Last year, Evans bought a jeep. It is a 1978 CJ-7. We had to go home unexpectedly right after he bought it, so our first week here was the first time I have ridden in it. You have to throw your leg up and over to get in then haul yourself into the seat. The front seats have lap belts only. The back seat….well good luck in the back seat. We drove it thirty miles to Gunnison to remove the hardtop. All our vehicles are four-wheel drive, but there is a difference in a Nashville four-wheel drive and a 1978 Jeep. Percy and I “helped” Evans get the top and doors off. Then we drove home, no doors, no roof. It was fun, sunny, and more than a little windy.

A few days later, we took the Jeep up to Schofield Pass.  That is a narrow, rocky, four-wheel-drive-only mountain road. Last year it was totally impassable due to an avalanche.  About two-thirds of the way up, I remembered that Evans had mentioned getting new tires.  I realized he had not gotten new tires.  Having had a flat tire on the truck last year, I was not at all certain we would make it home with all four of these older, probably slightly dry-rotted tires intact.  We did.

The next day we took it to Gunnison for new tires.  I am very happy that these tires are thicker, wider, taller, and designed for mountain roads.  I will always be a little afraid of hurtling to my death on a narrow mountain road, but at least now I am pretty sure the tires will not be the cause.  

For the last several days, whenever Evans stopped at a stop sign or slowed down, it died.  He was excited to have an older model Jeep that he could work on himself.  He tried fuel additive. Then he looked up online and found that 1978 CJ-7s have a unique carburetor issue that he should be able to fix himself.  While doing whatever it said, he realized that one of the bolts that held the carburetor in place was missing. (So glad I did not know that on our way up to Schofield Pass.) So now he is under the hood doing something with bolts to lock the carburetor into place.  

It rides rough, although better with the new tires. There is no radio, which is just as well because we would never be able to hear a radio over the wind noise. It is a three-speed, which is fine.  I learned to drive on a three-speed.  Mine was in the column. This one is on the floor. 

It is filthy. Even if I wipe down the seats and every other surface, five minutes on an unpaved road has them covered in fine Colorado dust again.  I choose to see that as part of the charm.   Evans came in from fishing the other day where he had driven the Jeep.  The shirt he was wearing was so dirty that I don’t think it will ever come clean.  You can guess how much he cares. 

We bought a short lead and a harness to attach to Percy when he rides in the Jeep.  He is an old man now, but when he was younger, he jumped out the window of my mother’s car at an intersection so I know how he thinks. The floor is sheet metal, so I bought a Frozen fleece blanket on clearance at Walmart for seven dollars and made it into a dog bed that fits between the seats.  He loves to stand on the backseat with his front feet on the side panels.  That is fine when we are on a mountain road, but he has to stay on his bed with my hand on him when we are on the highway.  

It is so much more than a car.  It is a toy, a project, and a conversation starter.  I have learned there is a special hand signal greeting between owners of CJ-7s.  Who knew?  Ours is bright orange (with some interesting areas of black). Sadly, it is more of a Bronco orange than a Tennessee Orange, but that works out here.  I expect by the end of the summer we will know all the other CJ-something owners in town.  I am excited to be Jeep people now.

I went fly fishing for the first time this summer. Evans and I do most things well together. “Most things” does not include fly fishing, so I went with a wonderful young man named Ben from Dragonfly Anglers. Dragonfly is, obviously, a fly fishing store but they also sell clothes and other outdoor accessories. As an outfitter, they arrange lessons or guides for people like me who want to both fish and stay married.

Most people would assume that my priority when I go fishing is to catch fish. No. It is great when I do catch fish, but that is a bonus. For a fishing trip to be successful I have to do one thing and not do two things. 1. Keep up with my guide. 2. Not fall down. 3. Not attach my fly to any part of anyone’s body. I managed two out of three today.

The reason that they call fishing guides, “guides,” is because they know where the fish are. That always involves about a mile of hiking through completely untamed terrain. If I lose sight of him, I am lost until he realizes I am missing and comes back to find me. Today we walked down a dirt road, over a barbed-wire fence, through a bog, and into several shrubs. When I say “shrubs” I mean thickets of wild-something-taller-than-my-head into which no path was cut. Ben seemed to know that there were fish on the other side of that hedge, so through we went. I would like to point out that Ben is younger than my daughter and a native of Crested Butte. He has, literally, been doing this all of his life.

I also want to mention the I was wearing wading boots, chest waders, fishing pants, and two shirts. It was cold – until we started walking. Wading boots are designed to hold you steady in running water. Picture Frankenstein’s monster’s shoes. Now add the rest of that gear, a small pack, and a fly rod. I am perfectly able to fall down wearing lace-up tennis shoes on a city street. So, when I am outfitted like a fictional goliath, trekking through mud, rocks, weeds, and branches, not falling down is a huge priority. Then, if I manage that, I have to not fall down while I am standing in a rocky river. I really don’t want to fall down in the water. Evans slipped while fishing two years ago and was carried about two-hundred yards downstream before he finally was able to reach the shore by pushing off large rocks. The river I was in today was very gentle and a fall would have just been cold and embarrassing, not dangerous. But it is always at the back of my mind. Do. Not. Fall. Down.

Sadly, I cannot claim success with number three. While trying to reach a particular pool directly across the river from me, I instead hooked Ben right in the face. We are both extremely glad that the guides out here take sun protection very seriously, so I caught his face gator instead of his cheek. He was a good sport. I was mortified and walked much further out into the river and paid a lot more attention to my backcast from then on.

