One day on vacation.

A time-stamped account of our day.

Currently at 7,800ft of elevation, on a summer trip in Salida, Colorado. 

Taking the advice of ‘write about your day’ from some trusted friends I began to detail out my day. The style of the recap is inspired by Charlie Bleecker’s Thanksgiving Day recap. 

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5:50am: I awake to the steady hum of the hotel air conditioner and whimpers of Kate rustling in her pack-and-play. I rush to swoop her up. Grab my shoes. Her shoes. The hotel key.  My fanny pack. I forget I’m not wearing a bra. We exit the room into the bright hallway successfully not waking up Caroline. 

6:30am: Kate’s eaten two pancakes, an entire yogurt, waved to every human at the hotel’s breakfast bar, and is pointing for me to take her through the buffet line again. I’m on my third cup of scalding hot tea. It’s the only relief I’ve found that takes away the feeling of razor blades sliding down my airways everytime I swallow.  After eating has lost our attention, Kate races to the front of the lobby where she waves her hands at the big sliding doors that open and close blasting cold mountain air on our faces. 

7:30am: A text from Clayton pings my phone. “She’s up!”

Kate and I head back to the room where I pawn her off and swallow Tylenol Extra Strength, praying it gives me some relief.

8:30am: We pack up the 47 bags we brought into the one-night hotel room and prepare for our morning hike with Colorado residents Aunt Hannah and Uncle Kyle. I keep shifting things around from bag to bag, unsure what to pack, nervous we won’t have enough snacks, terrified we will run out of water. 

“It’s just a short walk on a trail, Emma,” Clayton assures me as he sees me frantically shoving stuff into the hiking packs. 

I can’t answer him because my voice has disappeared and only faint whispers can be mustered from the depths of my lungs. 

9:30am: We arrive at the trailhead after driving up a 5 mile, winding dirt road. The views around us are stone gray mountain tops and lush green pines. We throw the girls in the hiking backpack, Kate on my back, Caroline on Clayton’s. It’s the first time I’ve carried Kate on my back for a longer hike, I’m anxious my back will be wrecked. Before I can think more about my back, the dry air sends me into a coughing fit that stings my lungs and my throat. I put on my sunglasses and whisper to Clayton that, “after this, I think I’m going to need to find an urgent care.”

9:45am: We hit a good stride on the hike. My inner monologue takes over. This is so beautiful… I definitely have strep throat… I have so many things to say, but no one can hear me. Is this what it feels like to be an introvert?!

11:00am: We find ourselves back at the car after 4 miles of beautiful views. Aunt Hannah’s new mountain bike is taunting someone for a quick ride. Clayton jumps on the bike to head down the winding roads. “Meet you at the bottom,”  Clayton says as he bombs down. 

I load up the van with the girls and hiking packs  and drive down the road. I make mental notes of the time and passing landmarks in case we have to do a search and rescue for a thirty-something white male who went off the road borrowing his sister-in-laws snazzy new mountain bike. 

11:25am: We pick up Clayton who is waiting for us at the bottom of the road. 

12:30am: I get dropped off at Buena Vista Medical Center. Everyone else drives into town for lunch. I grab my book. Ah! My first chance to read a page or two on vacation. I attempt to speak as the receptionist asks me what I’m here for.

Nothing comes out.

“Your throat?” he asks. I try to speak again but all I can do is throw a coughing fit as all those in the waiting room stare at me in disgust. 

“Put a mask on,” He says and passes me a pen and post-it note and pen for me to write down my ailments and address. 

12:40am: The male nurse at the urgent care sticks a cotton swab so far down my throat my eyes water as he remarks, “whatever you do, just don’t throw up on me.” They test for strep. It’s negative. They test for COVID. Negative, too. 

“You’re heart rate is a little high,’ the nurse says, ‘it’s probably just because I’m in here.” 

