Thursday's hike down and out was a lot easier than the downward angle we'd begun on Wednesday afternoon: walking down, rather than hiking down and rocks. It was so easy, in fact, that it's a frequent horse trail, which meant the heady smells of aspen and spruce were sometimes overpowered. It had two great creek crossings that were fun but took, I thought, longer than they should have needed. But you have to take off your pack to loose your river sandals, replace it, change your footgear, and knot your boots (with socks tucked inside) around your neck such that they don't swing and upset your balance. The actual crossing takes no time, and next time crossings will not be the only reason I bring my trekking poles. Drying your feet with an already damp backpacking towel from water that's not only very pretty but rushingly cold and wetter than common is the other long bit.
When we were nearly down, we saw the road, the wonderful, dear road, and the periodic bus to Maroon Bells (no regular traffic is permitted). The bus, I suspected, could be a mirage. We waited at a campground for maybe three minutes before the next mirage arrived, and when the driver opened the doors I told him he was my favorite person in the world.
Back to Aspen, back to the Independence Square, and as RDC checked us in I carried both packs up to the room (by the elevator). The desk clerk was a little clueless about the one small bag we'd checked and I think needed all the minutes it took me to scurry (slowly) the three blocks to the car to get RDC's duffel and my wheelie. But he did produce the bag, and there was much rejoicing. Also there was showering. Sweet, sweet showering. And shampooing. And shaving.
We had a snack at the Jerome, a nap, and later a yummy light meal at Pacifica. I was not quite so tired as I was our first night in London, when I fell asleep sitting up three times and spoke as if inebriated, but I was finally allowing myself to be the level of sick I had suppressed for the past three days.
Have I mentioned the ducklings? Last spring in the Botanic Gardens Kal and I watched a clutch of duckings doze in such a heap that we could not accurately count them what with the odd leg sticking out, and we watched one duckling fall asleep so inexorably but inexperiencedly that it didn't tuck its beak in its wing but just let its head fall forward, and down, and down some more, until its head and neck rested on the tip of its beak. I was about that tired, if not as cute.