Most of my fishing trips with guides last year were very instructional. I am new to fly fishing and I have a lot to learn. I was surprised this year when I remembered how to do both a basic forward cast and a roll cast. The regular forward cast is what you see in those golden light photos where a fisherman seems to be floating his line above his head in a magical lasso. It does not do that when I try it, but it did, more often than not, deliver the fly in the general direction of where I wanted it to go. I was thrilled. When Ben told me to try my roll cast to reach a certain pool, I was stunned when that worked as well. It is shorter and has less back-cast to it.

As a newish fly fisher, I am always surprised when I hook, much less land, a fish. My first fish was tiny. I took a picture, because of course I did, and we let it go. I caught another small one and then a proper fish hit my line. It was so exciting. It was a brown trout and it ran like crazy. I remembered to keep my rod up and strip my line and before I knew it, Ben had him netted. He was not huge, but he was big for me. Throughout the day we moved upstream and fished the ripples and eddies. I used dry flies and sinking nymphs. Another of the benefits of having a guide is he tells you what fly to use. He also reattaches a new fly when your backcast is too fast like a bullwhip and you keep flinging the fly off.

By one-thirty, I had landed four big brown trouts and four small ones. I had missed several strikes which were also exciting. It is especially fun to cast your line, have a fish rise to it. Miss the fish. Then recast in the exact right spot and catch that very fish on the second try.

I learned last year that am I good for a half-day of fishing. With the hiking, the standing in the water, and the flailing my arms about, I am beat. By the time we had fished our way upstream over three hours, we had quite a walk back to the truck. Walking twice as far in my waders was not any easier with them wet. About halfway back, I must have had my mouth open either to talk or to try to breathe when a bug flew directly into my mouth and bounced off the back of my throat. When a bug flies down your throat, you swallow it. After hacking and gasping and trying to wash what was left down with water, I decided it was an appropriate end to my first-day fishing. I had been trying to get the fish to swallow flies all day. Maybe that was nature’s revenge.

I hope to spend a lot more time with Ben. I plan to practice as often as I am able so when he takes me to the special guide-only fishing streams I can make the most of it. Maybe, if Evans is very, very good, I will invite him along next time.

Evans and I are in Crested Butte, Colorado. We left Nashville on Monday and drove west on I-40 to Fort Smith, Arkansas. Then Tuesday we drove to Dalhart, Texas. Wednesday, we hit Colorado and made a side trip to the Great Sand Dunes National Park before arriving early evening. We both like road trips, our elderly Boston Terrier is a seasoned traveler, and we took a southern route that was beautiful the whole way.

If we are very lucky, we stumble on great food while traveling. While Sonic, Wendy’s, and Hardees (for breakfast) are mainstays because even small towns usually have those, the real treat is to eat local. On Tuesday morning, we headed west hoping to find a Hardees as we drove. By ten o’clock, we were ready to eat anything so we stopped in Henryetta, Oklahoma. We chose The Classic Diner because of the number of trucks parked outside. OH! MY! GOSH! Plan a trip to Henryetta, Oklahoma for breakfast at the Classic Diner. Evans doesn’t eat eggs, so he had a huge chicken fried steak for breakfast. I had eggs and bacon that could put Benton’s to shame. I didn’t even think about the fact that NO ONE was wearing a mask until we were back in the truck, headed west again.

That evening we stopped in Dalhart, Texas. I checked “restaurants near me” on Google and found several small, local Mexican places. Here’s the thing, in a tiny town in North Texas at 8 pm during a pandemic, most restaurants are already closed. The only game in town was called the XIT Woodfire Grill. By the time we got there, I was hungry, frustrated, and put out that there were no Mexican restaurants open. I was so wrong. What you want in North Texas is brisket and that is what we had. It was surely the best brisket I have ever eaten. Sometimes what you get is so much better than what you thought you wanted. Our darling waiter, Luis, who like everyone else in Dalhart, Texas was not wearing a mask and seemed oblivious to the worldwide pandemic, encouraged us to go to The Grill for breakfast. So, we did. I ordered the 2x2x2, which I thought would be two eggs, two pieces of bacon, and two small pancakes. Hahahahah. Everything is bigger in Texas. Let’s just say Evans got to share my excellent pancakes. Also, if we come down with Covid-19 you can trace it straight back to the good people of Dalhart Texas.

We are very careful to wear out masks, use our hand sanitizer and keep our distance. I was not worried about this trip. It wasn’t until we hit Dalhart that I became concerned about being exposed. Then I thought back on our stops in Tennessee, Arkansas, and Oklahoma and realized there was a pattern. There were not a lot of masks anywhere. Wednesday morning, after leaving Dalhart, we crossed into New Mexico and stopped to get gas (which was 50 cents higher than in Texas). In New Mexico, everyone we saw was wearing a mask. We went from zero to 100% in thirty miles.

Our next stop of the trip was in Fort Garland, Colorado. Now, you must understand that Colorado was hard hit early by the pandemic. The skiers took the virus to the tiny mountain towns and things got very bad very fast. So, Colorado does not play when it comes to this virus. In Fort Garland, the small restaurant where we had lunch had their menu posted on a window. You were instructed to read the menu and decide exactly what you wanted before coming inside, fully masked, and ordering. You could touch nothing and had to keep your mask on until you were seated at your table. Lunch was excellent. We sat outside and felt very safe.

