Tamer Pursuits Prevail for Girls Gone Wild

In the beginning, we numbered eight. Women whose friendships rekindled at a class reunion one year ago; deep, meaningful alliances based on the admirable quality that after all those years we still recognized each other.

Bonding after decades of college, jobs, and child-rearing, we devised a plan to meet the following year at a remote location where we could experience again the decidedly feminine pastime of a weekend slumber party – when we would laugh, chat, do our nails, shop till we dropped, and definitely not cook. Namely, a time when we’d leave our husbands at home.

So we picked the date and place. Together, we represented five states and both coasts; women well versed in marriage, childbirth and empty nest syndrome; true believers in the restorative powers of a girlfriends’ only escape or, as we referred to it fondly, the “Girls Gone Wild” tour. And, as it regularly happens in life, stuff happened.

Of the original eight, three of us arrived at our mountaintop retreat in October. The reasons for our attrition were as varied as our constituents. Diana couldn’t miss a family birthday and anniversary. Toni’s bedridden mom took a turn for the worse. Kathy and her husband were in the midst of a move to Phoenix. In Oregon, Sally was fighting multiple sclerosis, her illness ultimately making the journey too difficult. Cheryl’s furnace was producing weird sounds, possibly preparing to blow. So it was Nancy from our Colorado hometown, Bev from Florida and me who managed the journey and found ourselves, three former high school classmates, at the doorstep of our home-away-from-home in the Colorado mountains.

It began as a weekend where anything could take place – a “What happens in the mountains stays in the mountains” sort of thing. But, to our great amusement, we rapidly learned that our vigorous 20-something bodies had fled the scene, replaced by middle-aged constraints that left us yawning and stretching before the late-night news was anywhere in sight.

“Let’s not tell anybody we couldn’t stay awake past 10pm,” someone suggested.

“Works for me!” the others shouted.

Laughter freely flowed, especially when we tried to recall an event, a movie or just about anything involving the retrieval of information from our saturated memory banks. “You know, ‘Whatshisname,’ ” became the standard response as we struggled to grasp a name, a film, a class member or their spouse. 

Topics of discussion were endless: families, puberty, old flames, friends and acquaintances lost through death or disillusionment. Undergarments we had known and loathed. Favorite hometown haunts in the 60s – the Mesa Ice Cream Parlor, Grove Drug Store, the “grinder” sandwich shop known simply as The Passkey, and the unwavering fondness for our alma mater, which stands to this day, looking more like a grand old federal building in Washington, D.C., than a four-year high school. I think we stopped just short of belting out the “Central High Wildcats” fight song.

Drizzly, lazy mornings found us discovering new things about a myriad of subjects and about one another. Nancy, a gifted astronomy instructor at a Southern Colorado college, described the latest findings on planets, orbits and atmospheres while Bev, a fantastically feminine former violinist had acquired – to our utter amazement – an extensive knowledge about the sport of bull-riding, leading us to scan the Professional Bull Riders Web site to ascertain who had triumphed over the weekend. And let me just raise the question right now – Where on earth do they find the names for those bulls? I mean – “Mossy Oak Mudslinger?” “Blue Corn Moon?” “Scene of the Crash?” In the end, I’m not sure my contributions were nearly as colorful or entertaining as this cornucopia of topics but I made up for it by being an eager, enthusiastic audience.

Although limited in number, the days quickly took on a pattern. Clad in pajamas and robes, chatting and reminiscing consumed mornings spent over coffee cups, shopping became the afternoon’s order of the day, and “chick-flix” ruled our nights.

Smoky autumn afternoons found us threading our way through the small mountain village nearby, stepping over large, furry dogs snoozing in the doorways of quaint shops colorfully festooned for fall where we selected souvenirs and gifts for families back home. One establishment featured a dizzying array of merchandise, and I picked a gourmet “Triple Fudge Brownie Mix” from a shelf-full of mouth-watering items.

“Woo Hoo – we’ll bake brownies for dessert,” I exclaimed to my gal pals since we had decided on a cozy evening in front of the fire with a dinner of carryout pizza.

“Great! What time should we be there?” cried out a feminine – but unfamiliar – voice behind me. 

Yes, we had inadvertently stumbled upon another “Girls Gone Wild” group of women from various parts of the country that had conceived the same idea of a short escape from the real world and were living it up in the mountains sans children and spouses. 

And when the Monday morning came that we finally waved goodbye, we each brought away something quite extraordinary. Because when you add up three days spent with high school girlfriends, the sum total of its parts equals some deliciously warm memories. We chattered a marathon, and if each word equaled a mile, you could probably circle the globe half a dozen times over. But those words instead encircled three hearts and even (or, rather, especially) if the experience never comes our way again, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at

Ga*********@ao*.com











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