So, here we are back on Cape Cod and the blue, blue Colorado sky followed me!  How absolutely delightful.
     Even the locals here are surprised at how mild and mellow it is here after a couple of cold, damp and rainy weeks with a few hurricanes coming all the way up the east coast to visit.  Ick.
     But, every day has dawned clear and the temperatures have been in the high sixties to low seventies and, quite frankly, I would love to take the credit for this!  Why?  Because a couple of years ago I got the credit, or blame, for the incredible snowstorms that blew in while I was visiting over Christmas, that's why!  Ha!  If I have to take the blame for bad weather, I will take the credit for that good, so there!
     Anyway, still winding down from a too long stretch at work and too much stress. I hit sea level and I am actually sleeping dreaming again!  I can't believe it.  So wonderful to lay in bed in the morning watching the skies give way from purple to blue and listen to a whole different group of song birds, gulls and others sing the sun up over the horizon.  
     So, more thoughts and images on the way as I gird up for the Wellfleet Oysterfest at the end of this week.  I have already been on one of the whale watch boats and saw the new calves frolicking with their mothers as they all gulp down food as fast as they can.  The wayward manatee was spotted off Dennis and earned that name and the moon is waxing itself until full this Tuesday, so hang on!

     More later!

     That every morning, in spite of all our best efforts to the contrary, the sun rises out of the sea to bathe us all in its light.  Another day begins as somewhere, another draws to a close.
     That I can rise early for me, walk a block to the ocean's edge and take in something so much greater than myself and have it let me know my place in the world a bit better.
     That all the stress I thought had so piled up and was untenable is now washed away by salt air, sea breezes and sand between my toes.
    

     OK, I am in full Vacation Mode now and I can tell that even with the two hour time difference, I am very sleepy when the sun goes down, awake as the sun rises and I am sleeping as I only seem to do here at sea level.
     Back in the mountains at 8,000 feet above the ocean, I rarely, if ever dream.  Here, my dreams have been vivid, colorful, full of strange metaphor and unknown meaning while the meander through my mind as I lay under a wonderful down comforter feeling salt air wash over my face from the partially open window.
     Being a mere city block from the ocean seems to be working wonders for my sleep debt I always carry as I work shift work and rely heavily on my (our) ability to get by on an appalling lack of sleep.  You talk about the credit crisis, take a look at Dawn D.'s and my pile of sleep debt that we and any other emergency or shift worker carries month to month.  When that bill comes due, there is hell to pay!
     Yesterday was up and at 'em at 6am, drinking coffee with the lobstermen and other fishermen at The Coffee Pot right on the wharf before they headed out for a day's work.  Then, watching the sun pull itself free from the ocean's pull for a sunrise so completely different than we get in the Rocky Mountains.  The breezes shift as Old Sol starts to warm both the land and the seas.  My ears start to tickle as they tell me which way the wind blows.
     Back for a late breakfast, rest some more, remark at how peaceful I seem to be feeling, that nothing seems pressing or urgent.  Then, out for a long, long walk along Race Point.
     This is near one of the three lighthouses here at the tip; Long Point, Wood End and Race Point.  A treacherous place, this outermost spit of glacier outwash called Cape Cod as thousands of shipwrecks lay on the ocean's floor here.
     Nancy's dear sweety of many years is along and we discuss indie films as she is a wonderful film maker out of both the Cape and Boston.  We talk about the movies we should see, have seen and that should be made.  Wonderful.
     We take in the mushrooms, dried grasses and vast, vast skies that can only exist here on the shore or out in the desert.  Two dichotomous places, but with the vast bowl of blue and clouds overhead.
     A quick stop at a little convenience store I admire and plan a later purchase of their little insulated lunch bag with their logo on it; Farland!  www.farlandprovisions.com, I kid you not!  I will have to get one and get it to Dawn and so to Miss Fish.
     So, today is a regular work day as the long weekend is over and town has quieted down again to its normal off season pace. The few shop owners that remain open gather at the coffee joints for a cup before opening and to recall and compare their summers.  Fun to eavesdrop a bit, or to take part as well.
     The boys next door are building a shed, so I may go see what mischief I can get into there after this one more last cup of coffee!

