© Jennie Morey 2008 All Rights Reserved

They Called Me Colorado

"You mean I have to sleep in a tent for six-weeks?" I gaped at Professor Harvard. “What about showers?”

He kept a straight face. "You can drive to a campground or the nearest town every once in a while."

Every once in a while? That’s when it hit me I was not going to talk my way out of this one. Professor Harvard was serious.

He was going to make me go to a remote area of Colorado’s southwestern mountains with a bunch of unsympathetic men and one or two tree-hugging women, where I would either complete this rigorous geology field course or I wouldn’t graduate. I would have to hike an average of twelve miles a day in rugged mountain terrain and go days at a time between showers while I struggled to complete difficult geological mapping exercises.

I felt trapped. Scared. Scared more than anything. I didn’t think I could do it. Me, a sheltered Daddy’s Little Girl who’s idea of stepping outside the herd entailed eating lunch at a restaurant alone. For the first time in the four years I’d worked for my geology degree, I questioned why I was there. What made me choose Geology? Was this what I really wanted to do with my life?

Professor Harvard, as I’ve affectionately dubbed him, was a demanding, extremely intelligent Structural Geologist who graduated from Harvard University. He was somewhat chauvinistic, always pompous, and had a very clear expectation of his students. He was also instrumental in my personal growth the summer of 1996, so it is hard for me to resent him, although at the time I did resent him. Very much.

Professor Harvard refused to back down on the requirements of his field course. He did, however, soften his resolve on tenting it for six weeks. He told me if I could find another university that offered an equivalent curriculum, he’d accept it in place of his. He didn’t think I would find such a course. That’s how tough his course was. He knew it. I knew it. But after a whole lot of digging and many sleepless nights, I found a suitable course and thought all my troubles were over. I breathed a big sigh of relief. Everything was going to be all right. I would have a bathroom during my field course studies. And a comfortable bed to sleep on. I could do this!

The course Professor Harvard christened as worthy was a program out of the University of Wisconsin at Madison that melded with several other universities to form one giant geology field course. There were more than eighty students registered, most of them men. What I neglected to consider in my fervor to have plumbing was the fact that I would still be away from home for a long period of time. I would have to travel to Utah and attend this field course as the only person, a woman to boot, from Colorado State University. I would be utterly alone, surrounded by strangers, and facing the biggest challenge of my life. This was a daring endeavor for sheltered little me. Some might consider this an insignificant feat, nothing to worry about, but to me it was bigger than the mountains I would have to hike. I felt thrust into an emotionally terrifying situation and quite incapable of having the inner strength to pull it off.

Everyone else in the group knew why they were there. I didn’t. I chose geology because it interested me and I wanted a degree that required a lot of math. I was lousy at math in high school and wanted to change that.  I wanted an academic challenge. Geology provided that and more. What it didn’t have was my heart.

The day before the course commenced, my husband at the time drove with me to Park City, Utah, where the geology field camp was stationed. Our relationship was different back then.  I clung to him and couldn’t think about dropping him off at the airport the next morning. At the time he was my lifeline, reassurance that at the end of this terrible ordeal, I would return to him and my safe, simple life in Colorado. "Safe" being the key word there.  The thought of giving up was so tempting. Screw the degree.

But something I didn't understand drove me.  Getting a college degree was too important.  I thought the degree was about getting a job and starting a new career, but I would soon learn it was much, much more than that.  The time had come to go my own way. Dread churned in my stomach until I felt sick, and I was shaking when I climbed into my Escort and left my husband at the airport.  But I did it.

I can recall few times in my life that I have cried the way I did driving back to Park City. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered if I was over-reacting. I doubted any of the other students were going through this much agony. I didn’t know it then, but this was a huge turning point in my life.  I had never done anything like this before. I had never gone off on my own to explore the world.  I had never pushed myself to grow like this.  Challenged myself.  Academically I had, but not personally.

When I arrived in Park City, I parked my car and joined the throng of students standing near a cluster of vans. For once in my life I didn't care what I looked like. My eyes were red, bloated strawberries. Back home, I am known for my smiles and the sound of my laugh. But that day any trace of a smile was buried so deep I couldn’t even fake one. I stood near the back of the group, unhappier than I could comprehend. I felt disconnected from myself. Who was this woman who dragged me here, anyway?

Excited voices chattered and laughed all around me, in sharp contrast to the chaos humming inside me. No one spoke to me. They just sent an occasional curious glance my way.

“Who is that?” I could almost hear them murmur. 

