Twenty years ago, newly married, my wife and I attended an office picnic for my new job on Colorado's Western Slope. We were independent and on our own, starting a new life. We played volleyball in a yard on Spring Creek Mesa, and had about as much fun as you can with your supervisors watching. Don't drink too much beer, small talk, restrained fun.
The other picnic I remember from those years was the one we traveled 30 miles to, all the way up the gravel road to Owl Creek Pass. As we approached the picnic grounds my young wife wondered why there were no other cars. 'Whoops honey, there is a chance maybe that the picnic was Saturday instead of Sunday.'
There we sat, the two of us, among the mountain wildflowers and grasses and aspens and granite cliffs, eating our dry cheese casserole with nothing to drink. She was 21 then, firm and lean, a brown-haired beauty. The best picnic I ever attended. Young and in love. By her side.