     Today dawned wonderfully foggy and closed in as, indeed, the fog crept in on little cat feet and enclosed us all in its lovely flannel blanket.  Good day for sipping cups of coffee, tasting an apple tart from Connie's Bakery and generally not taking anything too seriously.
     And, so, just as I was settling in for my mid-morning nap, then my pre-lunch nap, perhaps my post-lunch nap, then afternoon nap, the skies cleared and I lumbered outside and down the street to the wharf.
     Blue skies decorated with whispers of horse tail clouds danced in a never ending pattern that I would be still trying to include in my camera had I not been distracted by a little bright boat, sitting still on the beach.
     Bright yellow and green it was, decorated with what looked like marigolds in its stern.  I guess that if one must go down to sea in ships, one's ship should at least be cheery!  It was beached outside what I took to be the owners tiny house.  A classic beach house if ever I saw one.  On huge logs should the tide come in a wee bit farther than expected, just large enough to house its inhabitant and neat and clean, but not to the point of looking empty.
     Then, a rainbow of sea kayaks piled one atop another, probably for the last time of the year before they go inside some warehouse for the long gray winter.
     The roar of kites on the beach had taken me, but I couldn't keep up with them after their owners spotted me trying to take a photograph!  Twisting, diving and soaring across the beach, the decorated the breeze, making it brightly visible.
     Now, it's time for a quiet evening as the sun has hidden and it's time to whip some kale into shape, a hot tea, a little Greg Brown on the stereo. 
     Such is as vacation should be.

     I can't believe how fast the time is flying for me!  It seems as if there is simply not enough hours in the day, enough days in the week and so on.
     Yesterday was the day I designated to go for my Really Long Walk, or, in the style of Thoreau, walk the beaches and sea side.
     Taking off, my walk took me west down Commercial Street and up a gentle rise past Stanley Kunitz's former home.  Stanley was our country's poet laureate and he lived to over 100.  A small, gentle man he loved his garden and his home here in Provincetown.  Now, the home has been gutted, the trees and shrubs pruned back to allow new growth and the home now occupied again.
     A few more blocks and I reach the breakwater, a mile and a half of huge Vermont blocks of granite piles up in a slightly arching barrier between the tidal marshes and the sea.  The marsh is acting like the great filter for the harbor as the tides push through the stone blocks and settle in the marshes for a bit, settling out the impurities brought in, giving all sorts of wildlife sanctuary and acts much like a birthplace of so much life.  Then, as I was hopping, stretching my steps, pausing to wait for a wave to break over the wall and recede in a low spot, the tide started on its way out.
     Now, the clear turquoise water flowed back through the stones, cold and purified by the salt marsh.  The sea birds waited on the harbor side of the breakwater for what tasty morsels might arrive.  I looked back and could see the two different waters separated by the long, thin line of rocks.  The harbor side was rough, choppy and darker as if boldly stating that on this side lay danger, rough seas and more.  The marsh side rested peacefully smooth letting all know that there was sanctuary in those still waters.
     But, the walk along the breakwater is just the start.  At the far end I stepped off the sturdy, firm rocks and onto the shifting sands.  My progress slowed noticeably as I now  made shorter steps in the uncertain sand.  But, the tide was releasing all the treasures it had pushed up on the beaches, at least for the next 6 hours, anyway.
     Plastic, plastic everywhere!  Bottles, lids, trash containers, plastic wrap that used to wrap the plastic bottles.  Wood in every form from planks to logs to old cribbing.  Balloons, too, seemed to be everywhere.  Brightly colored bit of deadly detritus as the shore birds often mistake the deflated bits as food.  Swallowing them certains their death.
     An entire toilet, properly set back upright by a set of stairs to nowhere.  Go figure.
     And on and on all the way to the very tip of the spit of sand known as Cape Cod. 
     A map shows the Cape as if an arm thrust out in to the ocean flexing its biceps.  The fist is where Provincetown lays and now I was on the tips of those knuckles.  No more land, no more Cape Cod, only ocean.
     And here is the Long Point lighthouse.  Solar powered for the most part, it is now unmanned.  The community that used to lay here long ago moved by barge closer to town proper, the lighthouse is the last structure left on the the point.
     And there, a slight rise in the sandscape reveals a cross planted in the sparse soil.  A battered and weather flag snaps to attention with the harsh winds off the beach.  A simple plaque on the cross states, Charles Darby, A Gallant Soldier, Killed in Action, 1944.  That's all I know about that.
     Walking around the shore I curve 180 degrees and now walk on the eastern side of the cape back to the walkway.  I pass only a few people as I work my way slowly to the Wood End lighthouse and the spot where I can actually walk across the width of Cape Cod and regain the walkway.
     Another mile and half across the breakwater, back into town from my favorite address; 1 Commercial Street.  I work my way into the mid-200's and then up to the soccer field by the high school for the woman's match against Sturgis.
     Provincetown's woman's soccer team is small not only in numbers, but in stature as well.  In order to get the numbers needed for a team all players are welcome including a sprinkling of 7th graders as well.  Barely enough players to make a substitution, they play on against larger teams.  But, they show up and they all play.
     Game over, I shoulder my backpack and camera and make my way to Court Street just off of Bradford and start the wonderful ceremony of chopping garlic, heating olive oil, searching for veggies to stir fry and catching up on the day's events with my wonderful host.
     Another day.

