Mother and baby, Chimney Gulch Trail

Cecropia moth caterpillar, Chimney Gulch Trail

Colorado Dragon Boat Festival, Sloan's Lake Park

Dragonboater's version of "Just do it!"

I once read that the Irish love to talk about the weather. (I also once read that the Irish don't take well to psychotherapy, because they would rather talk about anything other than how they "really feel" about personal matters. Hence their attraction to weather as a topic of conversation.)

According to a genealogy project my Dad helped me do in grade school, I'm 7/16 Irish, which may explain why I feel compelled to share this item from today's Denver Post:

If Denver's heat wave holds on for three more days, the city will smash a 19th century record. In 1874 and again in 1901, Denver braved 18 consecutive days in which temperatures reached or surpassed 90 degrees.

Fortunately for record watchers - and unfortunately for relief-seekers - the week's forecast is flush with 90-plus degree temps.

What the article doesn't mention is that since June 1, we've had 31 non-consecutive days with highs in the 90s; on July 20, it was 100 degrees . . .

With today's temps predicted to top out around 100 degrees, it was too hot for hiking. Instead, we loaded our two-person kayak on the CRV and headed 40 minutes northwest to Garrison Reservoir. Since we kayaked only once while living in Belgium, we were very, very happy to take up our paddles again.

Aspen looks pretty much like any cute, upscale tourist town in a picturesque area. (Think Harbor Springs on steroids, all you Michiganders.) I didn't take many pictures there, except at the John Denver Sanctuary, which is actually one of the more interesting memorials I've ever seen. (Stop gagging and snorting, Jude!) There's no statue, just the lyrics to a few John Denver songs engraved on boulders arranged in a semi-circle near a fast-running river. Our friend Gayle, who's a music therapist, couldn't help singing a few bars here and there . . .


Actually, unless you're a photographer for People magazine during ski season or attending the Music Festival (Emanuel Ax was amazing), what's near Aspen is more interesting than what's in Aspen. Ashcroft is a tiny ghost town left over from Colorado's mining boom. The Historical Society has fine guided tours of this remote spot. The tour's cost ($3) is less than we paid for a gallon of gas ($5.30) in Aspen.


You can also designate a fearless driver to take you up to Independence Pass so that you can admire the Continental Divide. (Blood members of the Gillette family are handy to have around in such situations, since they were all born with teeny-tiny "No Fear" tattoos on their foreheads.) Parts of the two-lane road to the pass are so narrow that the highway department doesn't even bother painting a yellow line down the middle. If two big SUVS are facing off on this section of road, they have to treat it as one lane and take turns, because shoulders don't exist: Depending on which side of the road you're travelling, if you move a few inches to one side, you will either crash into the vertical cliff looming above you or fly off the mountainside.


More photos from the Aspen area: http://picasaweb.google.com/Katharine.Gillette/Aspen

What does $300 buy in Aspen? Not much, apparently, at least if we're talking hotel rooms.

I was late in booking a room in Aspen for this past weekend, when we went to visit Tim and Gayle, our friends and former neighbors from Cleveland Heights. They were in town for a week while Tim worked for the Aspen Music Festival and School doing on-site repair of woodwind instruments.

Our hotel was in the center of Aspen, near the spot where Tim and Gayle were staying. When we stopped at the front desk to register, we were informed that there would be a $26 per night additional fee for parking. $300 a night, and I have to pay for parking? (We were offered the option of taking ourselves over to the Aspen Parking Department and purchasing a $7 day pass to park on any city street. If we could find a parking space.)

Our room wasn't ready--in all fairness, it was only noon--so the clerk offered us an "upgrade" for the same price. The "upgrade" was on the second floor, right around the corner from the elevator. The room did have a king-sized bed, which we had requested. It also had a balcony with a view of an alley; a tiny bathroom with no fan and a tub shorter than those in most Days Inns; and a weird decor that was ski lodge architecture--low, oak-beamed ceilings and oak woodwork everywhere--paired with Eurotrash furnishings. Highlights included an all-Formica, Cubist-looking bedside table; a chrome desk chair with a faux white leather seat; and a fake (and fake-looking) fur throw that, a sign informed us, we could purchase for $400. (I think that our friend Marianne may have paid less for one of her real furs at Jacobson's going-out-of business sale a few years back.) The carpeting was a zebra print. Animal print--one zebra, one cheetah--robes hung in the closet for our use, as well as two pairs of fuzzy blue--one pale, one navy--slipper socks designed, I guess, to enhance our chic quotient when we slipped into the robes.

The oddest part of the decor was a minibar with a glass display case on top, sort of like a curio table on top of a dorm refrigerator. In addition to cans of peanuts, bags of M&Ms, and a tin of Altoids, the display case held 1) an "Intimacy Kit" with condoms, lubricant, and "obstetrical wipes;" 2) a playing card-sized box with "Kama Sutra" oils and a vaguely Indian painting of a happy couple on its cover; and 3) a pair of velvet handcuffs. Suddenly the ski lodge/Eurotrash room added a third school of decorating: Truck Stop.

Frankly, our $100-a-night hotel room at the newly remodeled Holiday Inn in Ogallala, Nebraska, where we were stranded by a ferocious spring snowstorm during our move to Colorado, was bigger and more tastefully decorated.

And the parking was free.

Late last night, we heard godawful noises outside. One sound was familiar from our days as cat owners, when our young, slim, calico Goldberry whupped the two fat (literally) cats next door, Bert and Ernie. The other sound was totally unfamiliar.

When we went out front to have a look, there, across the street, was our neighbor's black and white cat, hissing loudly and puffed up as big as one of those red rubber balls used for dodgeball in grade school. Facing off with her was a coyote. Jim started yelling, "Shoo, shoo," and waving his arms wildly. The coyote glanced at him briefly and returned its focus to the cat. Finally Jim took his arm waving routine to the street, jogging up and down, still yelling at the coyote. After a few minutes, the coyote gave up and loped slowly west (of course) down the street.

We stood and watched the big animal until we were sure that he was well on his way. Meanwhile, the cat continued with the pufferfish imitation and non-stop hissing, no doubt convinced, in the way of all felines, that she had scared off that vicious wild animal.

. . . in a Denver neighborhood. And, no, I didn't PhotoShop in those Gothic spires in the background.

I finally went to see the "Sex and the City" movie this afternoon. Alone, which really sucked.

The movie brought back the wonderful times I've had with my girlfriends . . .

from the first night Judy and I spent in our dorm room, when she poked a hole in the ceiling with her umbrella trying to get our upstairs neighbors to stop bouncing a basketball at 1 a.m. and then tried to hide the hole with her white saddle shoe polish . . .

to countless Starbucks and endless, perfect hours of hanging out with Catherine . . .

to margaritas and bitching at Border Cantina with "The Gang" (you know who you are) . . .

to margaritas on Beth's patio (do I detect a trend?) . . .

to wandering Les Marolles and eating pastries at Teddy's with Jill.

I miss every single one of you irreplaceable women.