Traveling the Great Divide

Yesterday, I drove down to Manitou Springs to pick up a few trinkets for the kids, and for MC, before my whirlwind Easter weekend trip to Redding. MC and I had been to Manitou the weekend I moved here, so I sort of knew the lay of the land. It’s funny the difference that just some weeks can make. When we were there on February 15th, the streets were fairly empty, and some shops were even closed. Yesterday, the place was alive. As if lit by the warm spring day, the streets were a-buzz with musicians busking, kids juggling, lovers strolling as if they were the only ones on earth. I was enamored with the vibrance—the colors, the smells, the sounds of merrymaking at its best.

I stopped in a shop called Taos Maos to pick up some you-know-whats for MC, and was transported to a major déjà vu moment from more than twenty years ago. Working the counter of this shop full of curious things was a middle aged woman, named Mari. "Let’s get it straight," she told me right off the bat, “It’s M-A-R-I, with an ‘I’.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of my own Aunt Mari-with-an-I, and how both she and the Taos Maos proprietor had the same sort of spunk. Some twenty years ago, my Aunt Mari had a small shop in Shingletown, where she sold all sorts of things for which one might never think to go purposely shopping—old wooden boxes, small glass trinkets, and the like.

I asked the Taos Mari if I could take her picture, and she studied me for a moment and said, “Sure, but make sure it’s an ACTION shot. I don’t do any of that sitting pretty portrait kind of business.” So, Mari’s precondition, combined with my less-than-stellar cell phone photo skills resulted in no picture.  One of these days I will learn how to photograph stuff in a way that's fit to print!

I also stopped in the little shop around the corner from the Heart of Jerusalem Café, where one can find crystals, oils, herbs, massage, and tarot card readings. I bought some lavender oil to spruce up the dusty smell in the stair well at the Chick Cave.

I don’t have as many photos as I would like, as I didn’t think to bring my camera, and was stuck with just my cell phone. I intend to go back and capture more of this charming little place. It’s sort of like Santa Cruz, only without the beach. Lots of alternative clothing—like the guy below with kilt, knives, and dogs; lots of tie-dyed everything, and even those cute bumper stickers urging one and all to “Keep Manitou Weird.” As if even a universe of erstwhile karma could keep it from being anything but.

The day had started out a little disappointing, as my friend Lynne was supposed to come with me, but opted (rightfully) to spend the day with her son who surprised her with a visit mere days before he leaves for the Army. Without a companion, I had decided to try and get my motorcycle started and scooter on down there. That also didn’t work, lacking the right kind of jumper cables to get it started at the storage shed. I had mentioned to MC on my way down that I was a little disappointed by the lack of a companion for the day.

Much as he always does, MC shared that kind of companionable wisdom that comforts and challenges at the same time.  He reminded me that sometimes solo adventures are better than those with company, as one can travel where they like, without considering input from others. With that, I drove west from Manitou Springs, up into the Rocky Mountains.

I tried the Pike’s Peak Highway, but found it closed. I continued west along Highway 24, and ultimately landed in a place called Divide. Yep, THE divide. The one that geographically speaks to water flowing east from one side, and west to the other.

I stopped at the highest point in town, and thought about the enormity of where I was. At 9,615 feet in elevation, living in that small mountain town would be very nearly equivalent to living atop Mt. Lassen, at 10,457 feet. At that elevation, I could peer over, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, as it were, at Pike’s Peak. It was a strange perspective. It made the grandiosity of the peak somewhat diminished in stature, and yet, somehow sharper in focus.

The geography did a couple things for me that day. One, it helped to settle a mild case of homesickness from which I’ve been suffering for a couple weeks. The drive up to Divide was along the same kind of mountainous roads that I have lived and loved in Shingletown, Burney, Quincy, Weaverville, and elsewhere. Being in pine trees, with the smell, the sound, the feel, was a much needed respite. That was even confirmed when I shared the observation with MC and he said, “Divide has always reminded me of northern California.”

The other thing I couldn’t get off my mind was the literal sense that I was standing in a place of manifest division. The west is its own bastion, completely separate from the east. It made me think of the many things that have become divided in my life in recent months. Some of the divisions are tragic, like my marriage. It’s a separation that rips at my heart, and makes me question much about my very existence. Some of the divisions aren’t so bad. It occurred to me as I stood afoot of the Continental Divide, that some of the challenges I’ve faced in the past year or so have been a result of my unwillingness to divide some things that should never have been commingled together. Hindsight, fabulous thing that it is, makes me realize that I should have divided the circumstances I knew to my core were right, from the unrealistic expectations of others. I should have divided the need to be true to one’s self from the impervious indiscretions of those near to me. 

Like wheat from the chaff.

Like the east from the west.