7/31/03
Cottonwood Springs
I've been thinking about this back problem, trying not to "have a fit" as someone suggested. I've spent all afternoon at Cottonwood Springs, trying out the various pools, the sauna, resting, getting a massage. There is no doubt that heat makes it feel better, but once I cool off I'm back where I started.
One thing I've figured out. When you've got a bad back, it's best to put on a good front.
Nobody wants to hang around a whiner, least of all the whiner himself. I sorta expected rec.outdoors.rv-travel, given the group history, would be especially brutal, but as a matter of fact they've turned out to be broadly sympathetic and full of good advice. Now I've just got to figure out whether to take it, and when.
There have even been amazing offers of places to stay while seeing doctors, etc. My thanks to everyone.
The "therapist" here at the Spa suggested tome stretching exercises, which I'm going to try. I'm not immobilized, as I had feared. There's just this glow in the back that tells me to cool it, or the hot poker will return. Sort of like a tedious afternoon tour of hell, with my own little pitchfork-wielding "associate" to demonstrate the various facilities.
In between soaks, I've been trying to get into Wilde's "Portrait of Dorian Gray". The style is overly precious, too many tremulous flowers and the like, but there's an original aphorism on practically every page. Maybe too many of those too. The guy's very clever, but the book so far is all posing, set pieces and no action. Maybe I'll get into it. People I respect like the hell out of it.
I had forgotten how loud your heartbeat sounds under water. Wonder if sharks and such can zero in on that? Closer, closer, closer, there!
Pretty obvious I'm bored, isn't it?
I walked into the sauna to find a large German lady snoring away on the bench, and a tiny cassette recorder playing by her ear, exhorting her in dulcet tones to "Take pleasure in small things" and "Relax. Relax. Give yourself permission to relax." I stood it for a few minutes, but I couldn't help laughing, and had to get out of there.
No sign at all of Armand or the Rancher's Wife. Nor, alas, of the Peaches. Perhaps Armand is finding there's more to a "cow/calf operation" than he thought.
And perhaps not.
Enough. Here's the plan. I want to give this thing a little more time. I'm going to proceed tomorrow up to Lake Granby. When I get there I'll decide whether to go east through Rocky Mountain Park to see a doctor in Boulder or somewhere, or northwest to the Medicine Bow area. I've already got all the painkillers and muscle relaxers a body could want. Perhaps things will ameliorate with time and stretching. One can only hope.
Besides, there's doctors in Wyoming. Aren't there?
Bob
Things That Go Bump In The Day
July 31, 2003
July 30, 2003
The Best Medicine
7/30/03
Muscle relaxers don't work well on me. Had a bunch when my neck was recovering from surgery, finally quit taking them. Made me sick at my stomach and goofy, without relaxing any muscles. Sort of like Vicodin and other synthetic codeines.
Now real codeine. That works like a charm. Usually puts me right to sleep.
The thing is, it's a helluva way to start a trip.
I just had the best medicine of all - a good belly laugh. I came back from washing clothes about 3pm, and lay back on the couch, just to rest my back. Apparently 3 hours of light activity is about max for me right now.
I woke up to some scrabbling noises. It was 5:30. I'd left the door open.
Round the corner on his hind legs comes a tiny chipmunk, apparently entirely unconcerned about the big lunk on the couch. No doubt he'd been prancing all over me, doing the can-can, while I lay helpless the last couple of hours. He came right up to about 2 feet away, a little swagger in his rodent walk. A swashbuckling chipmunk, if you can picture that.
"GETOUTAHERE, ya little rat!"
Then Chip, or Dale, or whoever he was, did something I have only seen before in cartoons. I'd always attributed it to imagination, but perhaps those old cartoonists were really just excellent observers.
He jumped straight up to maybe twice his height, turned completely around in the air, and hit the ground running, but he slipped and slid on the vinyl, making no progress at all. His little legs actually made, to my sleepy eyes, a circular blur.
I heard six distinct scrabbling clicking vertical jumps before he slowed down enough to get traction, and around the corner and out the door he went.
Go ahead, Varmint. Make my day.
Bob, who's feeling a little better after a nap and a laugh
Muscle relaxers don't work well on me. Had a bunch when my neck was recovering from surgery, finally quit taking them. Made me sick at my stomach and goofy, without relaxing any muscles. Sort of like Vicodin and other synthetic codeines.
Now real codeine. That works like a charm. Usually puts me right to sleep.
The thing is, it's a helluva way to start a trip.
I just had the best medicine of all - a good belly laugh. I came back from washing clothes about 3pm, and lay back on the couch, just to rest my back. Apparently 3 hours of light activity is about max for me right now.
I woke up to some scrabbling noises. It was 5:30. I'd left the door open.
