis or just the natural lack of oxygen in the air. In either case, the good Doctor said, “you’ll adapt.” It is better weather than we could have hoped for allowing us to battle one calamity at a time. Snow is in the forecast for next week. Of course it is.
We don’t care what Kermit the Frog says. Like TR, we are not going back. Sick is miserable anywhere. Until the virus has had its way, you can find us at 2 am stumbling down the camp road under a clear sky and full moon like a scene straight out of The Walking Dead looking for our next victim (or a bath house).
