By Mark Johnson

I found Spirit Gulch trailhead on The Million Dollar Highway, a couple miles short of Red Mountain Pass. I learned of this trail from Bobbie, who, in turn, learned from her Hardy Hikers group... a mostly retired, ragtag mix of footpath aficionados based out of lovely Ouray.
The “trail” is actually an old mining road that links Barstow and Greyhound mines to the massive Idarado complex adjacent to the trailhead. Networks of tunnels, hundreds of miles worth, perforate the underbellies of these once ore-rich mountains. Idarado’s hard-rockers, if needed, could find daylight at the Pandora Mine near Telluride.
A couple miles up the “trail” I overtook Marianna, a mid seventy-ish woman who spoke with what sounded to me like a Scandinavian accent; possibly Norwegian. In cool shade, under a canopy of highly scented spruce and fir, I asked where she was from.
“Oh juss down da road in U-ray.”
Why of course, she’s a “local.”
It turns out Marianna and her husband frequent this hike for its abundant wildflowers. “The show” starts near timberline at the Barstow Mine. “In de old days I would hike wit you,” she said, then acknowledged, voice trailing off along with her gaze, “Now? I can’t keep up; too slow.”
Marianna advised that if I was ambitious, a loop could be made of this hike. “You will come out on de highway a few miles below the trailhead. We use to do dat, den hitchhike back to our car.” Well, I prefer loops over backtracking any day, so I told her I’d give it a go. She gave me some general instructions, which, being a male, I promptly disremembered... which reminded me that I had no map. Oh well, it wasn’t likely that I’d use it anyway, unless absolutely, irrevocably lost, and being male precludes that possibility. We’re never lost, just temporarily misplaced.  
I found Marianna’s husband and dog a couple miles higher up, contemplating Spirit Basin’s panorama and wildflowers. Something told me not to disturb their solitude so I gave them some space by shortcutting a switchback.
Summiting the lofty ridge that separates Spirit and Mcintyre drainages, under a cloudless Colorado dome, I turned and faced the dazzling kaleidoscope of Spirit Basin in bloom. The symmetry was magnetic and siphoned me into a virtual vortex of water and wildflowers. Seeing the old man and his dog below, I couldn’t help wondering if Bobbie and I would have the same good fortune, to be hiking these and other alpine gardens 10 years from now. Understand, it’s “what we do,” what we’ve always done... it’s why we’re here.
Continuing to survey Spirit Basin’s magnificence, I supposed it was possible... If the gods, life’s roulette wheel or whatever controls Ms Destiny, favors us. If not, then let me die trying. I always thought it would be a great and symbolic way to go, to pass from this earth on a mountain, as opposed to the office. No epitaph needed; it kinda says it all.
I tried to imagine what it might feel like to, at some point, not be able to do “what you do.” What happens to the scientist when senescence forces him from his work? What happens to the writer when his pen loses its vocabulary... or to the silver-haired preacher when he stumbles over once familiar sermons? What then? What fills the vacuum of a lifetime passion pilfered by Father Time? And beyond that, God forbid, what if my heart doesn’t get the message that “meaningful life is over,” and it just keeps beating, beating, beating?


Ok, time to get a move on… time to escape this dark side ambush. Then, “Mark, you need to lighten up, Dude, you’re ruining a perfectly good ‘Now’ by wandering off into the future where you don’t belong.”
“God? Is that You?” The blazing afternoon sun had seared exposed skin red, and suddenly I felt a desperate need for shade. Try finding that above timberline.
A mental image of Andy Rooney seized my short circuiting grey matter. He’s sitting at his trademark, disheveled desk with equally disheveled hair and clothes; interminably long eyebrows-gone-wild look like Weapons of Mass Destruction. But at 92, Andy still touches our funny bones with his observational wit; he can still “do what he does,” which is to makes us think and smile. That, more than anything, is what keeps him alive, interested and interesting.
Maybe it’s a slight generalization, but doesn’t it seem to you that women are more adaptive than men when it comes to getting older? They dust off their needles and yarn... continue to cook and clean... and keep moving. They join social clubs, stay engaged with friends and family and thus outlive men, literally and figuratively.
Life’s timing is bass-ackward; just when we finally have things figured out, it’s almost over. Look, I’ll be the first to admit to not aging gracefully; I don’t do any of that stuff that keeps women alive and well. I am male; we are stubborn. I think age-related transitions are for sissies. If I could, I’d arm wrestle aging to the ground and kick its pruney, elder-hostile ass. But alas, I’m too old. I must have blinked, for the Ides of Senior-dom are up on me. Marianna and the hike to Spirit Basin got me to wondering, when I should have been wandering.