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Coming out of Conifer, CO I meet Joe the Trooper. The heat this morning has given me a taste of things to come in the days ahead. We chat briefly at a roadside stop about my journey and I learn that he has 28 years of military service with two tours in Afghanistan. Joe will escort me down a sketchy section of the highway through the canyon, to an exit I need to get to, courtesy of the Colorado State Patrol. I realize as I descend, that I will not see these Rocky Mountains again for a very long time and it saddens me. The fresh, clean air, the smell of the pines, the cool summer mornings have revitalized me in the same way warm summer rain can turn the grass green in a few short hours……As I approach my exit I motion Joe to stop and come up to me. He deserves the honor of placing this young Marines Flag and accepts and we salute together….there is a moistness, a sadness in his eyes and I sense his duty, his time, has been difficult. Joe is gratious and appreciative and walks back to his car. He rolls away. As he served from afar, he serves now, a protector to us all.

In the days to come I would pass through Golden and Boulder and move on to Loveland and Fort Collins. Each step taking me closer to the plains of eastern Colorado and on to Nebraska.  It is near Loveland,  coming down an overpass, that I see the older couple standing by their car, in the shade, waiting for me. He is Bob and she is Maryanne. They have been married 65 years. Bob served in New Guinea and the Phillipines in WWII. They remind me again of what love should be, valued and preserved each year and growing richer even as the body and mind age. Maryanne holds their tiny, brown dog Cocoa then hands him to Bob and pulls out a piece of paper. It is the story of the “Guardian”. You see, in my story, the Guardian is their son Dick and they wanted to share that with me. She pulls out pictures of her son with the rail yard he has created. Complete with a working steam engine, train cars and tracks and trestles, his skill with replication is magnificent. They are very proud and their faces, like Joe the Trooper show much gratitude.

As the sun climbs higher the temperature rises and as I get closer to Fort Collins I see my next encounter. He is parked just off the road in a maroon SUV and as he steps out, he proudly places his black 1st Calvary hat on and greets me on the road. Army Sergeant Blake Harris was his son and was killed in June of 2006. I placed his flag in Teton National Park last month. Like his father, he too was 1st Calvary……… His father shakes my hand and thanks me from the heart. He gives me a picture of Blake, one that I will take across the plains that lie ahead, all the way to the Atlantic.

Many, many days I am alone on the road with only my quiet thoughts to entertain me but it is the chance encounter, fleeting and far between that refuels me and makes the miles as short as the breadth I take, as pavement disappears under my feet and my day draws to a close.

     Leaving Buena Vista, CO, I climb to the top of Trout Creek Pass through reddish canyons and sage brush that open to wide valleys with snow topped mountains in the distance. It is a road I had driven many times. While living in Crested Butte, CO I would often go to Boulder to visit friends, never imagining that years later I would be running this same road. On this day I am lost in quiet thoughts. I need no music. The road is busy with people leaving the city and headed for the mountains. I am lucky, the shoulder is large enough to accommodate myself and my stroller. Puff clouds are gathering in the distance and I think that I may not escape the rain today.

Then she appears.

At my next mile marker is a young girl. Her mother is nearby and it is obvious they are waiting for me. She stands there, her blonde hair tucked under her helmet as she stands next to her mountain bike. Her name is Cali. Her mother is Clo. Cali has two white roses in her hand and when I place my flag she lays the roses next to it and thanks our young Marine for his service while I salute. Together, we move down the highway. I run, she rides. For the next 4 miles we repeat our procedure. I salute, she places roses. I learn that Cali is 13 years old. She has a brother in the Marines and I sense she adores him. She is witty and smart and devoted to Veterans Causes. I find this fascinating and admirable and see maturity beyond her years. There is more though.

You see, Cali has a prosthetic leg. Four years ago it was partially amputated.  She has survived 14 major surgeries and bacterial spinal meningitis. She will eventually lose her leg just above the knee as her body grows and her leg doesn’t. Her prosthetic is camoflage and bears the logos of our Armed Forces. On the back of it are the initials of her brother. There is a guardian angel which represents those we have lost, still watching over us.  A butterfly represents the casualties.

Her mother says Cali is unique, that she is raising a difference, not a child who is different but a child who has a calling and who is making a difference in those that she touches. In a world that so often seems so self absorbed, this angel took the time out of her young life to find me on the road and she takes time out of her life to reach out to those Vets that feel that their life is empty and meaningless. Hers is such a selfless, genuine act. Her love of country, her love of those that are serving radiates from her beautiful eyes as we talk. Her innocence, her energy are contagious and I know truly, that she is a today person, that her goodness and her direction isn’t put off till tomorrow. This is a rare thing to experience these days.

Later we would we say goodbye and hug and I could still feel her warmth and compassion long after she disappeared down the road. I realize then that there is hope for our future. There are lessons to be learned.  There are great things happening around us if we open our eyes, if we listen to our children and most importantly if we believe in them. I saw it today,  on Highway 285 when an angel appeared and her name was Cali.

