Over the Mountains

Traveling through the mountains this close to the solstice can be tricky, especially for me. The cycle of condensation and precipitation for you is a scientific explanation. To me it is a means from one place to another. It is not my only method. Like, say I need to get to the grocery store, I can walk like the rest of you or drive a car. Now, pretend I need to get over a mountain range and cut through a valley between them to a hideaway camp for the half fae folk. A car would do it. The emission faeries would be pleased. It would take a while and who wants to sit on leather seats for hours on end when you can fly. Ask a businessman. Flying is always quicker, even if it isn’t.

The eastern foothills of the Rockies are usually starting to get pretty dry about this time. If you sat a glass of ice cold water on the wood coffee table you would not need a coaster. It is not so much that you could step out of the shower without a towel, but give it a month. Fortunately, the old gods smile upon me. Walking up and down Pearl street or sitting at the Trident, you could hear snatches of conversation about the unusually rainy weather they were having this season. Sorry. It was my fault. I brought a little of Houston with me for this particular trip. I knew I would need it to get to the southern side of the state where the camp is.

I call it a camp because that is how I have known it for centuries. It was not until the last couple scores or more that it became a resort for us. Nestled in the mountains right above the desert and the swamps, it is the perfect place for all manner of elements. They have a house for us with a cabin guest house right next to a snow melt river creek. Pines and Aspen surround us from the norms. They keep the noise down while we work our magic. Magic can make quite a bit of ruckus. Well, mine can. They don’t call me the Rainmaker for nothing.

I hopped over the first range across Nederland on a misty overcast day. A brief torrent landed me just outside Black Hawk on a dirt road barreling into the canyon. Black Hawk used to be so natural until all the Indian reservations decided to sell out the casino route. There is a place for them, also. There is a place for us all in this crazy world where desire and imagination fully intertwine. I let the weather up for a brief interlude of small droplets, while I caught my bearings. A white truck was parked in a scenic turnout. I should have known not to come a’knocking with the windows all fogged up, but my sense of direction was all spun out and needing validation.

Nah, I knew what I was doing. They turned the Zeppelin down in a flash of skin, rolled the window down with red faces, and said, “Man, you came out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, I do that. Does this road lead into Idaho Springs?”

“Sure does. We were just about to head out that way. You need a ride?”

My first instinct was to look at the girl he was with. She was cute enough. “Thanks anyway, buddy. I have a schedule to keep.”

He looked at me uncertain until the rain started back up. It was time to put the pedal to the metal. Far enough down the road in a dense fog that rolls off the rocks of the valley I precipitated to the sounds of In Through the Out Door blaring from the truck. They must have started their business up again. Meanwhile, I was on my way down 70 to Saguache to see a buddy.

Carlos was doing well with just a bit of five o’clock shadow. He must have trimmed up recently. Saying he had shaved would be a big misunderstanding. His race single handedly perpetuates the myths of Navajo skinwalkers, the Mexican nahual, European werewolves, and the Canadian big foot. He also makes the best damn burritos this far from the border. Everyone in town just thinks he is one hairy immigrant. We have all heard of chubby chasers, but checking out his wife’s facial makes you think a little more about hair fetishes. I do not know what you would even call that. Piluphilia? Spell checker does not recognize it. We caught up on old times over a dark haze of Negra Modelos in salt and limed glass mugs while I let the sun shine and gather more energy for the last couple hundred miles.

Night was coming on. I could really let loose then, but the clouds needed fuel. It would probably not be enough. If I made it to the top of Wolf Creek pass, I could coast the rest of the way. Still, I didn’t want to do that. Have you ever ran out of gas just a couple blocks from your house and you had to walk the rest of the way with your briefcase? It is kind of the same except completely different. Luckily, my brother left his jeep at the off season ski resort. He can be a bastard just like me, sometimes. Him working the light show and me pounding the water and wind throughout Texas and Louisiana we rose some serious hell for our sister. She was the voice to our chaos, the thunder in our storm yelling at our destruction just a couple seconds behind us. Now, he runs around the country as Director of Photography for the big name studios out in Los Angeles. We all grow older and have to merge with the times.

