What's next?

ESTES PARK, Colo. – We’re in the Rockies this weekend. We’ve made camp in a small cabin on a slight hill overlooking the Fall River, which, with a quiet rush, lives up to its name by tumbling down and eastward from Rocky Mountain National Park to town.

Right now I’m on the cabin’s front porch, resting a creaky knee and writing fast before the afternoon shadows give way to dark. A mountain peak looms through the trees, its face catching the sun’s final glow … like a bronze, misshapen moon.

The cabin is spare; it’s called the “Preacher’s Cabin” by its owner.  It is two stories, though the second story is not much more than a loft. On the first floor, the main room, there’s a fireplace, a rocker, a comfortably creased leather chair that swallows you whole, and a couch. 

In all rooms, there’s the warmth of knotty pine and the slight smell of past fires built on colder days, when the cabin’s squat corner furnace wasn’t keeping up.

We’re unclear about the preacher reference, although there is a stern portrait of a serious man in one of the two bedrooms.  We chose the other bedroom.

It has been years since I’ve been to this quarter of Colorado – 40, to be exact. Then, my folks drove my brother and me in a caravan with two other families, tent trailers in tow, to camp in the park. 

I’ve long remembered specific things from that trip: the crystal streams that seemed to flow parallel along every road we traveled; the enormity of the mountains, whose majesty just couldn’t be captured on film; the two-day backpack journey we took down Chapin Pass, just off Old Fall River Road.

And Old Fall River Road itself – a one-way, one-lane, gravel trail that marches up to the sky in zigzag fashion, resting at last at a place more than 11,000 feet above sea level. There it intersects with the more “modern,” two-lane Trail Ridge Road.

The latter, built between 1929 and 1932, is the main highway through this national park and, when first built, was considered an engineering marvel.  Today, hundreds of thousands of cars traverse it each year, hugging tight to its painted lanes, its drivers forced to look at the road and not scenery – like high-wire artists avoiding the crowd.

But the granddaddy is Old Fall River Road. It was started in 1913, before this was even a national park, and not completed until 1920.  It is not much more than a logger’s road, although it was designed, even then, with tourist in mind.

Where the two roads meet is a land of no trees – only bare rock, alpine tundra, deep and hard packs of snow, winds that can surpass 100 miles per hour and vistas that leave you mute with awe.

We’re here because we have some catching up to do.  Our love of the Michigan cottage has been an incredible thing.  But that love, which sent us north each season, came with a price – an economist would call it an opportunity cost.  Sure, we have seen other things and other places in the world along the way.  But not much, and not very often.

And so we are here to get a brief, renewed taste of the Rockies … to climb where generations before us have climbed, and to listen again to the tumble of descending waters.

Yesterday, our first, we did some smallish hikes to get accustomed to the altitude. In the morning, we huffed and puffed more than we expected, but by afternoon we felt like mountain goats.

Today, we drove up narrow Old Fall River Road and, once at the top, walked along a long trail to the highest point easily accessible in the park. There a commemorative, bronze compass-like disk, fixed atop a craggy stand of rocks, explained all that we saw below.

And it was then that I realized it: As much as Nature is on show here, so are the visitors.  We weren’t alone on the barren trail, of course.  Dozens and dozens of others marched ahead and behind, braving the winds, seeking the 12,000-foot top.

Sure, we all shared a common mission – to soak up Nature’s surroundings. But I also think it was to test ourselves. When you arrive at this highest peak, there are signs warning of high altitudes and how they can harm you.   But young and old alike braved this final trail.  Okay, some moved more quickly than others.  But they all arrived successfully and left with the satisfaction that they had done it – reached a pinnacle that most others had not.

As Cindy and I climbed to reach the bronze disk, there was a group of five younger folks ahead of us.  Up here, the wind gusts were very strong. If you weren’t careful, they could nudge you over … cause you to lose your footing and tumble.

But these five would have none of it.  One member of the group photographed the other four – first in a traditional pose, shoulder to shoulder, their legs braced behind them to hold them steady.

Then they stopped fighting the wind and instead mocked it, flailing their arms as if being swept away.

I captured the moment while they did the same.

Their fun wasn’t a snub at Mother Nature.  No, it was more a playful embrace. 

As if to say, “Awesome, cool, Ma!”

And then …

“Okay, what’s next!?”

What indeed.

