“There’s that couch in the corner there if you need it, but you need to know that after midnight no one will be here,” the manager offered. Late night in a bus station is rarely pleasant, but he needed to kill time and welcomed a dry sleep after last evening.
Garage bands were just learning the chords to the now classic Cinnamon Girl, Al had retired and the Warriors were beginning a slow fade, it was 1978. After a long train ride to Denver, and forced to snow camp on the short side of Rabbit Ears Pass due to an evening ending avalanche ( a worthy story for another time), his last ride graciously dropped him at the station in Steamboat Springs, CO.
He had accommodations planned at a condo on the slope of a his brothers good friend. However, his skis had ridden cheaply on a bus that would not arrive until early the next morning. The ski area was a few miles out of the old cowboy town and, well, one thing at a time he figured.
Soon the station quieted down and the manager shut off the remaining lights. He was sleeping soundly in his warm bag when he first heard the door edge open. Blurry eyes watched the silhouette walk slowly and quietly along the wall. It dawned on him that this might be a regular flop for a local perhaps. Not a word was spoken and the darkness prevailed.
Suddenly he felt a jolt to his shoulder. He always sleeps with one arm through the strap on his backpack, and now that backpack was in the clutches of this stranger. This dude just grabbed it and wanted to run out the door. Half on the floor now, they engaged in a very short property battle. He looked up from the filthy floor to see the intruder escape out the door. No harm done.
Back to sleep, after all, he had a day on the slopes tomorrow. Youth, little fear, little brains, and a lot of fun