Round the corner on his hind legs comes a tiny chipmunk, apparently entirely unconcerned about the big lunk on the couch. No doubt he'd been prancing all over me, doing the can-can, while I lay helpless the last couple of hours. He came right up to about 2 feet away, a little swagger in his rodent walk. A swashbuckling chipmunk, if you can picture that.
"GETOUTAHERE, ya little rat!"
Then Chip, or Dale, or whoever he was, did something I have only seen before in cartoons. I'd always attributed it to imagination, but perhaps those old cartoonists were really just excellent observers.
He jumped straight up to maybe twice his height, turned completely around in the air, and hit the ground running, but he slipped and slid on the vinyl, making no progress at all. His little legs actually made, to my sleepy eyes, a circular blur.
I heard six distinct scrabbling clicking vertical jumps before he slowed down enough to get traction, and around the corner and out the door he went.
Go ahead, Varmint. Make my day.
Bob, who's feeling a little better after a nap and a laugh
Ooops! No Top-o-Mountain Majesties for me!
7/30/03
Twin Lakes, Colorado
I was really looking forward to seeing the backbone of the continent from the top of Mt. Elbert, but my own backbone has failed me again. I think there's really something wrong here. It's been bothering me off and on for a year, but it's a teasing sort of thing. Days go by when I hardly notice it.
It's bad when bending over, like when I'm brushing my teeth, and yesterday evening it got bad again when I was bending over to exit the trailer, carrying a hot pot of potatoes and green beans and a raw steak down to the pit. Somehow I managed to sit down in the doorway without spilling anything. Stayed there a while, thinking sic transit gloria, etc. A little later I took some codeine and went to bed.
This morning I'm wearing a brace.
There's been a uneasy pattern this trip. A bad day followed by 4 or 5 days of recuperation, then another slip.
I can't complain too much, though. This is beautiful country to get laid up in.
But I'm getting convinced it's time to quit fooling around and develop the spine to see a surgeon. I've been hoping it's a pulled muscle. I mean, the pain doesn't travel down my limbs, like it did when I broke my neck. But a muscle eventually heals, and this is not doing so.
My father died of a thoracic aneurysm, because he wouldn't go to the doctor when he felt bad. In this regard I am not about to take after him. When I get back, I'm going to get to the bottom of this. And if it doesn't get better, I may be getting back sooner than I had planned.
I had hoped for a more physically active trip. I may have to settle for reading and lazing about above a lake in the shadow of the finest peaks in the continent. Darn.
I managed to get about three quarters up Elbert a decade ago, but a couple of 12 year old boys declared they weren't taking another step.
So. Today I'm just gonna try to get some laundry done. That's it. I'm glad I got the tire off and a new grease cap fitted Monday, before this happened.
Maybe I'll backtrack 20 miles and try the springs again. Yeah. Like I said, this ain't such bad country to be laid up in. It's nearly noon now, and only 61 degrees. Life could definitely be worse.
Bob
Twin Lakes, Colorado
I was really looking forward to seeing the backbone of the continent from the top of Mt. Elbert, but my own backbone has failed me again. I think there's really something wrong here. It's been bothering me off and on for a year, but it's a teasing sort of thing. Days go by when I hardly notice it.
It's bad when bending over, like when I'm brushing my teeth, and yesterday evening it got bad again when I was bending over to exit the trailer, carrying a hot pot of potatoes and green beans and a raw steak down to the pit. Somehow I managed to sit down in the doorway without spilling anything. Stayed there a while, thinking sic transit gloria, etc. A little later I took some codeine and went to bed.
This morning I'm wearing a brace.
There's been a uneasy pattern this trip. A bad day followed by 4 or 5 days of recuperation, then another slip.
I can't complain too much, though. This is beautiful country to get laid up in.
But I'm getting convinced it's time to quit fooling around and develop the spine to see a surgeon. I've been hoping it's a pulled muscle. I mean, the pain doesn't travel down my limbs, like it did when I broke my neck. But a muscle eventually heals, and this is not doing so.
My father died of a thoracic aneurysm, because he wouldn't go to the doctor when he felt bad. In this regard I am not about to take after him. When I get back, I'm going to get to the bottom of this. And if it doesn't get better, I may be getting back sooner than I had planned.
I had hoped for a more physically active trip. I may have to settle for reading and lazing about above a lake in the shadow of the finest peaks in the continent. Darn.
I managed to get about three quarters up Elbert a decade ago, but a couple of 12 year old boys declared they weren't taking another step.
| Actually what I was hoping for this trip was not so much a peak as a second wind. At one point or another, this country has always given me a burst of energy, a second wind. I haven't been able to do enough this trip to earn one. |  |
So. Today I'm just gonna try to get some laundry done. That's it. I'm glad I got the tire off and a new grease cap fitted Monday, before this happened.
Maybe I'll backtrack 20 miles and try the springs again. Yeah. Like I said, this ain't such bad country to be laid up in. It's nearly noon now, and only 61 degrees. Life could definitely be worse.
