And its Allies
There are moments in life – rare ones – when you feel like you’ve made progress. Brief feelings of mastery, like when Anakin Skywalker believed he’d surpassed Obi-Wan, only to have all of his remaining limbs severed and to be burned alive. August 26, 2020 was one of those moments for me.
After I’d finished backslapping one section of trail, though, Jo had an idea. For those of you who haven’t read every post in this series (heathens), Jo was a figure of singular terror. Thus, any idea she had was likely to be laced with malice.
August 19, 2020 was weird from the beginning. The trail we were building was obviously closed, with barricades at either end. Keeping people off the budding trail was important, because if someone were to walk by and get hit in the head with a pick axe, then we’d lose valuable time cleaning up the blood and hiding the body.
In case anyone’s forgotten, we had a bit of a pandemic in 2020. As I’ve said before, though, my fellow AmeriCorps members and I were strangely isolated from the COVID chaos. However, there were a few days when we felt the effects of the pandemic more strongly, and August 12, 2020 was one of them.
My first day back to “service” was boring, so I’m not going to write about it. Instead, I’m going to write about a serious problem I had on the following day, August 11, 2020, when the cows never came home.
August 3, 2020 was one of the most important days for me in Colorado. That’s because it’s when I reconnected with one of my best friends from high school.
When I moved to Colorado in the summer of 2020 to spend all of my time either working outdoors or being isolated in a house outside of town, I used to brag that I was about as COVID-safe as possible. Events that took place of July 29, 2020 showed that wasn’t entirely true.
July 28, 2020 was our second day working on the Fern-Mesa reroute project. This was the day when we learned how to perform a task called “treading.”
The Jaguar 