That evening, driving into Crested Butte, we immediately saw the signage. Crested Butte is one of the towns that spiked in the early spring. Skiers brought the sickness and the ski company was slow too close. Too many people got sick for the medical facilities up here to handle. The county shut down completely, banned rentals, and required all second-home owners to leave. This town runs on tourists. The entire economy is tourism based. They had to find a way to open back up to visitors and the way they are doing it is to require masks and make arrangements for additional social distancing. Elk Avenue, the Main Street in town, is now one way with the additional area roped off to be outside seating for all the restaurants. It is very festive and feels like a fun, summer place to be. Face gators are popular out here with the fishing guides as sun protection. So, that has become a favorite form of face masks. We are excited that all our favorite restaurants are going to be open and look forward to dining outside more often. Happily, the weather is fabulous, so that is a plus.

We are laying low for a few days to be careful. We had hoped to see our Colorado friends this week, but for everyone’s sake, we are staying close to home. We have plenty to do to settle in and it takes a few days for my body to adjust. I will be glad when I know for sure that any shortness of breath is caused by the lack of oxygen in the air and not a friendly waiter in Texas.

Evans and I are in Crested Butte, Colorado for the rest of January. We arrived last night after a three-day cross country trek. We chose to drive so we could bring our dog with us. He is thrilled as I am sure you can imagine.

We were fortunate to have clear skies and dry roads the entire trip. Our timing was perfect, because an hour after we arrived, the snow began and has not stopped. Crested Butte is a ski town and snow is as vital as, well, water.

I learned a long time ago that I need an acclimation day. It is frustrating that I am exhausted after riding in a car for three days. It is even more frustrating that I have to reacclimate to the altitude every time we come here. I have spent the day remembering how to live with less oxygen, how to not fall down when walking on snow and ice, and then making the world’s largest pot of soup.

The oxygen part was tested as soon as we arrived. Evans is six weeks away from a second knee replacement, so I made several trips bringing bags up a long flight of stairs. If I never put on skis climbing all our steps for a month should count as my new year’s workout.

This is the first time we have had Percy, our elderly Boston Terrier, out here in the winter. We lost our other two dogs within a year of each other and since then, he is somewhat clingy. If he can’t see one or the other of us, he is a vocally unhappy little old man. The truth is we can’t stand for him to be upset. He can’t hear at all, he can’t see well, and we are his whole world. Where we go, he goes. He did not, however, count on all that snow. I can say, based on our first walk last night, he was not impressed. We usually take him out one last time at around 11 pm. He just said “NO. I don’t need to pee. I don’t need to poop. And you have lost your mind if you think I am walking in that white stuff again” Ok, he didn’t “say it,” but he made himself very clear.

I walked Percy early last night in the one pair of shoes I brought with me. They have slick rubber soles. That was stupid. I nearly killed myself within ten feet of our front door. I leave my snow boots out here and have worn them every other time I have been out. Percy and I went for a decent walk today. He was a little more willing to explore in the daylight. He loves to walk fast and I usually get a good workout trying to keep his pace. Even in my snow boots, there are slick spots in the snow. It is like getting sea legs. I have to find my snow legs. I can fall down crossing the street with no obstacles. (No, really, I have done it.) So, it will take a few days before I can walk fast enough to give either of us a good workout.

Evans and I laugh that we always have a pork and cheese Christmas. I eat both with reckless abandon between Thanksgiving and Christmas. My body is begging me for vegetables. Today I made a huge pot of vegetable soup which we plan to eat for several days. The only challenge is we like to have cornbread with vegetable soup. Guess what they don’t sell in Gunnison or Crested Butte, Colorado? Martha White, Three Rivers or any other brand hot rise cornmeal. It never occurred to me that the rest of the world does not eat cornbread, or at least the kind of cornbread we eat. I have always wondered who actually bought those boxes of Jiffy cornbread mix. The answer is people in Colorado. Evans says he can make cornbread with plain old white or yellow cornmeal. We now have both. Everything he cooks is good, so I am sure it will be too.

In a few days, we will be settled in and back to acting like locals. Four-wheel drive will be our normal. We will climb over snowbanks without thought. The only shoes I will wear will be snowboots. I will be able to catch my breath after walking fifteen steps. And hopefully, if I eat enough vegetable soup, my body will forgive me for the last eight weeks. Then the adventures will really begin.

We were ready with our bags in the lobby at 10 am. Everyone’s bags were expanded to capacity. Judy had an extra she had purchased from a street vendor. Cindy was carrying shopping bags in hopes of finding a street vendor selling luggage at the train station. She did.

We learned that only the first people on the train had any hope of storing their luggage in the luggage area. Everyone else had to heave their bags above the seats into an open shelf. We were poised and ready when our train to Milan pulled in. The luggage area was already full. It took three of us to launch each bag up into the overhead. We did not pack light. I am stunned that nothing fell and no one was crushed.

We had booked an airport hotel to make our departure easier the next morning. I don’t think any of us realized how far out of the city the Milan airport really is. Cindy’s phone had died, so she and Dana raced to the Apple store while the rest of us took our luggage to the hotel. Italian cab drivers are not big fans of luggage. Beth and Sally grabbed one, but when the other cabbies saw how much luggage Judy and I had they flatly refused to take us. We finally looked pitiful enough that one relented. The airport is twenty-three miles from the train station. That does not count the side trip we almost made to the in-town location of our hotel. It was a perfectly nice airport hotel. It was not a luxury four-bedroom villa with a view. The four of us briefly considered not driving back into the city, but a glass of wine and a few salty snacks, and we were ready to start again.