I wished someone would tell me, because I certainly didn’t know. This woman who was putting me through this was someone totally unfamiliar to me.

I spent my first day in the field feeling hideously sorry for myself, fighting tears, wishing I was home, lamenting over my hypersensitivity. I must have inherited it from my mother, I remember thinking. She over-reacted too.

I learned absolutely nothing that day. The professor was standing in front of an igneous outcrop. That’s all I remember of his lecture. He explained the mineral composition at length, and probably covered their geologic history as well, but I didn’t absorb a thing.

During the drive back to the field station, I stared out the window of the van, despairing that it hadn’t even been twenty-hours since I left my husband at the airport. The temptation to drive back to Colorado was overwhelming. How was I ever going to make it six weeks? I would fail the course for one thing. And what was the point of all this if I failed? I would have no degree and no job in geology, because Professor Harvard would never let me graduate without passing this course.

That’s when something miraculous happened. The guy sitting next to me began a conversation with the woman in front of him, one of the few at the camp. She was a vivacious, petite woman with blond hair. I envied her boldness. Pretty soon the guy next to me had her laughing with his jokes and I found myself drawn to his humor. Indeed, I was starved for any glimmer of good cheer, no matter how bad the pun. Laughter pulled me out of my abyss.

I turned toward the big hairy guy who looked more like a beer-swigging couch potato than a geologist and told him, “I can’t believe you made me laugh.”

He became my field partner from that day forward and introduced me to a group of wonderful people from Duluth, Minnesota, the vivacious blonde included. They took me under their wing and changed my experience at field camp from one of unbearable doom to what would become, without question, the most personally gratifying experience of my life.

Because I was the only person from Colorado State University, and a woman, I stood out from the rest. Though it was impossible that I would remember all eighty students there, every one of them knew me by name. My popularity astounded me. It also fueled my courage. 

When my Minnesota friends started calling me “Colorado,” the moniker quickly spread through the rest of the camp. I’d be hiking along and someone would shout, “Hey, Colorado!”

Groups of us would walk Park City’s Main Street at night, eat dinner, or have a beer. On Sunday we played volleyball or had a barbeque in the park.  I was never left out of the activities.  I beamed. I flourished.  Best of all, I was going to pass this course and graduate with a degree in geology!  Okay, so I wasn't the best at interpreting outcrops in the field.  On paper, no problem, but I had difficulty seeing it on a hiking trail.  But I learned enough to get by.  And I'd go home few pounds lighter to boot!

Toward the end of the field camp, I couldn’t resist carving my name into the bark of an aspen tree, needing to mark the significance of my journey somehow. Some day I’d like to go back and find that tree.

“Colorado,” it will read.

Incredibly, when the last day of camp arrived, I felt regret rather than relief. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would miss field camp. I can still picture the cafeteria where everyone gathered to say farewell. My vivacious friend from Duluth presented a few of the students with rock awards. She gave the first award to me. It was labeled “Most Courageous” in recognition of attending an arduous field camp all by myself ... and completing it.

The friends I made on this trip are among the finest I will ever meet. But it is the inner strength and confidence I gained that far exceeds anything else I took home with me. I found something precious and irreplaceable hiking and mapping those mountains. Whenever I feel myself weakening on the inside, I think about those six weeks and what it meant to me. It is a faithful reminder that I am stronger than I think at times. I can do anything I put my mind to do, no matter how difficult the task may seem, no matter how frightening or seemingly insurmountable.

All I have to do is want it bad enough.

I graduated with a degree in geology May, 1997.  But I never pursued a career in geology.  Instead, I followed my heart and became a writer.  Something that never would have happened had I not gone to Park City that summer.  I never would have believed I could do it.

Burning Embers

Thick and acrid, the smoke choked Savanna James and burned her eyes as she stumbled toward the barn. She could barely make out the red exterior and white trim. Belshazzar’s terrified whinny cried above the heated roar, followed immediately by Mirabel’s. Both stallion and mare were trying to escape the entrapment of the barn before the forest fire engulfed them alive.

Savanna hadn’t feared the loss of her home in Masonville, Colorado until high winds spread the fire rapidly in her direction. While she packed her belongings, giant tongues of flames licked the dry air and climbed the ridge near her ranch and now descended toward her. Had the Larimer County Sheriff’s Department prevented her, she wouldn’t have been able to return for her horses. But no one had anticipated the wind would gust up to 70 miles per hour in so little time.

