The town was bustling with people, all hurrying to get somewhere or just standing on the street, pointing at the fire. It no longer took binoculars to see the rising flames. Sirens roared throughout the town, and an old ice cream truck drove the streets with the music every kid ran towards for the last fifty years.
A man called out over the megaphone. “Citizens of Estes Park! Make your way down to the lake in a swift but orderly manner. This is the Estes Park Police Department.” He repeated the same message over and over.
It was strange to hear the sound of the truck jingle that drew every child in the vicinity into a mad dash to find some money before he left, contrasted with orders to keep moving and presumedly “Do not get ice cream!”
To my surprise, and the others in our caravan, very few people in town gave us a second look, with even police directing us through the center of town without a single question.
“Keep moving,” the officer yelled at Lonnie when he tried to stop and talk to him.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, heading our weary group through the center of town and towards the lake, passing near the waterwheel and the carillon clock tower on Fall River.
“There is a walking bridge and wooden deck with stairs that led up to WaterWheel Art Gallery,” I pointed out. “The artwork was all by local artists associated with Saddle Ranch between 1975 and 1986. My dad, Bill, managed the Gallery and was one of the artists.” The aroma of salt-water taffy that I remembered as a kid filled the air, now coupled with smoke from the fire. Sweet and smoky, reminding me of more than a few camping nights growing up with s’mores and hot chocolate. “Look to your left, everyone!” I said.
“Is that the Overlook Hotel?” blurted out Lonnie over the radio.
“Well, kind of,” I replied. “You see, the Stanley Hotel bore the idea for the book The Shining and subsequent movies by Stephen King. Filming took place in multiple locations for the original movie, including studios in England and the Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood in Oregon. In the second adaptation with Steven Weber, Rebecca De Mornay, and Elliott Gould in 1997, the three-episode made-for-TV series was shot right here at the Stanley. My mom Sharon was even an extra and can be seen walking down the steps to the front lawn in the opening scene. My dad, Bill, stood in for Elliott Gould, being about the same height and build. Both movies are worth a watch when you get the chance.”
* * * *
We stopped just beyond the lake, at the mouth of the canyon.
“Let’s take five,” said Lonnie, “for a bathroom break only.”
He came back to talk to Vlad, Jake and me, asking, “Lance, what’s up ahead?”
“It’s just over twenty miles to the bottom, and then another seven to go around and enter on the north end of the Saddle Ranch property. There’s a quicker route once we get down, but we can’t make a bridge turn with the trailers. I don’t expect any more barricades, but I’ll guide us the last bit when we exit the canyon.”
“The last leg is coming up,” called out Lonnie, getting a “Wahoo!” out of most of us.
“That’s not going to do!” said Vlad. “We’re here at the finish line—let’s hear it again!” he yelled out.
This time everyone pitched in, including the kids, getting the most looks from townsfolk that we’d had all day.
* * * *
The last twenty miles down the canyon brought up a lot of memories for me. Mostly good, like hiking, camping and fishing when growing up, and some not so nice.
“This is where that Big Thompson Flood happened back in ’76—the big one I told you guys about,” I called out to Vlad and Jake.
“I can see how so many lives were lost,” replied Vlad. The canyon, it’s not very wide, and it was at night. I remember you telling us.”
Our caravan followed the river down the canyon, passing houses that were spared by the flood, and others rebuilt the next year. We passed by one of my favorite places to stop as a kid, The Colorado Cherry Company—“A Taste of the High Country,” the sign out front read. The signature jugs of likely red dye I always thought was cherry cider hung completely around the outside of the quaint one-story riverfront building that had been there since I could ever remember. I had half a mind to see if they were still open before recalling that bad things happened when we stopped.
The canyon, feeling ominous to many with its winding road and high narrow cliff walls, made me comfortable, like an old T-shirt. I had never felt more protected on this whole trip.
“Passing the Dam Store, another popular haunt when we were young, I was filled with emotion. It seemed strange since that wasn’t one of my personality traits, but I felt a mix of excitement, exhaustion, relief, sadness for what lay ahead, and a comfort I had not known in some time. We passed right by my elementary school, Big Thompson Elementary, and up the valley just adjacent to Saddle Ranch.
“Let me do the talking when we arrive,” I told Lonnie. “I don’t want any misunderstandings with the guards.
We arrived at the nothern border to the Valley. “Hold tight, everyone!” I called over the radio. I knelt down, sifting the soft earth through my hands and proclaimed, “We’re Home!”
To be continued...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lance K. Ewing lives with his wife, three boys (Hudson, Jax and Hendrix), Ringo, Mini and Bobo (dogs and a cat) in McKinney, Texas. When he is not at work, he can always be found with his family, preferably outdoors. Lance grew up in the foothills
