James McKew

I turned fifty years old at the end of September …not that I’m complaining.

I love my life, Colorado has been a good to me, but I wasn’t sure how we were going to mark my half-century. Somewhere I got the idea that there would be black balloons involved, but that never materialized. I remember being twenty and full of whatever you’re full of at that age, and thinking, “Surly I’ll be dead before thirty.” When thirty arrived, it was more like a blip on the radar …so was forty. But fifty, now that’s something different, I actually took it a little hard, but didn’t let on to anyone. I never dreamed I’d live long enough to get junk mail from AARP …but it happened last week.

Katie celebrated her right-of-passage earlier this year and I threw a little party for her at the house, invited some of her friends and family over, there was a lot of laughter, cake and a cooler full of adult beverages …let’s just say we had a good time.

I, on the other hand only know a few people here in Colorado, mostly Katie’s friends who have adopted me. In light of that, she suggested that we go camping; just her and I, two nights in the mountains, roughing it without the children …how could I possibly turn down an offer like that?   

So late Friday afternoon we drive out of Grand Junction with our little trailer tucked in behind the car and head south on Highway 50 to our destination …a campground in the heart of aspen country.

We pass through the farm towns of Delta, Hotchkiss, and Paonia and wind through the twisting canyons up Highway 133. The countryside gets steep on both sides, sagebrush switches to scrub oak, little patches of aspens can be seen high on the far slopes, illuminated by the last rays of daylight. Past a reservoir and a stream bottom full of burgundy colored willows. I search longingly for the dark brown color of moose, hoping to catch sight of one somewhere down in the marshy bottoms…no luck. We motor up through a canyon dotted with hayfields and the occasional mule deer until reaching the campground. The headlights illuminate the aspen leaves that cover the small single lane road, there are a number of campers here, fires are glowing, meals are laid out, the temperature hovers in the mid-fifties. We find a spot and I work to get the trailer set up while Katie prepares dinner by headlamp.

Overhead, a massive aspen canopy shields out most of the night sky and beyond that, small pockets of stars …constellations that I can’t name. The cool, sweet scent of aspen trees and wet earth mixes together and rests on my senses like some ancient memory from a time when this country was unsettled.

I wiggle down in my lawn chair and wait for dinner, knowing that in the trailer, my warm sleeping bag, flashlight and book are waiting for me.

Then it hits me …the smell of buttered bread and melted cheese. The tangy, sweetness of hot tomato soup invites me forget about using the spoon and go straight to sipping from the bowl, and perhaps the most important addition …an ice cold beer to wash down each delicious bite. Yes my friends, it’s very hard to beat this combination.

The night was cold in our little box trailer, the carpeted floor and walls are not enough to hold the heat inside, even with an extra sleeping bag on top of us Katie feels the need to snuggle in close to keep warm. The air mattress doesn’t hold air pressure well at this temperature either; it’s flabby and makes a whoopie-cushion sound each time I roll over. It’s a long night … the moonlight shines through the roof vent like a permanent night-light in my face …annoying.

In the morning we race around preparing coffee …I take that back …Katie races around making coffee. She likes the challenge of using a percolator, I’m more than happy to let her have it. Actually, she’s good at getting the coffee to water ratio just right, I on the other hand fowl it up every time I try.

While she’s busy with breakfast I walk to the restroom. The altitude is affecting me, I had a hard time breathing in bed and now, the hundred yard walk downhill from our camp to the outhouse is winding me …I think I’ve become a flatlander without knowing it.

The pit toilet is a deluxe concrete box model with two units and steel doors that swing closed with a loud bang. I’m not going to lie to you about how pleasant it was …and I won’t make you imagine it either. But it does spark a memory of my Grandmother, Louise Goddard and our camping trips in the 1970’s. She’d send my brother and I to the toilet just before bed, armed with a flashlight and a page from the LA Times newspaper. She would cut a hole cut out of the middle, for us to use as a disposable toilet seat cover. She had a short stack of these in the travel trailer near the screen door. Back then we never thought about the hassle it caused the honey-dew man when he came once a week to pump out the waste. Even now I still feel a little bad about it …but I’m not sure if it’s because of the trash we put down the hole or that I repeatedly sat on Snoopy’s face while doing my evening constitutional.

Anyway, there’s eggs and bagels and lots of hot coffee for breakfast. We huddle around the warm stove, rubbing our hands together as the sun inches over the crest, taking it’s time to reach the western slope and illuminating the bright golden canopy above our camp.

I know aspens trees, having spent many a Fall weekend cutting them down for firewood in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, usually between two and five cords a year to warm the house. The Sierra’s don’t have anywhere near this size of groves. The aspens here on McClure Pass are a rolling tide of yellow, gold, ochre, mustard, and summer green, it’s a photographer’s paradise that seems to go forever.

By midmorning on Saturday we get in the Jeep and head to the top of the pass, the view is stunning and surprisingly warm for 8,577 feet. We’re in the heart of the Elk Mountains, pines and aspen blanket the steep slopes only to be broken occasionally by outcroppings of shale. Do Coloradans understand just how insanely beautiful this place is? I hope so, coming over the McClure Pass in late September for the first time is really spectacular, it takes the wind out of you and forces you pull over and drink it in.

We drive to the bottom of the pass and turn onto County Road 3, a small two lane that takes us to the town of Marble, more of a residential area than a functioning town anymore. It’s situated in the bottom of a steep canyon and has all the beauty of Jackson Hole without the noise and people.

We park and hike along the Crystal River …yes it is remarkably clear, up to the far end of Beaver Reservoir, a scenic little lake that is perfectly situated for canoes and kids.

Our next stop: Redstone, originally built as housing for the local miners, now it’s a hotel with small boutiques, galleries and ice cream shops. From there we drive north to the next town and have dinner at the Carbondale Beer Works before heading back up the mountain to our camp.

The sun goes down and Katie and I sit close together, hand in hand, watching the flames and listening to the night.

What are the life lessons to take away from turning fifty?

Perhaps the biggest is that life is predictable but uncertain, I can control myself and navigate my day-to-day existence, but the long term picture of where I will be in ten years is totally out of my control, which is a sad commentary on the fragile nature of life in general.

Lesson number two is how important it is to have the love of another human being in your life, not the love of a child, but the love of a spouse …someone to face the day-to-day challenges together.