Boulder Kindness

(Flatirons photo found on web)
Time for some Yak-trax. I had just heard about these little contraptions that strap on the bottom of one’s shoes only an hour or so before I slipped on an ice patch. Really, the fall was unnecessary; I had already been convinced to buy some. But the snow was packed slick and my hiking boots were like ice skates.

The real trouble was I hadn’t brought my gloves, so I had unzipped my vest pockets to warm my hands - an easy escape hatch for my car keys when I went down. I didn’t notice a thing, except that I wasn’t hurt, thank you God.

Arriving at my car later, I interrupted the conversation of a friend to announce that I had lost my keys. Mary, an educator who works with special needs children, looked at me in a familiar and understanding way. It wasn’t the first time I had lost something or gotten lost when meeting her, leading to comments about my being a special needs child turned into a special needs adult. We made a game plan with Mary revisiting the site of the fall, and I would head to the Chautauqua ranger station.

Amber Grace, my dog, was with me. I popped my head in the ranger’s station and asked if Amber could come in with me. I explained that I had lost my car keys, had they been turned in,
and could I use a phone. “Just keep your dog away from me,” the female ranger nervously responded. “I was bitten by a dog last week.”

Amber was much more interested in all the preserved animals on a display than another human. Sheesh, a mountain lion, a bear, a wolf, a fox, a coyote were all on her level, looking awfully real. She crept toward them, sniffing warily while I pondered if this were such a good idea. We had just run into a bear several weeks ago and I sure was glad when she froze on call and let me leash her. Somehow she seemed to sense the danger. I didn’t want her thinking these critters were anything to get pal-sy with.

No keys at the ranger’s, and she stood close by anxiously waiting for Amber and me to leave. I punched in Bill’s phone numbers several times before I hit the right ones (regularly using automatic dial coupled with a very poor memory for numbers anyway becomes a problem when I need to actually remember a number). I alerted Bill of what had happened and that he might need to drive to Boulder soon with an extra key if Mary didn’t find mine where I had fallen.

Let me mention how patient Bill is around situations like this. Last year my car door swung closed when I stood up to snap on my snowshoes. My keys were on the back seat where I had been sitting. There was no cell service in the area. Amber and I were alone. I tried to retrieve the keys by poking a long stick through a barely open window and sliding the stick on the key ring. No luck. When some fishermen arrived I asked if I could borrow a pole, which didn’t work either. Some other snow shoers were getting ready to leave so I gave them Bill’s number and asked if they would please call him once in an area with service. Bill showed up laughing and good natured as usual, making a lousy morning feel ok after all. Here we go again, I thought, a new snowshoe season and already I’m calling him.

To the ranger’s delight I finally finished my calls and left. I panned the hills at the base of the Flat Irons looking for Mary. Feeling unlucky I turned to watch the other hikers arriving. Several families were setting up photo shoots, probably for Christmas cards, dressed in matching outfits. A bride and groom were posing in another direction, the mountain behind them providing an imposing background to his shiny tux and her flowing gown. I noticed all the hybrid vehicles in the parking lot and the trendy clothing of hikers. This was Boulder, after all.

Suddenly a gigantic old Pontiac came huffing into the parking lot. The car sounded like if turned off it might never start again. The black family that emerged didn’t blend into any of the faces I had been observing: three little boys in high tops and an older man and younger woman, modestly dressed and not wearing a bit of hiking gear. The boys were immediately interested in Amber, and the older gentleman looked directly at me and exclaimed, “Are you doing ok m'am?” with obvious concern in his voice.

Was my face that transparent? I admit I was feeling frustrated. I told him I had fallen and lost my car keys and he started in with the questions: where was I when I fell, was I hurt, was anyone helping me??? Turning to his boys he announced they were all going to be “trackers” and look for this poor lady’s car keys. “Now you listen for me while you’re back here cuz if I find them I’m gonna yell real loud. Ok?”

Smiling, I thanked him and promised I’d be listening. I wondered how far they would get really with the shoes they were wearing and no warm coats. The afternoon was chilly every time the sun went behind the clouds and the trails solid ice. Out of all the people I had been watching and whose eyes I had met, it struck me as interesting, and beautiful, that his were the only ones that had really seen me.

Mary returned after doing our entire hike again, but no keys. I called Bill and he was on his way. While we waited, the tracker family returned. Of course the man asked if my friend had found my keys and I told him no, but that “my husband is a good man like you and he is on his way to Boulder with an extra key.” The man and his family acted genuinely happy to hear this and wished me well as he fired up the Pontiac, that by the grace of God came on, and clattered out of the parking lot while people turned to see what all the noise was about.

Bill soon arrived and I promised him lunch for his troubles. Later that afternoon back at home my phone rang. “This is Suzahnne from Chautauqua and someone has turned in your keys.”

“Wow! Thanks so much for calling, Suzanne. Do you happen to have the name and number of the person who found my keys?”

“It’s Suzahnne, and yes, his name is Gahbriel and his number is . . . .”

“Sorry, Suzahnne. So it’s Gabriel at . . . .”

“It's Gahbriel, and yes that is the correct number.”

Ok, ok I was getting the message here and definitely feeling like a hick. No, this woman did not have any kind of accent when I talked with her earlier in the day, but apparently she had a preference for how names are to be pronounced. That's fair, I thought, I like being called Patricia instead of Pat. I thanked her again and arranged a pick-up for my keys.

Laughing about that conversation, I called Gahbriel and left a message thanking him for picking up my keys and dropping them at the ranger’s station. Within minutes he called back.

“Hi, this is Gabriel (as in Gay-briel). You just called. Glad I could help. What goes around comes around, you know?”

Gay-briel, eh? I’m not sure what the pronunciation thing was all about or if it really matters in the grand scheme of things. Part of me wanted to stereotype it “Bouldereeze” but that is clearly not fair. Gabriel and the black man and his family were all ready to help a fellow citizen. Mary had cheerfully taken off to redo our hike, in her gripper snowboots, and look for my key, commenting later that the extra exercise was a bonus. And, Suzahnne, though reluctant at first to write down my name and number earlier in the day “in case someone finds my keys” had done just that, then indeed called me. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll just chalk this up as one more memory of some wonderfully kind people in Boulder.