I visited him that first winter, and we were at the base of Yosemite Falls one midnight to witness the special lunar full-moon rainbow that John Muir, the Sierra Club founder, described in his journals. He played in the Sierra Mountains every weekend. After a painful decision and a goodbye to L.A., he moved north to Fresno to be closer to Yosemite Valley.
Once back in Southern California, Dave realized he missed his majestic mountains.
We also picked wild cherries with “Denver” Dave’s sister in Boulder to make the most amazing, mouthwatering cherry pie (my favorite) I have ever tasted. I will never forget the beauty of the Rockies and the delicate alpine flowers on the Maroon Bells trail. One day we started up the famed Longs Peak but turned back due to a sudden summer storm. In Colorado near his home, we stood bathed in golden sunset awe in the Garden of the Gods near Red Rocks Amphitheatre. We waded through the Narrows in Zion, dared to climb Angels Landing and explored desert arches near Moab. That fine summer we took an epic road trip, driving through Utah to Colorado to visit his family. On that day, our friendship was born, followed by many more outdoor adventures together: ski trips, hiking Mt. That’s when I met a handsome Italian transplant living in Santa Monica. My daughters and I left Rio de Janeiro for Los Angeles during their summer break from school. Affairs: I was too happy and in love to notice the red flags I asked if he were a leprechaun, and if so, where was his pot of gold? Laughing, he said, “Irish lass, I may be a leprechaun, but you have to catch me first.” As for me, I usually arrive in the nick of time, but I’m never early. Later I found out that he was often late. To my surprise, it was the mountain man, “Denver” Dave. When snow is involved, skiers tend to get up early, and the Sierra Club policy is to leave on time. freeways to the carpool meeting place - only to find everyone gone. Running a bit late, I drove like a banshee on the empty L.A. My Irish gramma always told me to count my blessings and believe in Irish luck. Driving off into that calm, chilly March night, I felt so happy - single and happy. I explained this to Dave and said, “I gotta go,” so he asked for my phone number. In several hours, I was going on a day trip with the Sierra Singles skiers. All eyes were still smiling on me when the band segued into another song, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” On the tiny dance floor, it was hot from all the pulsing bodies, but I loved it. The band members began to play “Happy Birthday,” and the crowd encircled us and cheered us on. With a wide grin, he whirled me near the stage and told the band that I was a birthday girl. March 18, and I announced to him that it was officially my birthday. He pulled me closer and yelled, “What?” The music was so loud, I grabbed his hand to look at his wristwatch only to see that it was 12:05 a.m.
Slim and handsome in a green shirt with a honey-colored beard, he looked like a real mountain man. I had met “Denver” Dave from Colorado that night. As the clock neared midnight and the band played louder, I shouted to my dance partner that it was almost my birthday. There I was, dancing a wild Irish jig to a live Irish band in Blarney Stone, a small, energetic pub in Fountain Valley on the evening of March 17.
0 kommentar(er)