By the time we got there, Cindy and Dana had eaten and we were starved. It was too late for lunch and the nicer restaurants don’t open until 7:30. We pounced on the first real option. It is the only time that the leisurely Italian service was almost a problem. Cindy and Dana joined us for wine at a much nicer restaurant. Cindy, Dana, and Sally decided to call it a night, so Judy, Beth, and I struck out for one last Milano adventure.

We were searching for a particular store, which we never did find, but, oh the stores we found! I finally bought the gift I wanted for Langley. Beth tried on fabulous shoes. But it was Judy, our pro, who came home with the snakeskin boots with geometrical red heels. The lovely people at that store gave us suggestions for dinner. We wandered down several of the prettiest, most elegant alleys I have ever seen before arriving at Bice.

We had no reservation and the card the store manager had given us had zero influence on the Maitre’ D. I believe it was Judy’s stylish coat and shopping bags that got us in. They said we could have dinner if we promised to be out by 9 pm. Since we’d had a long day and an even longer one the next day, we were happy to comply. The menu was completely in Italian. While none of us speak Italian, I can translate a menu well enough to find all my favorite things. The waiter was appalled that we were only ordering one course. When we explained that we were there on sufferance and that was all we had time for, he relented and became the most charming of servers. Dinner was excellent and perfect for our last night in Italy.

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time. We were told we had to check-in before we could go show our purchases to the Italian tax people. Unfortunately, when we checked-in, they took our bags. When we asked how to get to the tax place, the look on the girl’s face was grim. NOW she explained that we were supposed to have done that before checking our bags. She told us to go to the office inside security and maybe it would be ok.

I am not a shopper. I learned on this trip how much of an amateur I really am. I probably bought the least of the six of us. I don’t have buyers remorse. I have serious “did-not-buy” remorse. And yet, of the six of us, only my tax receipt was rejected. Yes. Guess who is getting a sizable bill from the Italian government in the next few weeks. The man actually said, “I feel sorry for you madam.” I did not believe him.

We made our way to the gate and were soon on our way to America. We arrived uneventfully at JFK, and then the fun began. We had less than an hour to change planes. That is not a big deal until you realize you have to go through customs, claim your bags, change terminals, recheck your bags, and go back through security. Once we had our bags we headed to the area to recheck only to find a large and somewhat confused crowd. Were we supposed to be in the Alitalia line or the Delta line? We had been on Alitalia, but would now be on Delta. Someone asked one of the helpers who looked at us in horror and said, “If you stay here you will never make your plane. Take your bags and run to the next terminal and check them there. Run. With your bags. To the next terminal which is outside and up a big hill. In the dark. Did you get that run part? We ran. Again I say, we did not pack light, especially coming home.

When we arrived, the lady there looked at our tickets and shared her colleague’s horror. She yelled, “just bring me your bags and run.” I don’t think she realized there were five of us. (Sally had flown on a different flight.) I despaired of ever seeing my checked bags again and ran.

We hit the security line and none of our TSA Prechecks worked because our tickets were Alitalia, not Delta. Someone, a Delta person or an Alitalia person, I am not sure who, told us to cut the line. So, we raced around perfectly nice people who were waiting patiently in line and cut in front of them with yelled apologies. Then we got to the actual screening and that is where the wheels really came off.

By now, we were in different lines. We had to take our shoes off and electronics out. The nice man in line behind me gave me his arm as I wrestled my shoes free and hauled my iPad out. I had checked all the liquids. Since we had cut line, we were trying to cram our bags onto an already full carousel. At JFK, you have to use bins, so we were then grabbing bins and frantically tossing everything into the bins. Finally, our bins went through, and Cindy’s was pulled. Beth and I thought we were through free and clear, so we headed for the gate. About thirty yards down the hall, I realized I didn’t have my purse. It was in Cindy’s bin that had been pulled. I told Beth to go on to the gate (basically, save yourself) and tell them that we were coming. I raced back to security, only could not find it. I finally stopped in the middle of the concourse and YELLED “where is security?” It was not my finest hour. One poor man took pity and pointed. I found Cindy still waiting for them to get to her bin, but my purse was safe with the TSA people.

Finally, Cindy, Dana, Judy, and I raced to our gate, which led outside to a shuttle bus waiting area. I thought we were spending the night at JFK. Amazingly, miraculously, we made our plane.

Our bags were the first to arrive in the baggage claim in Nashville. I am sure they were thrown on that Delta plane at the last possible second. We said our goodbyes and headed home. It seemed impossible to have started the day in Italy and now to be in the very familiar Nashville airport. It seemed even stranger to quit our new tribe of sisters and return to our own homes, or at least it did for me.

I loved the trip. I would love to spend a month in Florence and Tuscany. I loved the food. I think I could get the hang of (real, serious, professional ) shopping if I had just a little more time and tutelage. I am thankful for the whole experience. But, more than Italy, more than our villa, and the sights, and the history, and the beauty, I am thankful for my new friends. Who knows when I will go back to Florence, but I have three new friends I hope to see often and two I treasure even more. I know their stories. I care about their families. We have shared experiences that only we can laugh about. This was the trip of a lifetime, but they are the gift of a lifetime.

Cindy is the smartest trip planner in the world.  She knew that after a full week of touring, tasting, biking, and shopping, we would need a down day.  My body would have thanked her if I had had enough sense to actually hang out at the villa and rest. But, no.  I figured I could rest in Nashville and this is why NSAIDs were invented. 

Thursday was the free day.   Give six women a full day in Florence with nothing planned and anything can happen.  We split into two groups, then those groups splintered further.  Sally and I went in search of the Leonardo da Vinci Museum.  There is nothing like a museum to highlight how much you don’t know like that da Vinci and Michelangelo were contemporaries.  Da Vinci was about twenty years older and they hated each other. Who knew? 

