Mesa Trail ch. 26
Draft 2

"Long John's eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but by the fresh look of the paper I knew he was doomed to disappointment. This was not the map we found in Billy Bones's chest, but an accurate copy – complete in all things – names and heights and soundings – with the single exception of the red crosses and the written notes." Stevenson, from Treasure Island









Bunkledon had never thought of himself as a map holder per se – don't get me wrong, he thought – the idea of gold on the front range was not a dream, not really.  Folks from all around the country, heck from around the world, might bring a random pan and pack up here for a weekend excursion.  They might chisel out a nugget or two, usually the size of a pinky nail, and sometimes the banking crew back in town would catch wind of the action.  No, for Bunkledon, there just wasn't any desire to walk up there himself, through the treacherous thickets of woods and big old piles of stones laying around all over out of order.

It was hot out on these hikes.  Even as a kid, growing in the much flatter regions of the midwest, it always felt hot out there in the back waters and marshes where his dad might persuade him to come along on an mid afternoon run.  Despite all this, there it was, a Colorado gold map firmly clasped in his left hand, a gallon jug of water in his right hand.  He had driven as close to the trailhead as he could, up near Bluebell Mesa, parked, then looked up the side of the foothill which was dry grass and the occasional ancient Ponderosa.  Looked hot.  Sky wide open, blue as a robin's egg.  He didn't really have any idea just how long it might take to get all the way up to the caves.  That was where the map said all the good stuff was.  Now, if he could get to that, the source of it, he could wrap up this little fiasco that was called an outpost, get those kids off the side of the hill, off the creek, and get them all back into school for goodness sake.

He was nearly shocked and more than a little dismayed that so many parents and school administrators had allowed for such an operation for so long.  How could this go on?  Bunkledon himself, of course, did not have any children, nor did really ever want any, but if he did, let me tell you, he thought to himself, they wouldn't be spending it out among the trees and rivers! What, precisely, was a kid to learn out here? How to sweat and how to struggle to make do with no cooking utensils. Where was the bathroom, exactly? Bunkledon had old steel toed carpenter boots on, the only pair of boots he owned, and they were so hard that as he walked over every rock it felt like he was skating.  If somebody else was watching from farther up in the woods, say from the overhang off the plank of a cave opening, it would like he was surfing, two arms out to either side, one with a flailing map, another with a jug of spilling water.  There would be the occasional muttering of cuss words at the approach of the famous stepping stones that lined so many of these Boulder trails.  Bunkledon sat down for a minute to spread out his map.  It looked professional enough, he thought, all those rings of perfect lines with the little numbers.  He had X'ed off Bear Canyon Creek. Here is where he would skirt up along Crown Rock Trail to get to Flagstaff summit.  Hot, yes, but no problem.  These legs were made for work, he thought, made for it.

He took a quick sip of water, felt for something to eat in his pockets, but realized there was nothing there.  He curled his lip upwards, no big deal, then re-folded his map so that just the panel for Flagstaff was visible.  He was learning this hiking game quickly he thought.  Down the nearly silent canyon to his left a sap sucker or two begin pounding away at the bark of some hollowed out tree.  What is that, he said outloud to himself.  Behind him he could hear something scamper through the pine forest bed.  Ahead, – and he would not find this out for awhile yet – was Biggalow, our old friend the Bear and Arapaho symbol of wisdom and solitary domain. He might be nosing through a rotted log fallen over the Crown Rock trail seeking ants for a mid-day snack.