down the river

after taking the end of july off, i went home to colorado to up some mountains, down some beers, and consider my future.

there was also the keelan male reunion, held semi-annually for the past few thousand years. it's at an ancient riverside spot that my great-grandfather discovered, and the keelans have been camping there ever since. all of us have spent a considerable part of our childhoods there; fishing, shooting empty beer cans with bb guns, and sitting by the campfire listening to our fathers and uncles and grandpas tell stories from before our time.


the historical site is in a small town called hot sulphur springs, right on a big bend of the colorado river just as it enters byers canyon. highway 40 runs along one side of the waters, and the burlington northern and santa fe (holy faith!) railroad on the other. you can almost reach out and touch the trains as they go by.

now, normally you have to be a keelan and have a penis in order to be admitted to hot sulphurpalooza. but because my sister can swear dirtier and swill more beer than the rest of us, she is granted an exception despite her bewbs.

her husband john is part of the ritual as well. so is my brother's friend travis, who is effectively a step-brother to us all. travis brings his dog tank along. tank embarrasses travis with his ever-eager red rocket.

i set up my hammock and rainfly in the shade of the eternal cottonwoods. these trees are old enough to have seen 4 generations of keelans camping under them.


the weekend is characterized mostly by drinking beers and telling lies, with the occasional recreational activity. keelan males from 25-80 years old are in attendance; spanning 3 generations of our inbred and alcoholic genetic magic.

we hide out from the midday sun amongst the ancient flora. a smoky fire keeps the mosquitos at bay. river-cold, tasty adult beverages are enjoyed in succession. a lazy day.

a profound rumbling coming from deep in the canyon, echoing off the rocks. it's faster and higher-pitched than a freight train. we run, beers in hand, to a clear spot next to the tracks. amtrak. the california zephyr. old ladies are probably eating lunch in the dining cars. distinguished gentlemen are smoking cigars and drinking bourbon in the exclusive club cars. as the engines slide past, we drop our pants, revealing pasty-white irish arses to the passing passengers. wave and smile toothy wolf grins. raise my alaskan amber in salute.

someone decides it's time to play frisbee golf. inebriated engineering skills are put to the test for a live beer caddy. a man has to stay hydrated on the course. tank doesn't seem to mind.


we walk over to the first hole.


the mosquitos are relentless, even in the full scorch of hot sun. chris' errant shot gets his frisbee lost in the bushes for half an hour. 11 holes is all we can manage before the beers run out and the bloodsucking biotches drive us to seek refuge in the cool of the river.



travis struggles to put on his swimsuit.


the afternoon is warm and sleepy. sunlight filters through the acid-green cottonwoods. the beers flow cold. so does the river.

the old man cooks a spaghetti feast, complete with homemade sauce, meatballs, and sausage. garlic bread with melted mozzarella. salad. wine. more beers. we are stuffed senseless, stuck sitting by the fire as the lawn chairs mold around our expanding asses. belching and farting are welcomed and encouraged.

twilight. the bats come out. so does the nostalgia.

stories are told of keelan men no longer with us. of what it was like growing up 50 years ago in north denver. of the family's great irreverent patriarch, who was nicknamed presh. my uncles and dad swap many laughs and hilarious stories about this man, who, although gone, still sounds larger than life. he has achieved immortality through their stories.

stars come out between the swaying cover of branches. empty beers pile up on the ground around us. time slows. the fire draws all into introspection.

a few members of the clan wander off to bed; a few others to poach the midnight hot springs. i kill the rest of my beer and think of presh, who died when i was just a few years old. surely he would have approved heartily of the drinking and mooning and embellishing and poaching. i feel his ghost is occupying one of the empty fireside lawn chairs across from me; listening silently with a shit-eating grin on his face and ice-cold budweiser in hand as the legends about him build and build and finally resolve with everyone erupting in astonished laughter.


i stumble past the dancing flames and through the tall grasses and onto braided trails down to the river. unzip and return my rented beers into the wild. look up at the stars. just tiny pricks of ice in the void. look down at another tiny prick: watching as my singular stream becomes one with the headwaters of the grand colorado river on it's journey to the municipal water supplies of the greater phoenix and los angeles metropolitan areas.

the cycle of life: downhill, downstream, always moving forward.

an epiphany: time to move on from the job in alaska. down the river to the next opportunity that has presented itself. i remember telling rob of my plans the last day of the previous hitch: he was upset that the bromance was being put on the back burner; long-distance style. yet he understood and knew that my swiss miss was calling me back.


i'll tell you why next week on mr. roger's neighborhood.