A mighty bug

They stood near the costume shop on Grand Boulevard.

He with a nose ring; she tattoos.  Then she slammed her fist into his shoulder.

“Slug bug silver!”  I could see her say.

Just a day earlier, I turned a sharp left, just ahead of my office parking lot.  There the woman, waiting at the bus stop, shot her fist into her guy-friend standing near.

Couldn’t tell what she shouted, though I could see he wasn’t happy.

I own a VW bug.  It’s a 2002 model – the “New Beetle,” says VW – and it’s a turbo.  They stopped making turbos after 2002 because they’re kind of dangerous. They go fast before you know they’re going fast.  I’ve always felt my car was superior over even the mighty semi trucks. Thus the photo taken a few years back on Route 66.  Sure, they’re big.  But my car?  Nimbler, quicker. 

Better. 

I love my car. Yet, I had forgotten completely about the “slug bug” shtick until a colleague of mine, following a recent lunch, emerged from my bug and whacked me in the shoulder.

“Slug bug gray!” he said.

Wha …?  Beyond the pain, I didn’t know what to say, though it eventually came back to me.  I remembered. I just hadn’t been paying attention.

Ever since, I’ve seen folks wailing away on each other as I drive by.  It’s like the waters parting. On either side of the street, folks glance my way, turn to the unprepared victim, then hit and shout.  Or shout and hit.  It varies.

I think they’re motivated in part by the new media campaign from VW that’s attempting to resurrect the slug-bug game but apply it to its newer models.

Check out the commercial that played on the Super Bowl telecast.

Ha! Love the ending with Stevie Wonder.

Retro marketing has had its effect, it seems.

There are varied versions of the game.  Folks on the East Coast tend to call it “Punch Buggy” and not “Slug Bug” like the rest of the country.

And the new VW commercial relies on “Red one!” or “White one!” ...  then the hit. Historically, though, “Slug bug red!” or “Slug bug white!” is more common and preferred. 

Plus you always want to add “No returns!” or “No backsies!” to make sure your partner doesn’t whack you back.

Now, I’ve always felt my bug was a powerful force in the universe precisely because of its universality.  It’s been one of the world’s most popular cars.

But it has its critics.

My kids scoffed at me when I bought the New Beetle … Zach thought I should opt for a Chrysler 300.  (Too smooth for me.)  Meghan just wanted me in something a bit more, uh, fatherly, I think.

Or maybe it was the guy thing.  After all, the bug has fought against the “wimp” title for years.  Car and Driver magazine calls driving one “the truest test of masculinity,” though it still likes the car.  And sure, what other car has a flower vase built into its dashboard?  (I’ve used it once – for some spring wildflowers picked by Meghan.)

But bugs and I go way back.  I took over my dad’s red 1968 Beetle when he moved up to a Super Beetle.

That car was such a simple machine.  So simple I could do my own repairs.  But it had its limits – not much more than a glorified go kart.  No air conditioning, of course. The heat barely worked.  And once in college I had to drive home in an Illinois snowstorm with my head out the window. The windshield wipers had stopped working, though it was okay; traffic was crawling at 10 miles an hour anyway. 

Oh … and then there was that whole semester in ’77 – kids, don’t read this – when I drove without brakes.  It’s amazing what you can do by working the gear shift and parking brake. 

But it was a good car, a sturdy car.

Eventually, the red bug gave out and I took over Dad’s blue Super Beetle when he moved up to a new VW Rabbit.  This bug had a sunroof and more room inside.  

But I don’t recall folks slamming each other on the shoulder the way they do now.  At least not in these numbers. So maybe today it’s a nostalgia thing.  Maybe in this age of YouTube and social networking, offbeat consumer habits become the norm and everyone just wants to have fun joining in.

My own theory?  VW announced that this year would be the last for the New Beetle.  What they’re selling now are “Final Edition” models.  It’s not clear whether the Beetle name will survive; we should know more in a year or so.

So I’m guessing this ripple of shoulder-thumping is cosmic. I think the hundreds of thousands of remaining Beetles out there are sending waves of energy through not just VW corporate headquarters but the broader populace as well.

Not a power play. Just a desperate call for help … to be remembered and to make sure the model lives on.

So I apologize for the pain caused when I get behind the wheel.  But there’s not much I can do about it. All cosmic.

Whatever the case, no backsies.