The report of Tuesday’s death has been grossly exaggerated1, as I learned on the final Tuesday, and ultimate day, of this May.
Having worked over the Memorial Day weekend, I decided the dogs and I would take Tuesday in the mountains, weather forecast be damned (and weather forecasters too; it was a splendid day). Tuesday is one of those days you have to seize when you can. Tuesday, for many, is like Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, an excruciating follow-up to an already soul-numbing experience that you endure with the knowledge that there are at least three more even shittier sequels on the way. Or maybe that was just my last job.
We sped toward the mountains, against the flow of Denver’s worsening arterial plaque, Cat Stevens lodged in my head:
“Now every second on the nose, the humdrum of the city grows
reaching out beyond the throes of our time…
Whoa, where do you go?
When you don’t want no one to know?
Who told tomorrow Tuesday’s dead?”
As is often the case on our outings, we set out for one location and ended up somewhere else. On this occasion, we found ourselves at the base of Boreas Pass Road, a steep and winding affair that once served as a connection between mining communities and that on this day remained closed to motor vehicle traffic due to snow and runoff at higher elevations.
Previously known by prospectors as Breckenridge Pass, and probably known by natives as something else prior to that, Boreas Pass was “officially” named by rich white asshole Sidney Dillon, who helped bring us the First Transcontinental Railroad and assisted in the perpetration of the epic act of fraud that was the Credit Mobilier of America scandal. Dillon, if nothing else, gifted the gap with some mythological flair; Boreas is one of the Greek wind gods known as Anemoi.
The cold North wind and the bringer of winter, Boreas was nowhere to be found on this fine Tuesday. We drifted along instead with Zephyr’s warm breeze.
But now it is Wednesday, and I should wrap up this frivolity and get to work. There are dogs to feed and bills to pay. Yet the day still pulses with life….
Whoa, where to go?
1Though not as grossly exaggerated as the legend that sprouted from Mark Twain’s response to the report of his death, which he issued on May 31, 1897, nearly 13 years before his demise, and which is widely misquoted.