Da Vinci, though known for his beautiful art, was an engineer and a dreamer at heart.  Like all artists, he had to have a wealthy patron.  One of his patrons was a Borgia who wielded a reign of terror and conquered his way through Italy.  Da Vinci designed any number of lethal weapons that changed warfare forever.  When Borgia assassinated one of his best friends, Leonardo decided maybe he should get a different patron.  So, Leonardo Da Vinci was basically the Tony Stark of the Fifteenth Century. 

It was raining, but even in the rain, Florence is beautiful. We stumbled into a new, different plaza in front of the Duomo.  Across from it was the Baptistry, an octagonal building with gilded bronze doors.  I had been told that this was a “must-see” and am so glad I did.  The Duomo was both glorious and imposing.  The designer did not go for a “less is more” aesthetic.  

Sally and I shopped and walked until about three when we were finally wet and tired enough to head back to the villa. Just before we got there, we ducked into a tiny cafe.  Sally had Ribollita and I had Pappa al Pomodoro, both traditional Tuscan soups made with stale bread.  Sally’s was vegetable and mine was tomato.  That was a favorite dish and one I hope to recreate at home.  Beth passed the cafe in the pouring rain.  We banged on the window and she came in to join us.  While we were eating, four young people came in, ordered coffee, and began to play cards.  They were there hours later.  

After Cindy, Dana, Judy, and Beth had a leisurely lunch, they split up.  Beth found the Mercator Centrale Firenze, where she drank sangria and wandered amongst the hundreds of vendors.  She came home with flowers and one of her favorite adventures of the trip. Judy, who is the most talented and experienced shopper I have ever met, did damage at any number of boutiques. I am living vicariously through her.  Cindy and Dana had their hair done.  It was very Audrey Hepburn, only Florence not Rome and there was no Gregory Peck involved.  They, however, were beautiful. 

By the time Sally, Beth and I got home the others had begun to arrive as well.  We compared purchases, shared our day, and drank wine.  Beth found charming etchings at a shop near our villa, so I ran back out to buy some as well.  They are one of my favorite purchases and the perfect souvenir of Tuscany. Cindy brought home “the biggest T-bone in the universe.”  We cooked the pasta we had helped make the night before and had that with salads and that fabulous steak.  It was another perfect day.  

November 1st is All Saints Day and they take that very seriously in Florence.  As we were walking to the Accademia Gallery to see Michelangelo’s David, the church bells began to ring.  It was deafening and glorious.  When we walked by the Duomo, we could see the Cardinal and several priests processing out.  That was a special moment and a reminder of how important the day is.  They don’t wait until the next Sunday to celebrate.  They make it a national holiday. 

We again went different ways agreeing to reconvene at 4 pm for our tour of the Uffizi.  At three, Sally, Beth and I saw some attractive men walking along with a camera crew.  Beth asked a man who they were.  He explained it was a Spanish actor who had appeared on the Italian Big Brother.  Then he introduced us to his family, a cousin, the cousin’s wife, and their toddler.  It happened that the cousin was a designer who had been to Nashville to show his line to Nordstrom.  The wife, Katherine, was from Houston.  Soon we were walking with our new friends to their shop, which happened to be on our way.  We barely had time to stop in and look around.  Everything was beautiful.  When a designer goes and pulls a coat in your exact size and tells you that this is the coat you need to buy because something, something, something (he was charming and I was eating it up.) Then he showed Beth a coat.  Her’s was navy.  I prefer navy. He said absolutely not.  I needed to wear black.  Beth and I have new coats.  The experience was worth the cost of the coats, but the coats are fabulous too. 

We hurried to meet our friends only to hit a wall of people. Note to self and any other travelers.  Do not plan to visit Italian museums of any kind on a national holiday. The museums are free and everyone and their Aunt Francesca take advantage of that fact.  Picture Broadway when the Preds were in the Playoffs during CMA Week and a concert at Nissan Stadium. The Uffizi was that kind of crowded and everyone wanted to go through one door.  ONE DOOR.  We seriously considered bailing, but it is just wrong to go to Florence and not visit The Uffizi.  

I am pretty sure there is no Fire Marshall in Florence.  I have never seen so many people in one line.  We, with our tour group, were finally nearing the front when a group of women came pushing through the crowd. Our tour guide quietly explained to us that they were in the wrong place but were Italian and would not be reasoned with.  It was almost worth the wait to see the man keeping the line send them packing.  I later saw them in one of the galleries so they did get in, just not in front of us. 

Our tour guide was extremely knowledgeable and hilarious.  She did a great job navigating the crowds and showing us the highlights of the museum.  As a rule, I don’t mind crowds, but I was even ready to call it a day when our tour ended.  We will simply have to return to Florence and to the Uffizi on a less crowded, more opportune day.  Maybe in January during an ice storm. 

I like to eat.  I like to eat Italian food. So it surprised even me when I was too tired to eat last night.  We set out the leftovers from our meals and everyone grazed.  We sat on the terrace, drank chianti, and waved at the people who stared at us.  By 9 pm, I called it a night.  I finished packing and fell into bed.  You know it has been a good trip when you are as tired when you wake up as you were when you went to sleep. I will take that kind of tired any time.  

A close friend lost his father right before we were to leave. Evans had known the man who died all his life and I had known him since I met Evans. He was everything a Nashville gentleman should be. We put off the trip so that we could attend his funeral and honor his life.

