GEORGETOWN 001

I’m never so content as when I rise before 3am on a crisp morning, leave a bed I have occupied for 6 hours and never will again, wake the night clerk to check out, enter a dark Interstate occupied only by the occasional trucker, find an Oldies station circa 1955, and settle in for a 12+ hour haul. I soon become a Pip or the 4th Vandella supplying Gladys Knight or Martha backup in the “shoo-whop-a-doo” style that defined my youth. The occasional refrain will recall a scene some 5 decades gone – slow dancing with Madelyn Hatz at the Friday night dance, slow dancing with Sandy Smith at the Holy Cross dance, slow dancing with Ruthie Bennett. I lost my interest in dancing when the slow variety ceased currency.

When the station finally fades and static overwhelms the music, I listen as long as possible, and lament the loss of a friend as I reluctantly begin the search for a new strong signal.

At this time of year, rural stations play genuine Christmas carols, not the cutesy tunes that commercialize and secularize the season. At truck stops and rural “filling stations” young girls and old men don white-trimmed red Santa caps, smile and say “Merry Christmas” without guilt. It evokes warm feelings, feelings that don’t come along as often as I recall they used to.

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An Econo Lodge in Greenville, IL and next door Mabry’s (10% discount for hotel guests, excluding alcohol and specials). A Belgian framboise on tap, and not a single lite beer! Trendy city Sports Bars and yuppie watering holes feature Miller Genuine Draft (in a bottle, of course), 4 lite beers and Becks or Heinekens. But more and more I run into out-of-the-way spots that feature real beer, like the Keg & Barrel in Hattiesburg, MS with 79 world brews on tap, or Cooter Brown’s near Tulane in New Orleans with over 100 in the keg and some 300+ in bottles. Grimbergen Doppel draught. Yum.

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The trip west passed uneventfully until about 5am on November 29, east of Limon, CO on the last leg of the journey. Wet road and snow flurries caused me to back off the accelerator, but all of a sudden I was traveling southeast while the road was paved in a northwesterly direction. Black Ice is something we hear about and are on the lookout for a patch thereof, but in this instance the entire roadway was so anointed.

Even 30 MPH in 4 wheel drive was a challenge, and over the next hour I passed at least a dozen wrecks, some just catawampus off the road, several overturned, all attended by the efficient Colorado State Police and local Rescue Squads. Near Denver the road became snowpacked, a condition certain to drive the Washington, DC driver round-the-bend, but a blessing on the plains of middle America. Traction of any stripe is your friend.

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As the first rays of light crossed the morning sky, I caught a majestic “V” of geese on the wing, and suddenly the lead peeled off and drifted to the back, while another took the leadership role. I wondered if this was some sort of Union guaranteed rest period, and whether those in the back could catch a NASCAR-like draft from their harder worker brethren (or sistern) farther front. The kind of sight that makes me smile.

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Georgetown (the former mining town in Colorado, not the inside-the-Beltway cocktail party haunt of progressive sophisticates), is home to 1,344 brave souls and now, one eastern immigrant. It sits surrounded by mountains some 10 miles from the Eisenhower Tunnel that insures year round transcontinental travel on all but the nastiest of blizzard days. Loveland ski area, the anti-Aspen of the Centennial State is 10 miles away, the stomping ground of down-home skiers and snowboarders with nary a socialite in sight. I join them tomorrow.

Georgetown has 4 restaurants (American, Mexican, Chinese, and Czech!), 3 Motels, 2 gas stations, and Mothers, a local bar in the finest Wild West tradition (happy hour PBR's for $1.50). No Golden Arches, no martini bars, and the lone gallery features “Western” art. I am home! Ensconced in a delightful apartment at the rear of a curio shop, one block from the main (and only) drag. In the mid 1800s the town was famous for its gold and silver mines. Today it achieves some notoriety when I-70 west of the Eisenhower Tunnel is closed due to blizzard, blowing snow, or avalanche threat. Population can near double and beds become coveted possessions that stranded tourists scramble for, and (say the locals) occasionally become aggressive over.

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While securing my membership card at the exceptionally well-appointed local library, I spied a hand-written plea for help at the upcoming Christmas Market. My response evoked a quick and passionate reaction from the volunteer organizer who lamented his annual agony over securing organizational support. “You are in luck,” I enthused. “I have a long and successful history of managing events large and small.” “Can you cook and sell hot dogs?” he asked. I assured him I could learn. My shift begins at 10am this Saturday.

…the adventure is back on track…