Struggling to fit a halter on Mirabel and a bridle on Belshazzar, Savanna hurried them out of the barn. Mirabel strained at the rope Savanna held tight, her eyes flashing white terror. Belshazzar whinnied, sounding more like a scream.

Searching through the heavy smoke, Savanna spotted the horse trailer attached to the truck that now contained all the possessions she had time to gather. A weight of doom sank in her stomach and her green eyes widened. Flames lapped at the tires of the trailer and danced out the side windows.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, the sound drowning in the chaos that surrounded her.

She would have to ride to safety.

The roar of the fire seemed to intensify with each passing second. Fighting sheer panic, her breath came in pants and her pulse leapt into flight. Belshazzar pranced and pulled hard against her hold on the reins. Without delay, Savanna swung her small frame onto his back, tugging Mirabel to follow as she urged the big black stallion into motion.

Determined to put distance between her and the path of the fire, Savanna headed toward the valley below her ranch. She would intercept the highway ... and hopefully other people. And safety.

At a frantic gallop, Savanna could barely hear the horses’ hooves over wind and fire. She coughed and squinted her stinging eyes. Though she dared not look, she knew flaming torpedoes landed in the treetops all around her. The air crackled and hissed. An eerie, unnatural wind radiated from the intense energy that threatened to swallow her whole. Fiery balls of ash stung her skin and singed her dark, shoulder-length hair.

The fire was jumping.

A pine tree exploded into flames ahead of her, an instant torch for all in hell to see. It swayed and came crashing to the ground, sending sparks flying like a splash of water.

Savanna’s scream joined the horses’. Mirabel reared and Savanna let go of her lead rope. The mare charged away from the fallen tree and disappeared into the billowing smoke.

Crouched low to the stallion’s neck, Savanna surrendered to hysteria. Visions of burning to death permeated her conscience. She loosened her hold on the reins and gave Belshazzar his head, her life depending on his instinct to find a path out of the fire.

Then she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that if she were to die, it would be quickly. She didn’t want to know the reality of her own flesh burning from her body, melting like candle wax.

A muffled shout penetrated her spiraling terror. A hallucination. It had to be.

She kept her eyes closed tight, not wanting to see the flames that would grip her. Belshazzar slowed, then trotted and jerked his head, as if restrained. Savanna opened her eyes.

An apparition amidst the dense smoke, face covered with bandana and goggles, the firefighter couldn’t have looked more like a foggy dream. He wore a helmet that hid most of his dark hair, and a variety of gear dangled from his backpack. When he grasped the reins and Belshazzar’s mane, Savanna let him heft himself up behind her.

Strong arms came around her waist and took control of the stallion. Without a word, the firefighter reined Belshazzar to the right, having to yank the animal’s attention from the raging inferno around them.

Smoke swelled and dissipated in repetitive waves. Savanna coughed until she gagged. She tried to bury her face in Belshazzar’s mane to filter the smoke, but his surging motion prevented her. The stallion was stretched to his limit, the will to live driving him to top speed.

“Keep this over your mouth and nose!” the firefighter shouted from behind her. He pressed his bandana against her face with one hand and she struggled to hold it in place, a difficult task astride Belshazzar’s leaping form.

Seconds ticked into minutes. Mirabel came into view through the smoke, white lather gathering on her haunches as she ran for her life. Seeing her mare leading the way to safety as if she knew it all along, Savanna felt a desperate rush of joy.

Leave it to female intuition.

Bursting through the trees, Belshazzar’s hooves dug into the earth as Mirabel slowed. On the highway just ahead, two more firefighters stood next to a maroon Suburban. One of them ran to catch Mirabel, who seemed to sense she was safe and allowed his approach. Her sides heaved from exertion.

The firefighter with Savanna brought Belshazzar to a jarring halt. The stallion blew air out of his nose with a snort, then proceeded to breathe as heavily as Mirabel, eyes still flashing with residual fright.

Behind her, the firefighter dismounted. Savanna heard his booted feet touch the ground. She moved to dismount after him, and felt his hands grip her waist. He helped her down from the stallion. Still holding the bandana, shaking, she placed her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him. All she could think was; he was tall.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Savanna nodded, dazed.

He reached up and drew off his goggles, revealing pale blue eyes that regarded her with fresh interest. His nose was straight and masculine, leading to sensual lips that even now formed into a grin.

“I think we just saved each other’s life.” His voice was raspy and deep.

Something yapped from inside his backpack. The firefighter released her to shrug out of the pack, putting it on the ground to open the zipper. A furry head emerged and the youthful brown eyes of a black puppy met Savanna’s.

