Losing Life Riverside

Part VI………………………EASTWARD HO!



On Sunday, March 21st, at 6:15 PM, we closed and locked the doors of The Riverside for the final time. It was a beautiful evening – the kind that I grew to relish, the kind of evening that made all of the pain and struggles inherent of living in Grand County worthwhile. All of my favorite Grand County early evening accoutrements were on display, particularly the emerald blue eastern sky which starkly contrasted the pumpkin-colored alpenglow on the rise of Cottonwood Pass. Many an evening I sat in front of the hotel, regardless of the temperature or the crowd in the restaurant, (“Have you seen our waiter???”) and drank in that ‘has to be seen to be believed’ vista to the east. I guess I always new that our time in Hot Sulphur Springs would be relatively short lived – 5 to 10 years at best – and I took advantage of every opportunity to gaze at the surrounding spectra as if it would be my last. The time for my last gaze had come, albeit a lot sooner than I had either imagined or intended, and I witnessed that natural spectacle for the final time through eyes blurred by tears of both joy and sadness.

We’d succumbed to the forces that were thrashing our dream – the economy, the bank, our ineptitude and our newfound lack of desire due to all of the afore-mentioned. We were leaving good friends and a lifestyle in a vacation setting that most people only dream of realizing. The tears shed on the wings of such failings, such sadness, were expected and require no explanation.

Yet, there were also tears of joy?

Yes, tears of joy indeed, at the immitigable delight of a fresh start, in a new place; another exhilarating go at embracing the unknown. This speaks to why we left our Shawnee, KS comfort zone and did this crazy thing in the first place. We were the new pioneers, giving up the safety and security of our cushy life in the suburbs and packing up our belongings to head west into the unknown. And not unlike the old pioneers, that unknown held the promise of a radically different, and a hopefully better, way of life. We knew there were risks, both in the journey and at the destination, but we looked beyond the rational and forged ahead. We focused on the joy of change and the excitement of the unknown, concentrating on the glory of what could go right as opposed to the agony of what might go wrong.

I don’t wish the feeling of failure and nothingness at the end of the rainbow on anyone, but I can tell you that the feeling you experience at the onset of the quest is an elixir that cannot be reproduced, bottled or sold, not for any price. I also have many regrets about our ‘mid-life’ crisis, our westward digression, but one of them isn’t the indescribable feeling that you experience when you step off the ledge into the unknown.

And here we were, two short years later, stepping off another ledge. I was short of breath; my head swirled, and yes, melded into the burnt orange and azure eastern evening vistas, there were indeed tears of joy.

Back to reality, as our 2003 Suburban was absolutely crammed to the gills with stuff that we didn’t want in the moving van. Most of it was booze-related. Specifically, 50-60 bottles of wine, collectable stuff that I took better care of than my kids. And for good reason, damn it! Add to these a dozen Riedel wine glasses, very carefully packed, and my crystal Riedel phallic wine decanter. You look at this thing wrong and it breaks. No way its going in a moving van – even crated in a 4'x 4' x 6' box with 96-pounds of packing paper. We also had several crates of hard liquor that we took from the bar; stuff Julie and I didn’t drink, but you never knew when you were going to be invited to a ‘bring your own Grasshopper’ party down in Mississippi; If that call came in, I had the juice. Add to this our traveling clothes, last-minute nik-naks, some yard and garden things....and of course, Lucy.

The plan was to pull out of Hot Sulphur whenever we did, and drive as far as we could that evening. I didn’t care what time we left or how far we got; whatever it be, I didn’t want to spend one more night at The Riverside. I even had discussions with myself all day about the ultimate departure, and ‘not looking back’. You’d have to experience what I’d gone through the past eight months, with me living in Mississippi, Julie living in Colorado, the bank giving us the old jail house chi-chi, etc, etc, etc, before you'd understand why I wouldn't want to look back. I loved the place, I had great times and better memories, but I WANTED OUT OF GRAND COUNTY!

6:15 PM, the door was locked, hugs and tears to all assembled at our farewell. We climbed in the Suburban, backed out of the alley, and headed east on Grand Street. I hadn’t driven thirty feet, and in spite of what I promised myself I wouldn’t do, I looked back, into the drivers-side rear view mirror. It was a spectacular vision, as the magnificent white façade of that grand old girl was bathed in the luminescent orange glow of the setting sun. It was my favorite Grand County evening vision; it was alpenglow on The Riverside. I didn't take my eyes off of the place for the half-mile up Grand Street that I could still see her. In my last view of the place, she looked as beautiful as I’d ever seen her look. It was a 240-volt jolt reminding me of why I shucked it all to move west, move here. The tears flowed, unabated.

The rearview mirror view dissipated. We hit Highway 40, and headed east. The tears abated.

Eastward Ho!