There was just enough gas to keep the motor idling over the top of the hill. Any unnecessary depression of the pedal and I would be bankrupt and rolling backward. He had the balls to leave me a note reading, “Don’t forget to fill the tank when you’re done.” There were stations in Pagosa Springs, but it was late and they might not be open. All these sleepy mountain town have ten o’clock business curfews until you hit Durango. I was not going that far tonight. The camp was just before it right passed Bayfield.

I crossed over the pass and coasted into Pagosa on fumes and the symphonies of Fagen and Becker. My brother left a couple of my Cds in the center console. I love those guys. They stepped through the veil long before it was fully opened throughout the 90s. That or they caught the tail end of it in the 60s. Every twenty five years we let you peer through. Some people get to enter. That is once a generation. Quit complaining. Every kid born that makes it to young adulthood gets a chance to see. You probably did too. Most people, though, have no idea what the hell they are looking at. They walk away from immortality. They made the right choice. Immortality has a price.

Actually being able to run the motor felt good. With the small towns in my rear view mirror and a full enough tank I made it to Enchanted Forest drive close to midnight. The old gods opened their skies for me on the inner side of Wolf Creek pass. I probably could have arrived earlier than I did, but that would include ditching the Jeep and really pissing my brother off. You never want to make an electric light fae upset even if he is only a half like me. Nothing seems to work right for days. Your computer goes on the fritz and your TV refuses to catch a station no matter what kind of satellite you are tapping into. The aforementioned sister still has a hard time with gadgets like cellphones and microwaves because of a babysitting incident way back in the day involving a snoopy bat, a fallen tree, and a sticker bush laden ditch.

I cut the engine and went inside. Millixent and Madaam, the two gnome caretakers, were waiting for me. They ran around in circles, messing with their hats, chattering about everything, making a fuss over me, getting me a glass of ice tea, and bouncing around like puppies being reintroduced to a long lost favorite relative.

“Calm down, girls. It is just me. How about a hug?” I opened my arms. I knew better than to pick them up. Both of the old ladies had weak bladders, which is why they found everything else to do for me except come over for a bit of love. Still, they could not resist once I asked. Millixent and Madaam had been in the family forever. They might as well be blood. Mill ran over and into my arms without care, diddling all over the carpet. She always had a special spot in her heart for me. Ma tentatively came over, trying to settle herself down before approaching. The result was the same. She rolled over onto her back trying to catch it all before it hit the floor.

When we fell back into the places we left off from my last visit, I had to ask, “What seems to be the big crisis that you need me here for?”

Mill answered, “We have to go to California to see your brother and we need a ride.”

“What?” I had not been that far west for good reason, “California is across the desert. I can’t go there. Especially not now. The solstice is approaching. You know about Global Warming, right?”

Ma put in her timid input, “Global Warming is a crock of shit and you know it.”

“Climate Change, then. Whatever. I can’t go. Its hot and dry and . . . “

“Full of excuses,” Millixent finished. “We leave tomorrow in the morning and you are driving.”

“I figured as much. Neither of you could reach the pedals.” Do I need to mention how short gnomes are? The lawn jockeys of the suburbs should be holding signs in their gardens reading, “Actual size!”

“Which is why we need you to join us.”

Crossing the desert is no easy task for a Rainmaker. They may seem like excuses, but the facts support. It would be over a hundred degrees of humidity free heat. Even worse, the girls hate driving after dark. Which put us in the heart of Arizona. Phoenix would be our center point stopover for the evening. The bird that rises from the ashes, Los Alamos, Area 51, military bases, completely ignoring daylight saving time. These are the reign of the Phoenix. Ever heard of her? She did a brief stint in Japan after World War II. It was easy for her to get there. She hopped a ride on the Enola Gay with her pal Little Boy, the same guy who puts soot in my rain. The Phoenix is all about destruction for the sake of rebirth. We don’t get along.

“You got the hotel reservations?”

“Yup.”

“They better have a pool.”