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1 — Into Eldora

Growler charged through town like a car possessed, which he is.

A redwashed western sky inspired as we sped past asphalt's end and came to Hessie. Subies and Jeeps and generic trucks staked their claims along County Road 130. Here and there hikers geared up and doors slammed shut.

This was not the right trailhead. The right one was Fourth of July, four miles closer to South Arapaho Peak. But the dirt road grew rough and rocky as it rose into the Roosevelt National Forest ahead, so I stopped Growler and got out to read one of the many metal signposts. Dressed in its best majuscule, it stood there shouting:

PARK ONLY BETWEEN SIGNS VIOLATORS FINED $50 OR TOWED

Unwilling to violate given these terms, I moved Growler to a shady spot BETWEEN SIGNS and tied him to a tree. Then I bore south, following phantom trails that slipped from road into motionless wood. I was searching for campsites, and I soon found several, each occupied by a NO CAMPING sign.

Fine. I held south and crossed Middle Boulder Creek on a well-traveled white log. Shortly I found myself in a clearing staring at an old shack. The shack was flattened, its corrugated tin roof collapsed on charred wood and gunpowdery earth. Plenty of good tent sites here, and no NO CAMPING signs, so I returned to Growler to get my pack and supplies. For safety, I grabbed Ranch Security (my hatchet) and slid Slim Chance (my flip knife) into my pocket. For fun, I grabbed six beers.

Back in the clearing I set up camp, pitching Peace (my tent) near the shack behind a Ponderosa pine and placing food and gear on the ground beside it. I paused to open beer One. When I looked up, it was dusk.

2 — Rock of Ages

While sipping One I had discovered the perfect sitting rock. It offered excellent views of the clearing and contours suited for a butt and some bottles. I now settled on this perfect rock and popped beer Two. As dusky colors faded to gray, the gears in my head ground into idea mode. I was halfway through Two before I realized my mind was crawling with thoughts, so I got up and fetched Bad Ideas (my notebook), Machete (my pen), and Black Diamond (my headlamp).

I jotted down ideas for a while. I thought about my rock. How old is it? It's probably got hundreds of millions of years on me. Does it have a name? I patted the rock and said:

YOUR NAME SHALL BE ROCK

Darkness fell from on high and the moon rose to my right behind the standstill pines. Gazing up from Rock I saw machines far above fly across the Milky Way of my forefathers to remind me that I was not alone.

3 — Alone

Cold slowly inserted itself and I cursed the NO CAMPFIRES sign I'd seen earlier. Violation would be easy in this case, but it would give away my position and possibly attract a prowling night ranger. So I let the wood live for another fire.

Alone in the dark I drank without strategy and my thoughts died of unnatural causes. I slowly became a mindless person, and soon thereafter a mindless person who needed to pee. I marched past Peace to the shack and gave it my mark. Then I returned to the Rock with Three in hand.

Suddenly, the nothing in my head banged out a bad idea. What if I wrote a piece about camping solo and used my beers for structure? Six sections, one per beer. Titles arrived immediately and I noted them in Bad Ideas:

I DRANK SIX BEERS ON A ROCK IN THE ROOSEVELT NATIONAL FOREST
SIX BEERS, A ROCK, AND THE ROOSEVELT NATIONAL FOREST

I picked up Machete to pen my memories of One and Two. For Three, I would just focus on the bad idea itself. Four, Five, and Six to come, of course.

Soon, however, my mind gave up the ghost, and I stared at Bad Ideas and sighed inside at the familiar sight of inspiration vaporizing off a blank page:

DRUNK, LONELY, AND TALKING TO ROCKS IN THE ROOSEVELT NATIONAL FOREST
I DRANK SIX BEERS AND KILLED MYSELF IN THE WOODS

I really do want to die in the woods, but not at my own hand, and not tonight.

4 — A Close Encounter

The beer went right through me. I lurched away to refresh my mark with piss Two.

I returned with Four, chewed Machete for a while, and then flinched when a stick yelled:

SNAP

Something was creeping up on my camp from the southeast, its steps blissfully (or boldly?) crunching twigs. I heard that something stomp around Peace while I quietly considered the encounter. The lover of darkness inside me suddenly longed for light:

LET THERE BE BLACK DIAMOND

And there was Black Diamond. Its throw beam lit up Peace. I spotted movement and a shape not large but odd and uncomfortably fast. It made a mumbly sound and briefly in that uncertain world of ale and evil deeds I thought that sound was language.

I poured the rest of Four down my throat and waited in silence for several minutes.

Out came Slim Chance. Shaft in fist and blade against wrist I left Rock to scout my camp.

5 — Enter the Hatchet

Nothing amiss, and I returned to Rock with Five and Six and Ranch Security in one rushed trip. I opened Five and set Six on Rock.

I was drunk and mostly standing at this point to ease the ache in my assbone. I swayed upon Rock, sent my eyes scrambling up an unmoving tree in search of stability. I was spinning and spinning, out of control in the presence of a sober slowbeat forest. Shakily I drained Five and unzipped for piss Three.

Something strange hissed hard behind me. Startled, I lost my balance and wet myself while falling off an age-old rock.

When I looked up, the silhouette of something wild was looking down.

6 — King of the Rock

Under cold moon and stars in forest quiet but wide awake I lay frozen. A wispy figure in old clothes floated up Rock like a smoke signal. I could see the shapes of juniper shrubs and lichenous boulders behind his vapory frame.

First a pair of battered boots with bubbly melted uppers. Next, jeans with burnholes and a smoldering overcoat and a footloose beard with edges trimmed in pyrotechnic color. Finally a face tired and sooty, but with eyes ablaze – reflections, I later concluded, of a fiery blast that torched an old shack and quenched the dreams of a forgotten prospector on the Fourth of July.

With his right hand he grabbed Ranch Security. With his left he did nothing, for he had no left, just a charry stump where little bony stubs fingered the same chilly air I was barely breathing. He raised Ranch Security over his head.

And then that goddamn tramp from the past slammed my hatchet's hammer down on Six. Something else snapped, this time inside of me:

NO BEER SMASHING VIOLATORS MURDERED EVEN IF ALREADY DEAD

Up I came enraged and clutching blade again. South Arapaho be damned. I've got a one-handed ghost to kill.

Growling like a man possessed, which I am, I charged my Rock.

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_{This has been a @comedyopenmic entry by @brandt. I nominate @otherbrandt and @scottshots for the next round.}

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_{Hello from the high Rockies of Colorado. My name is Brandt, pleased to meet you. I live in a little ghost town called Leadville. If you like mountains, snow, jokes, Ranch Security, running, hiking, breathing, not working, etc., then you and I have a lot in common and we should chat sometime. Since you didn't ask, here is a link to my entire Steemit archive.}

_{Thanks for stopping by, and have a lovely day.}