So, I climbed all the way up and down 14,015-ft Mt. Wetterhorn, through treacherous Class 3 terrain, and the worst injury I received was when I returned to the trailhead, found a flat tire, and stabbed myself in the knee with a metal tool while trying to yank out a lug nut. I completely failed to appreciate the irony. Less painful, but more persistent, were the ants that chewed my legs as I straddled an anthill while cranking up the jack. I had chosen the wrong place to get a flat tire, and the situation was only going to get crazier from here.
The spare in place, I drove a quarter-mile down the valley to pick up my tent, but I had to disturb the meal of a grazing marmot as I backed the Jeep into the grass by my campsite. The fat, furry rodent fled the scene and chittered angrily at me from behind the trunk of a ponderosa pine. I ignored its beady black eyes and concentrated on loading my gear before the afternoon thunderstorms arrived. And then, unaware of the mischief that was about to be perpetrated, I descended to the stream to wash off the day’s dust and sweat.
After becoming cleaner and chillier, I got back into the Jeep and headed out of the San Juan Mountains. Prior to the flat tire, my destination for the evening had been Keystone, Colorado, where I’d intended to meet up with a young bride-to-be, to seek approval for the song I composed for her wedding this Sunday. As I worried over my musical responsibilities, my nose began to twitch, and I became aware of a burning smell that was drifting through my window. It didn’t smell good. So, I stopped the Jeep in the middle of the rutted dirt road, stepped out, and popped open the hood to see if my engine might be causing the stench.
And there he was. Looking singed, angry, and bewildered at how his practical joke could have turned against him, the marmot stared sullenly at me from atop the air filter. Before I could offer condolences, the mottled, slightly crispy rodent hopped down to the road and scampered off into the forest, leaving behind a strong lingering odor of burnt hair.
Fearing the worst, I looked under the hood for damage and found only a leaking air hose, easily repairable. The last marmot I had for an unintentional passenger three years ago chewed through enough wires to completely disable the Jeep and force me to call for a tow truck. Nevertheless, all the day’s repairs put me slightly behind schedule.
After five Fourteeners and two flat tires in three days, I pulled into the town of Estes Park feeling grateful to have a day of rest and a chance to sleep on a real mattress. The wedding ceremony took place the following morning on a small hill above the shore of Lily Lake, in Rocky Mountain National Park. The bride and her father emerged from a path in the woods, striding across a carpet of needles towards the groom, the minister, and the assembled guests. And I was the herald, striding before them with my tarnished flute, playing a romantic tune with as much happiness and spirit as I could muster without tripping over my own feet. I had been fretting about this moment for months, for the orchestral flute was not my favorite or most familiar instrument, but everything seemed to be going smoothly so far.
As for the tune I played, and where it originated… cast your minds back, if you will, to Week Five of this summer’s adventures – to the horrible night on Norway’s highest mountain when a rainstorm flattened my tent, soaked all my gear, and forced me to evacuate and seek lower elevations. Before I was rescued by a milk delivery truck, I trudged down some narrow roads and had time to think about Ann Marie’s wedding. I pictured the pastoral wedding scene, with the bride and groom together, and in my sleep-deprived state a melody popped easily into my head. The milkman picked me up before I could practice the romantic theme on my recorder, but by the time I was dropped off in the valley below I had the song burned into my mind, and it felt perfect. At least something good came out of all that suffering.
Five weeks later, here I was, playing the melody in front of 80 guests and struggling to maintain a graceful stride. But in the dry mountain air, I was quickly losing all the moisture in my lips, mouth and throat. The final chorus was beginning to sound rather raspy, and I would’ve wrestled a bear for some chapstick. Somehow, I completed the last notes and stepped aside at the granite altar as the bride came up to take the hands of her groom. Their vows were simple, gracefully spoken, and fit the natural landscape completely. And if the local marmots attacked any vehicles during the ceremony or the reception that followed, I didn’t hear about it.
Bryan is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and works as a naturalist at the Rancho Alegre Outdoor School in Santa Barbara, Calif. You may reach him mid-journey at foolsby@hotmail.com.