A week later than planned we finally headed west arriving a day before Evans’ sister and three friends did. If you are going to host four house guests make sure that they are low-maintenance, fun-loving, long-time friends who bring their own Prosecco. We had so much fun getting settled and enjoying our company, I neglected to write. I did finally write a great blog post about these girls after they left, then never posted it. I lacked photos, then got distracted, then it was too late.

A few days after our guests left the phone rang. I heard Evans say, “Of course we are coming home.” I knew someone we loved had died. The next morning we drove back across country to celebrate the life of Evans’ fabulous Aunt Patricia who deserves her own blog post. While we were home, Evans’ mother had difficulty breathing. Her COPD was worsening, and she was hospitalized. We stayed in Nashville until she was able to go home. Then once again drove back to CB. There isn’t much to say about that trip other than La Quinta allows dogs and that is a good thing.

We did finally go fishing, together and separately. I turned my fly fishing expeditions into blog posts, but they were sporadic at best.

Evans had planned a short trip back to Nashville and I had a girlfriend come to visit. She was a godsend and we had a wonderful time, which of course meant I didn’t write one word while she was there. While Evans was in Nashville, his mother’s breathing again worsened and she went back to the hospital. He, of course, stayed in Nashville until she was better. After my friend left I enjoyed the views and realized how much I prefer Crested Butte when Evans is with me.

While Evans was gone, a friend in Crested Butte convinced me to go hiking. It was a debacle, so that made a great blog post. Then the next day two more friends arrived from Nashville and I was back to having fun, entertaining, dragging them straight up mountains (behind my hiking friend Terri) and eating all the food in Crested Butte. Evans got home one day before they left and took us across Kebler pass to the Crystal Mill and lunch at our favorite Colorado restaurant, Slow Groovin’ Barbecue. I was going to write about their visit, but Evans was finally back in CB so we played instead.

My friends left on Monday and on Thursday I followed them back to Nashville for a wedding. It was an amazing wedding, truly worth the trip home. It may become a blog post but I will have to get permission to share the photos. We had a wonderful time.

While I was home I visited my mother-in-law, who I adore, every day. Her health was fragile, but she was home and stable. Or so I thought. I flew back to Crested Butte early Monday morning and by Monday evening the situation had grown progressively and irrevocably worse. Evans spent much of Tuesday on the phone with his sister and flew home on Wednesday.

I packed the necessities, loaded the truck, downloaded audiobooks from the Nashville Library, and Percy and I headed east. I took a different route that was slightly longer but included all interstates and consistent cell service. Again, there is no way to make that trip interesting unless unexpected things happen and happily nothing did. By late Friday afternoon, the truck, dog, and I were back in Nashville to stay. Harriette died on Monday.

This was not our year to be in Crested Butte. What time we were there was great. I loved our guests. I got to eat at my favorite restaurants. The wildflowers had a super-bloom year and were beautiful well into August. I actually hiked and mastered the roll-cast with my fly rod. But, we needed to come home. We wanted to come home. As hot as it is, we are very glad to be home.

As her health began to worsen, Harriette insisted that Langley take her dog, Dirk, a ten-year-old miniature poodle. You can imagine how Percy, our deaf, diabetic, villain of a Boston Terrier feels about that. I could write an entire book called the Percy/Dirk Diaries. Miraculously, there has yet to be bloodshed, for which we are very thankful.

We are settling back into Nashville and the new normal that comes with losing someone you love. Next summer I will write funny blogs about our mountain escapades. Later this year I will write about Evans’ Aunt Patricia and especially about his wonderful, amazing, much-adored mother Harriette. Theirs are lives to be celebrated, examined, and admired. We will continue to live our lives, not as planned, but as ordained. And, it will almost certainly be awkward, and hopefully fantastic.

Yesterday we went to the top of Paradise Divide to have a picnic and take some photos. I mention that we took photos of Paradise Divide, and am apologizing because I took pictures of nothing else. You are just going to have to let my words describe the rest, which is a shame because the visuals were pretty impressive.

We drove up the Slate River Road to the top of Paradise Divide where we had a lovely lunch and enjoyed the specatular views. Then we headed over Schofield pass to see where an avalanche had blocked Gothic Road at Emerald Lake. We did not know how far we could get but wanted to explore. When we got to the road (and by road, I mean narrow dirt track with huge rocks in the middle of it, a solid rock wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other) that goes over Schofield Pass, we began to see hikers. That is the road that is supposed to lead to the drop-off and pick up area for people who have made the eleven-mile hike from the Maroon Bells in Aspen to Mount Crested Butte. With Gothic Road blocked, it is more of an eighteen-mile hike that includes scrambling over avalanche snow.

We first met a man who appeared to be a very fit sixtyish. He flagged us down and asked how far it was to Emerald Lake. Evans told him that he wasn’t sure, but that the road was blocked and we were going to see how far we could drive. It was about two more miles from where we had first passed him. We drove back and told him what we had found. He explained that the people who had put this hike together had terrible communications and they had “lost” about eight of his group. By this time, he was joined by a woman who appeared to be about his age. She was wearing a flowered skirt, a tennis jacket, a bucket hat and carrying a pack that I could not have lifted. He was fine. She looked completely done in. They (he) seemed determined so we told them what we had seen and we drove back up the road. She did not speak. I am pretty sure she had a nosebleed.