     Today was the day that I had to arise well before dawn and face a wondrously  blustery New England day and trudge to the tiny airport in Provincetown and start the trek back to the Rockies.
      The 40 mile per hour winds were just as our pilot said; sporty!  I haven't been in air currents like that since, well, not since later in the day when we dropped out of the clouds like a stone taking advantage of a hole in the clouds over Aspen to land, once again, back on this side of the Great Divide.
     And, so, as I spent the last night on the Cape admiring the oncoming storm from the sea and shore, here are a few views that I would like to share.
     From the Breakwater, the sunset on the profile of Provincetown, Ballston beach, or what's left of it as the nor'easter blows in on the wonderful "backshore", the Flower Boat at sunrise, the Retriever as she sits in her slip, Wood End lighthouse and the Red Boat.

     Hmmmmmm, define; Vacation.  There are times when I feel like I am always on vacation, even when I have to show up at work and crank out a 10 hour shift, drag my pasty, white rump home, sleep a few hours, get up and do it all over again.
     But, only when I can get out of the little apartment and catch a quick hike up my favorite valley, Hunter Creek.
     These walks do more for me than anything (mostly) can do for me to keep me on an even keel, as it where.
     I feel more in touch with my surroundings when I am walking, walking, always walking.  Mindful Walking, perhaps
     I am back in the Rockies, back at 8,000 feet above my ocean left thousands of miles away and I had to hit the ground running as I timed my returned to the minute.  I left, I landed, I suited up and hit the highway all lights and sirens blaring. 
     But, I had this afternoon off and I didn't waste it as I headed up the gentle trail that leads to the Hunter Creek Valley.  A good opportunity to reflect on my two weeks on Cape Cod.
     Where did the time go, was the first thoughts as I headed out.  How could two weeks go by in a blink of the eye?  I remember almost every sunrise and every sunset.  I remember my dinner with the wonderful Adlin, a matriarch of the Cape as she recounted her adventures through the thirties and forties on the Cape.  I remember the smell, the feel and the taste of the salt water as I ventured in the rough surf more than once, then licked the salt off of my lips and even my arms and hands as I relished the taste.  I remembered the feeling of waking up in the wondrous predawn purple as the sun had yet to rise, just like me.  I remember the nights on the backshore not being able to sleep as the constant wind of the nor'easter roared off the ocean pushing waves taller than I onto the dwindling beach as the sands washed away.  I remember staring up at the clear night sky covered with a riddle of stars for as far as I could see.  I wondered who else was staring up at that dark bowl overhead and was pondering, as was I, the great mystery.
     So, as I plodded along my trail in my backyard I feel those same feelings still with me, still relevant, still real.
     The feeling of calm, peace, happiness, curiosity, the stepping out of my self for a bit and I get to be just who I want to for a bit.
     Images of today from just a few hours ago of my favorite hay barn, a single-track mountain bike trail that plunges out of the hills onto the valley's floor, and a most curious little pumpkin.
     At the start of my hike, I was following Hunter Creek as it slowly poured itself over the polished boulders and wound its way through the evergreens.  And, then, there it was.  A most small and wee little pumpkin with a black ribbon on it.  Perched on its throne, for the moment, a boulder.
     Casting more questions than I could answer, I had to simply say to myself, this is a good thing, and walk on.