The doctor comes in to check me over. “Sorry for the wait, it’s been a busy day here. I just saw a guy who came off the Colorado Trail and broke his rib. He was two weeks in, three more to go… major bummer.’ 

She checks my vitals, looks in my ears, my nose, my mouth. 

She is unsure what’s wrong with me. She prescribes me amoxicillin. “Only take it if things don’t get better in a day or two,” she says. 

I nod.

12:50 pm: I wait outside for Clayton to come pick me up. Surrounded by mountains, I notice another patient from the clinic wearing a blue rain jacket, a hiking pack and walking poles next to him. I sit on the curb and open my book. As I see our white van approaching, I hop up from my stoop. 

“Any chance you’re heading into town?” the hiker asks. “I’m looking to get to City Market Grocery to pick up a prescription.”

He shows me his phone and the loading request for an Uber that isn’t picking him up. 

He’s leaning slightly. This must be the hiker with the broken rib. 

1:15pm: I climb in between the car seats to take the middle seat, so Eric, the hiker from Boston, can sit in the front seat. We ask him questions. “How’s it going on the trail?” I ask. “It’s been really beautiful,” he states without further prompting, ‘it’s kind of kicking my ass.’ 

He doesn’t tell us his rib is broken until we ask if he needs a ride back to the trailhead after grabbing ‘whatever he needs’ at City Market Pharmacy. “I actually broke my rib, so I’m grabbing some pain medicine, and my wife booked me a hotel to see how I feel, but I think I’ll continue, I have about three weeks left.”

I tried not to say, ‘I know.’ 

1:30pm: Eric and I continue to chat as we wait in line for the pharmacy to open. I strain my voice to communicate.

We talk about hiking. We talk about work. We realize he grew up 3 hours from our home-town. 

We have to wait 30 minutes for them to fill our scripts. I tell him we’d love to offer him a ride to his hotel, he agrees, but first we need to go back to town to get our lunch order and check on our kids. He doesn't want us to bring him anything. We plan to meet back at the pharmacy around 2:00pm.

1:45pm: We meet Kyle and Hannah who are entertaining the girls. Caroline rides her strider bike on the pump track. I try Hannah’s mountain bike around the little dirt routes. The mountain air stings my throat as I fumble on the bike. 

2:00pm: Clayton goes to pick up our prescription and give Eric a ride back to his hotel. “Get his email if you can!” I whisper, determined to stay in touch with this happenstance connection. 

2:45pm: Clayton returns with the medicine and Eric’s email. “The pharmacist said to make sure you take it exactly 12 hours apart, so maybe wait to take it closer to bedtime so you don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to take the second dose,” he tells me.

I immediately rip open the bag and swallow the oval shaped tablet. 

3:15pm: Thunder and lightning threaten in the distance. We pack up and head back to check-in to our Airbnb where we will be staying for the next three nights. We check-in, unpack, unwind. I make a cup of tea, warm water coating my throat. 

4:00pm: I make another cup of tea.

6:30pm: We make dinner and sit outside, my voice slowly coming back after my fourth cup of tea doused in honey. We do bath time and bedtime and hang out with the adults-time. 

7:30pm: I email Eric. He sends me back his photo blog that he’s creating to document his journey. I scroll through the images of mountain peaks and the through-trail hiker lifestyle. 

9:30pm: I set my alarm for 3:30am to take my second dose of medicine. 

11:45pm: Hannah and I realize we’ve been chatting for hours and must get to bed, my eyes getting heavy.

12:00am: I lay in bed Googling what will happen if I take my prescription three hours early. ‘Follow exactly what the doctor says,’ most of the reviews declare. I tip-toe out of bed, past the pack-n-play and into the bathroom. I twist open the bottle and tilt my head back.

3:30am: My alarm goes off.

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Thanks to my favorite sister-in-law

Hannah Dorge

(check out her amazing writing), for teaching me how to remember that quotation marks are little birds, keeping all the punctuation in the nest. LYLAS.