We had passed three younger women sitting at the top of Schofield Pass when we drove by the first time. As we drove back, they flagged us down. They had also made the trek from Aspen I am assuming on their own. I don’t think they were the “lost” hikers. They packed a bit lighter than the first couple, but two were carrying plastic cups of red wine, the third was drinking white. We told them they had about three miles to get to the avalanche site and they begged a ride. Who could resist? We loaded their gear in the back and drove them to the edge of the snow. On the short trip, we learned one was from Nashville but had lived in Colorado for about twenty years. There is always a Nashville connection.

Once again we started back the way we had come. When we came to the parking area that should have been the pick-up point if the road had not been blocked by thirty feet of snow, we saw a group of six women. They frantically flagged us down. Two were about my age and the other four were probably in their late thirties or early forties. They asked the same questions. How far were they to the pick-up site? What did we mean there was an avalanche? Would we take them there?

Now, we were driving our Nissan Xterra, which is a wonderful car for four people. The cargo area was filled with all our fishing gear, waders, coats, hats, nets, the trash from our picnic, in other words, it was full.

We looked at these women. One, in particular, had a strong southern accent. She was about my age. I saw true desperation in her eyes. I do believe if we had said no that woman would have carjacked us with a rock. We began moving what we could. I hauled as much as possible into the front floorboard and put Percy on my lap. We loaded six women and their packs into our Xterra. Three in the way back with the hatch open and three in the backseat. We slowly began driving back toward the avalanche site.

After about a mile, Evans explained again that the road was blocked. They would have to hike another couple of miles before they would have cell service and they had no idea where their pick-up vehicles were since the road had been blocked. We were at a turn off that would either go to the avalanche site or back up and over Paradise Divide, about a sixteen-mile journey on narrow, bumpy, treacherous roads. There was no way those women were getting out of our car. Evans (somehow) closed the back hatch and we headed over Paradise Divide.

As we drove we learned that they were mostly from Boulder, although one had just moved from Boulder to Oregon. She was originally from Louisiana and her friend had flown in from New Orleans the day before to do this hike. That poor woman went from sea level to Aspen, Colorado and immediately hiked over eleven miles at twelve thousand feet. No wonder she looked frantic. I am surprised her body had not just shut down. It takes me a week to acclimate and I have been coming here for a while. I said that she surely needed oxygen. They all laughed that she had gone through four cans. I did not see the humor.

We slowly drove back across Paradise Divide, through Washington Gulch, and into Mount Crested Butte. Evans tried to hit the potholes, rocks, and creeks as gently as he could, but it still could not have been comfortable for the three in the way back. We discussed all the great places to eat in Crested Butte and why it was such a great town. We also instructed them to go to Slow Groovin’ Bar-b-que on their drive back to Aspen.

The two older women were staying at The Grand Lodge, which is across from our townhouse. The other four were meeting a support vehicle next door at The Nordic Inn. When we got to The Grand Lodge, we helped the two women out of the car. We basically peeled the poor New Orleans woman out of the back. She stood and stared at me while I held her pack and finally said, “I am so tired.” I just shook my head and said, “I know you are.” I know she questioned every decision she had ever made that had led her to that point.

We loaded the younger women back in the car and took them next door where one of their husbands was waiting. They were laughing and discussing having dinner at Bonz, a great restaurant and Tequilla bar in town. I wondered if the other two were planning to join them. I am guessing New Orleans lady took to her bed after a long, hot shower. I know I would have done.

I am an idiot for not taking pictures. The Avalanche is pretty darn impressive, even when you don’t have to hike across it. I have no idea why the trip planner was unaware that a thirty-foot avalanche plug is blocking Gothic Road when it has been all year and will be for the rest of the summer. I have never been and will never be as cool as the three wine-drinking hikers that first flagged us down. I want to know if that woman in the flowered skirt killed her companion when she got her strength back. But my real hero is the lady from New Orleans who would have thrown herself under our wheels rather than walk one more step. She is a woman after my own heart.

Last Saturday we went to The Grand Tasting at the Crested Butte Wine and Food Festival. Our friends Bob and Terri suggested we go, so we got tickets at the last minute. We are always looking for ways to meet more people and be involved in the Crested Butte community, so we cleaned up and headed to the skating rink, which makes a great event venue in the summer.

I wanted to go because I wanted to meet people and see my friends, but I am not much of a wine drinker. I like wine much more than it likes me, so walking around drinking lots of wines from different wineries could easily end very badly. We saw our friends as soon as we walked in, which is lucky because it was a big crowd. They had already made the rounds once, so they suggested we scope out the options before we started tasting.

The first table we came to had an assortment of tequilas. It was one of several that we saw. The next few displays were distillers featuring flavored artisanal gins. Then we discovered Kansas City Whiskey by Reiger’s Distillery out of Texas which is a blend of rye, bourbon, corn whiskey and finished with a cherry based Olorosso sherry. The Reiger’s Distillery table quickly became our favorite. In addition to their Kansas City Whiskey, they had a variety of other offerings. I looked more than I tasted, but I have to say any wine tasting with that many great non-wine offerings is my idea of a good time.

Evans found a chocolate Irish cream that he loved called Five Farms Irish Cream. It tasted like an alcoholic milk shake and all I could think was how quickly that could turn bad for me. I later saw a friend with an entire glass of it over ice. I just laughed and walked away.

When I wasn’t chatting with friends or discovering dangerous new vices, I was people watching. The Crested Butte social scene is eclectic, to say the least. There are natives and year-rounders, but an equal or greater number of visitors or, like us, summer people. I play the “which one are you” game as I look around. Langley accuses me of having gone native, and I do own and wear zip-off fishing pants or shorts much of the time, but I still have my Nashville clothes for social events. Last year, I wore Jack Rogers sandals to church and a lady walked up and said, “You aren’t from here. Where are you from?” So, we give ourselves away in the little things. Happily, people are accepting of interlopers. The question is are they from Texas, (which is a large number of Summer people), Denver, or one of any other far-flung hometowns.