The road from Rifle, CO to Silt, CO is wearily long to me on this day. Long and flat and running parallel to Interstate 70, it is a hot day and the pavement shimmers. What little wind there is blows the heat in my face. Beads of sweat fill the lenses of my sunglasses, wiping them is futile. It has been hard finding a soft spot in the ground where the flags would penetrate easily. Sometimes I use my screwdriver to make a hole. I want them to be solid and as permanent as possible in the earth. Approaching Silt I see an older man standing out by the road. He wears blue jeans and his hands are in his pockets. His eyes are hidden under a ball cap, yet I feel his gaze from a hundred yards away. It is time for me to place a flag, a young Marine from California. As I finish and move down the road I slow to a walk and meet “Darryl”. He knew I was coming.  He asks if I would move the flag down a hundred yards to a spot in front of his machine shop so he can watch over this young Marine. I oblige and replace his flag amidst the flowers that are out front. I am touched by his gesture. We make small talk and I learn that Darryl had worked in Uranium Mines in the Machine Shop back in the 80’s. His belt buckle displays the logo of his work back then. A proud man I can tell. A man wanting to help in a small way. As those that have left us watch over us, Darryl now watches over this young Marines flag. Each contact, conversation and gesture of kindness continues to instill my belief of goodness in this country. The “Guardian” waves at me as I roll away, my mission to honor is complete and his task to remember with vigilance has just started.

Just out of Baggs, WY, I crest a long hill in the early morning light. Almost immediately the topography changes. It is greener and there are yellow flowers along the road and valleys as far as I can see and in the distance, mountains loom. It is the kind of morning that greets me every day. Fresh air, sun, music from the side of the road as crickets and birds sing their songs. This morning would be different though.

Violet Kaylor is driving a lonely stretch of Hwy. 13 north of Craig, CO. It has been a long trip for her. She is from Hartselle, AL and left on Sunday June 20th headed for Mile Post 114. Her son was Jon-Eric Loney. An Army Corporal, he was 21 years old when he died on November 28th, 2006 in Iraq. We move forward to a meeting in the Colorado countryside, towards each other for a brief time in our lives.  I see a black, Dodge Charger with Alabama plates approach and slow. It stops. It is Violet. We walk together and she tells me about her son. Infectious, generous and just a really good son. It is quiet too, as we walk. I ask Violet to look around…..There are sheep grazing and lambs feeding and a creek runs nearby. A sheep wagon sits on the side of the hill. It is a beautiful place. A soothing, calm place to put her sons flag. It has always been an honor for me to serve this country 30 years ago and it was an honor to walk this mile for Jon-Eric with his mother. I cannot imagine her sadness and yet I see her love for her son. It was important for her to be here at Mile Post 114, to see her sons flag be placed and then to take him home. We embrace and words of gratitude are shared. Violet slowly drives away and I resume this journey. Life often brings us circumstances and people who change our lives, that somehow enrich it in a way we can’t explain. I would spend the better part of the day thinking about this Mothers Calling and its effect on me. Thank you Violet Kaylor and thank you Jon-Eric Loney for this mile in Colorado.

I walk through the front door of the Wyoming Frontier Penitentiary. Established in 1881 and closed in 1981, it cuts an imposing gothic like figure on a side street in Rawlins, WY. Romanesque in structure, it is eerie. I close my eyes, listen to the wind outside and imagine…….walking through the door that every inmate did. He could have been a cattle rustler, a thief, a murderer. Processed in a small room, his picture is taken. He is shuttled to the next room. Dimly lit, this room is cold and it is where he would have been strip searched then hosed down and de-liced. It also had a punishment pole. Handcuffed to it the worst offenders would be beaten with rubber hoses. A sliding window would have been opened in the door so that other inmates could hear the screams. This was 1910. Taken to A-block and put in #12 on the ground floor. His room, a mere 5×8. A wooden bed, a straw mattress, a wool blanket and pillow, a sink and toilet. There was no hot water. He would have taken cold showers every day….for years. The south facing cells were coveted. Sun would often filter in and somewhat warm the inner, dark cell block. The windows were high which allowed those inmates on the 2nd, 3rd and 4th levels to see out to nothing but a vast, empty prairie, yet it would be their lifeline, their hope. At the far end of the block still sits a barber chair, confined to a larger cell. It looks lonely with its leather aged and fading, cracking like the walls surrounding this place. On the north side of A-block there is little light. The cells are dark, pitch black in most cases. Standing in them you can see out but for someone walking by, you are invisible, swallowed up in darkness. The odor here is strong. 100 years of human sweat, blood, urine. Many of the old mattresses still remain. It is cold. He must have spent many nights praying for the sunlight. Praying to get sent to the infirmary where it would be warmer. Praying for a release so he could return to the prairie and the endless skies of Wyoming. In the  silence I hear the voices and catch whispers. I see the shadows dancing….To the “yard” I would walk, following him. A baseball field long overgrown with a rusty backstop. Endless games won and lost. Guard towers in each corner watching, waiting, anticipating perhaps, that jump for freedom. I follow him. To death row. 15 would die in this place. 9 by hanging and 6 by the gas chamber. I cannot comprehend the feeling of despair, anguish and desperation in that room as the clock ticked down. I follow him. To the cafeteria. Huge ovens and old stoves, murals on the wall and no matter where I stand, the bighorn sheep eyes are still watching me. I follow him. To C-block, more modern now, more light and warmer. There are stories of escape and recaptures. I hear the whispers and know I must go. Down the dark walkway again past those cells that reach out to tell the story of those they kept within. I leave him then. I walk out into the sunlight and see the trees and flowers and feel the breeze and know it is time to move on.