“Oh,” she cooed.

Stuffing the bandana into the front pocket of her jeans, she crouched to lift the animal from the pack. The puppy whimpered and licked her face with spastic abandon.

“He must belong to one of your neighbors.”

Realizing the time the firefighter had taken to save the puppy nearly trapped him in the fire, Savanna’s heart warmed. “I’m grateful you found me when you did.”

“No need to be grateful; I was never so glad to see a horse before.” He held out his hand. “Marshal Sterling.”

Smiling, Savanna answered, “Savanna James.” She held the puppy by his bulging, hairless tummy in one hand and extended the other to Marshal. Tiny grunts breathed in her ear.

“We thought you were barbequed white meat, friend.” The blonde haired man led Mirabel toward them. “That fire is movin’.”

Marshal chuckled.

“We lost you when you went back for that dog,” the other man added. He had brown hair and stood shorter than his partner, though leaner in stature.

Marshal turned toward the men. “Will one of you radio for a horse trailer? We’ll need to find a place to board these horses.” His gaze came back to Savanna.

“I will,” the shorter man said. “Then we should head down the road in case the fire jumps again.”

Marshal nodded and the shorter man jogged toward the Suburban.

Savanna looked up at the mountain. Even from here, she could see angry flames devouring the trees on her property. It would all be gone, she thought sadly. She had worked so hard for that house, moved in only three months ago. How happy she’d been not to have to board her horses anymore.

“Sorry about your house,” Marshal offered.

Savanna lowered her head to hide the tears in her eyes.

“Do you have any family you can call?” the blonde-haired man asked.

With a shock she realized she didn’t. She moved from Connecticut after taking a job here. She barely knew anyone yet.

She looked at the men and shook her head. “But I’ll be all right.”

Denial had a way of numbing a person. The reality of what she lost had yet to become just that. The photographs. The things her mother gave her before she died. That she would never see them again was unfathomable.

“There’s a shelter down at the middle school. You could stay there until you get back on your feet.”

Savanna’s gaze found the blonde-haired man, having difficulty accepting what he suggested.

“Or,” Marshal interjected. “You could stay with me.”

Savanna’s attention snapped to him. Her eyes traveled over his shoulders and chest, down, down, and then back up again. Back to his handsome face.

Stay with him? Alone?

“I have a guest room you could use.”

“I...,” she stammered.

“If you don’t want to stay at the shelter, that is...,” Marshal hedged, shifting on his feet.

Savanna noticed the blonde-haired man gaping at Marshal.

Marshal was a stranger to her, yet he offered to support her during her time of loss. Though she found the human connection more than a little tempting, she couldn’t dismiss his other motives, the ones that made him a man. She recognized the interest in his eyes, and knew that kindness was only part of what drove him.

“That’s very generous of you to offer,” she replied carefully.

“I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

“You just offered your home to me. I don’t even know you.”

“I just risked my life to save that puppy, too.” He grinned. “That ought to tell you something.”

Despite her situation, Savanna smiled back. “That you’re crazy?”

The blonde-haired man smirked with restrained humor and looked from Savanna to Marshal.

“Not quite. I’m not afraid to take chances.” Marshal sobered. “Not when it really matters, anyway.”

Her smile faded, too. She looked down at the puppy in her arms, quite content, with drooping eyes and warm breath against her fingers. Alive, young, and innocent.

“Of course, if you’re uneasy about staying with me, I can always drop you off at the shelter after we find a place for your horses.”

“No ... I....” Savanna imagined the shelter and recoiled. She would be miserable there. At his home she would have more privacy than she’d get at any shelter.

She stared at him. Had her house actually burned down? Was she actually thinking about staying at a strange man’s house?

“Yes,” she said without further thought.

“Yes?”

“I’ll stay with you ... I-I mean, not with you....” Her hand gestured at her side. The puppy grunted. “That is, not with you in your ... in your ... what I mean is, I’ll stay in your guest room.”

Savanna shifted the puppy’s weight while her face flushed with more than heat from the fire.

Marshal grinned again, a playful and mischievous grin that told her plainly how much he enjoyed her unintended innuendo.

The blonde-haired man gave a chuckle and shook his head as he turned away to leave them alone. Belshazzar nickered and rubbed his brawny head against Savanna’s back. The force of his affectionate nudge pushed her forward until she landed against Marshal. The puppy grunted again.

Savanna smiled at Marshal’s deep chuckle, and sparks of a different kind ignited ... and blazed.

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