At the event, we found out there is both a summer Broadway series and a summer Opera series. We bought tickets for the Broadway showing for next Saturday and may try the opera event later in the year. It’s not only fishing, hiking, and gorgeous views here. There is a street/food/art market every Sunday and we never miss. We go to the free concerts held in town and on the mountain every Monday and Wednesday evening. We live in Nashville most of the time but listen to more live music here than we ever will at home.

Part of living here is trying new things. I am at a time in my life where I’m not just open to new adventures, I am actively seeking them out. I am talking to more strangers and tasting things that I may not like at all, but I am ready to find out. I am less concerned about fitting in and more excited to just show up. So, wine tastings where I never actually drink wine, concerts for afro-fusion-rock bands I’ve never heard of, or hikes where I just follow the leader and pray I don’t fall down, are all part of the adventure.

I have always loved fishing. I can happily spend an entire day tossing a lure into weeds in the unlikely event that I will ever catch a fish. I have only ever used a spinning rod (And yes, I had to look up the proper name for the kind of rod and reel I have always used.) Evans loves to fly fish, which looks both difficult and exhausting. I thought it required a lot of standing in running water while flailing about, not to mention all the effort of determining what kind of bug was hatching so you know what kind of fly to use.

But, we are in Colorado and fly fishing is the thing, so I decided to try it. For years, I have accused Evans of selecting hobbies so he could acquire all the cool gear. Last year was about acquiring the gear. I have waders, wading boots, this Orvis sling bag that is designed to hold all the smaller fly fishing gear, and all the assorted gear that goes in the bag. I also have a fabulous Scott fly rod which was made in Montrose, Colorado, and an Orvis reel. None of that means anything to me, but people seem to be impressed when they see it, so I thought I would share.

Last year, I took a lesson with a lovely young man who talked about things like running water versus eddies and pools. He helped me set up my fancy rod, showed me (repeatedly) how to tie on my flies, and took me out to the middle of the river kitted out in waders, boots, and pack. I flailed with the best of them, catching limbs, branches, and rocks. After several hours I genuinely thought I was going to topple over mid-stream with exhaustion.

Throughout last summer, Evans and I fly fished together. We hiked up to beautiful beaver ponds where Evans caught fish, and I desperately tried to not kill him. We agreed he would not offer instruction or advice. Or rather he would offer instruction and advice and I would threaten to throw my fancy rod into the water if he did not walk away and stop talking to me.

We did enough regular fishing to keep me happy. Not that I caught all that many fish with a spinning rod, but at least I understood the basic moves, and I was happy just sitting in a boat on Lake Irwin.

So, this year I recommitted to fly fishing. I booked another lesson/guide trip with a different young man through Dragonfly Anglers. I met Tom at 7:45 last Thursday morning. I tossed all my gear into his truck and we drove to Lost Lake. I had never been to Lost Lake, so it was already an adventure. We assembled my rod, tied on a “Chubby Chernobyl” and then added a sinking fly to make a two-piece “dry-dropper”, and headed down a dirt path. Tom offered to carry my rod, but I insisted I had it. We left the waders and boots in the truck.

Starting at a pool, we worked on basic casts and I remembered more than I expected from the year before. Shortly, Tom suggested we try a different location. This time he didn’t ask, just took my rod and headed out. I followed as the road became a path, or a track, or a small area that had been walked on at some point through wildflowers and trees. He seemed to know the way, so I followed.

At the river, he introduced me to the roll cast, which is like cracking a whip and will keep your line out of the trees behind you. Occasionally it worked and I could put the line in the general direction I intended. The fish were everywhere, not that I caught them, but there were a lot of them. Since they did not seem to be responding, we moved again.

This time we scrambled over boulders. Tom is probably my daughter’s age. He said ma’am at all the appropriate times so I knew he was aware of my age. If he thought I was able to follow him across giant boulders to find a better fishing spot, I was not going to tell him otherwise. He moved fast enough that I occasionally lost sight of him. That was great when I slipped off a huge boulder and tumbled down scraping my knee and banging both hands. I jumped up and brushed off before he came back to find me. I was very glad he was carrying my fancy gear and I hurried to catch up.

Here we waded into the middle of the stream and worked both upstream into the running water and downstream into a pool. When I finally had a strike it was an awkward flailing, grabbing for line, trying to manage the rod and land the fish. It’s a shame there wasn’t a video because I knew it was ridiculous, but I was so excited I didn’t care. Within a few minutes, I had another fish and landed it much better than I had the first. I even managed to hold this one for the split second it took for Tom to take a photo.

We moved to another spot, and while demonstrating a cast Tom caught a fish before the line hit the water. The fish jumped out of the water to take the fly. It was spectacular. All in all, we fished in four different areas, each more beautiful and remote than the one before. I slipped off a rock and dropped one leg completely into the river while keeping the other one on the boulder. Tom said it was strangely graceful. Fishing shorts dry fast. I saw wildflowers I still can’t identify. I caught three fish and had strong strikes on at least five more. I don’t know when I have had more fun. For the first time in my life, I “got” fly fishing. I wanted to do it all day. Actually, that is not true. I wanted to do it again another day for several hours.

So, this is my year. The right guide/teacher, the right stream/river/pond, the right fly, the right gear, all open up a world of possibilities. It’s going to be a great summer.