“I wouldn’t mind another night like that last airpark,” Jake commented.
“Yeah, me neither,” I agreed. “Worst case, we head up to Pueblo State Park right here,” I said, as I pointed to the map. “It’s only about another 20 miles north beyond the airpark.”
“It’s a no!” called out Lonnie, stopping on a large bluff overlooking the airpark that was nearly three miles away.
“Back up 50 yards, if you can,” he called out, not wanting to be seen.
Twenty yards was the best he could get. One of the trailers nearly jackknifed, but it was enough for all vehicles to get clear of the bluff top.
He called a quick meeting with a few of us, heading on foot to the top for a view.
My leg was aching again, and I asked Jake to report for Vlad and me. “Sure thing, buddy,” he replied.
I spent a few minutes talking to Joy and our boys. They were taking turns petting Mini.
“Can I get out and pet my Bingy?” asked Hendrix. He was referring to his dog Ringo, who was much too big to be riding around in a vehicle.
“He’s on the back trailer with Steve and Jim,” I said, “and I’m sure he’s getting plenty of pets.”
* * * *
Ten minutes later the men were back.
“It’s a military base now, as far as I can tell,” said Jake, “and I, for one, don’t want to push our luck by introducing ourselves.”
“Agreed here,” I chimed in. The others nodded in agreement.
“We’ve got two ways around,” interjected Lonnie, “to make it up to the State Park. It’s not far from Pueblo and will be occupied for sure, but it’s a big park and lake, according to the map. The first way is back to I-25 for a shot north and just outside the city. The second is winding up on back roads and hoping there are a few not on the map.”
“What does that mean?” asked his wife.
“It means,” he continued, “that according to my map, which is about four years old, there are no official roads connecting from here to the lake. There are a few that come close, so I’m hoping we can find some off the map to make it there safely. Whoever wants to try the backroads, raise your hand.”
I raised my hand, along with most everyone else.
“Okay, who wants to go up the Interstate…following close behind the two groups we are trying to avoid?”
The few hands that went up immediately were now lowered with the last part of his statement.
“That does it, then,” said Lonnie.
“It was the backroads that got us this far,” I said, “and more than halfway through our journey. I thought it might be easier following the groups straight up the center of Colorado, but I’m convinced now that the back way is our only chance.”
“Let’s take it slow,” said Mike, “and call it out if there is any trouble or if you see a road off the map heading in the right direction.”
* * * *
It took nearly 20 minutes to get the vehicles and trailers turned around. Mike and Jake had to take the driving position on a couple of vehicles.
I was looking forward to a break and hoped we could take a dip in the lake when we got there.
Weaving across the countryside, we kept our eyes open. I half expected some helicopters or upset farmers to tell us we were on their property, but none came.
For the next hour, we saw no one. No vehicles, caravans, or even a single person walking.
“Now this is how I like to travel,” I told Jake. Vlad agreed.
“Last time it was this easy, I got a deer in my lap,” Vlad said, laughing.
“Four miles from the lake,” called out Lonnie. “We will hold up for observation when we get close.”
Standing mostly on my good leg, I looked over the cab of the lead truck, scanning the horizon with my binoculars.
“It’s a party,” I called out on the radio.
After not seeing a single person for hours, I felt like I was watching Zombie Apocalypse. There were people, lots of them, on the east side but thinning out as I looked farther west.
“They came from Pueblo to the east and only reached as far west around the lake as they had to, so they could have their own fishing spot,” I said to Jake and Vlad.
Most people I observed walked slowly and looked sick. Was it the water? I thought, figuring many people would not have purifiers. Maybe they were surrounded by fish but couldn’t catch any?
They would eventually need more than water and fish, but they should not be looking this bad, I thought—not yet.
“Keep watch,” Lonnie called, as people now walked near the slow-moving caravan.
One man, in his mid-twenties and sporting a nice backpack with a fishing pole sticking out the top, called out to me.
“Hey, mister, can you spare something to eat?”
“You look like you’re doing all right,” I called back, pointing at his pack.
“What? Oh, you mean my fishing pole?”
“Yep, that’s the one,” I said. “Now go catch some fish!”
I was trying not to sound like a jerk, but when a guy is walking around with a fishing pole and asking for food, I wasn’t getting it.
He was running now alongside the truck at about five miles per hour.
Jake and Vlad had him covered, but I didn’t find him a threat.
“I want to fish, mister; we all do,” he called out, keeping pace, “but they’re not taking any paper money.”
“Who’s not?” I asked.