Bob
July 28, 2003
Soaps at the Spa
7/28/03
Buena Vista, Colorado
Seen from Cottonwood Pass, Taylor Park and the Sawatch Range around it seem like a vast emptiness. It is an illusion. There's thousands of people down there. Twenty years ago it mostly was empty. Now it is teeming with development. The "ghost town" of Tincup, which held perhaps 6 or 7 souls on my last visit, is now pumped full of new houses. The Denver Post is delivered there, always the last nail in the coffin of solitude.
The road down from the pass into Buena Vista was dirt back then, about one and a half lanes with turnouts. Great cottonwoods arched over the ruts of the road, and in October when they let fall their leaves it was like driving through a golden blizzard, for miles. That road is no more. The cottonwoods have been cut back, the road widened to two lanes and paved up to the pass.
You know, I'm beginning to sound like an old crank, lamenting the "good old days". I'm gonna stop that. It is entirely possible I have contrived to depopulate my memories. And that was October, anyway, not July. It is beautiful country, still.
About 5 miles short of Buena Vista, I passed by "Cottonwood Hot Springs Resort" on my left. I remember this place. My back actually cried out in longing, so I found a place to turn around and go back.
The resort is charming, and far from full. It reminds me of a place I visited up in the Olympic peninsula. "Sol Duc Springs"? Something like that. The spa here consists of a line of cabins strung along Cottonwood Creek, and a series of 5 or 6 well designed pools running from tepid to 106 degrees. There is a narrow entrance, and a sharp turn to the right, but once you are in you can make your way to the upper parking lot, which has room for several trailers like mine. You can turn around up there. The spa costs $10 for all day, until midnight. Massage is available for $65 an hour, which seemed a little high to me.
I stayed a couple of hours. At first the sun was burning down, but then storm clouds gathered. It never rained hard. I liked the hottest pool. They had these tubular spongy colorful floats about 4 feet long and two inches through, that you could wrap around your neck. That let you lean back into the water and halfway drift off without immediately drowning. Stuff looked a lot like pipe wrap.
I took possession of a quiet shady corner, pulled my cap down over my eyes, and listened, desultorily, to the conversations around me. There was a bench built into the perimeter of the pools, and shiatsu stones on the bottom to rub your feet on. Felt good. The only thing that kept me from drifting off completely was that there was no lip on the bench, and the lapping water would eventually suck me off if I didn't keep anchoring my feet.
There was a small dead branch or tree planted right by the pool, with sharp snags like arms flung upward, the base decorated with raked gravel and stones in the Japanese manner. Someone off to the left with an eye to the sky half joked that the tree was alive last week before the lightning struck it.
Sometime later a very unusual looking fellow came out of the bathhouse and entered the pool. He looked like he had just walked off the cover of one of those bodice-ripper romances you can buy at the grocery store. "Rogue of the Wilderness", that sort of thing. Harlequin publishes a bunch of them.
He had that deep V from shoulders to waist that you see on competitive swimmers, with little bumps where most people sport a stomach, and big arms, the kind you can only get by pumping iron. He had wide, deep set, dark brown eyes, and there was something Gallic about the nose and mouth. The telling feature, though, was thick brown-gold hair that swept back from his noble brow, over and down his shoulders, almost to his waist. He was a sight to see.
Somewhere in Fennimore Cooper's Pathfinder series, Natty Bumpo is described as "walking like a cat". Or maybe it was a cougar. Anyway, this guy could walk like that. Looked like maybe a Natty Bumpo of the Boudoir. He just exuded physical charisma, sex, and self-confidence. I thought for a minute they had put out a slightly different species of human, and hadn't told me. The latest model, so to speak. I never heard his name, but I thought of him as Armand. He sort of looked like an Armand.
I had been quietly studying a couple of young women in the pool, sitting opposite. From a safe distance, of course, and in an entirely paternal manner. Of course. They were both in their early 20s, animated and alive, with the sort of lithe figures most women enjoy only once, and briefly, on their way to having babies.
They were ripe beestung Peaches, hanging sweet and heavy on the bough.
When Armand entered the water, both the Peaches lost their composure. They seemed to lose control also of their lovely jaws, for their mouths hung open. Armand took it in stride, smiled and said hello to them, and then walked a short distance away to sit down. He did nothing in particular, and yet there probably was not a person, male or female, in this pool or the next, that did not notice him.
I watched the Peaches. They recovered slowly, began whispering to each other. You could almost see tiny Technicolor reflections of him in their eyes. Then suddenly something happened, they shared a sober look, got up together, and left the pool. They did not return.
It's only speculation, but I had the feeling I could read their minds just then. They were completely out of their league, and didn't like it much. It is never a comfortable feeling.
I remember situations like that, a time of two, from my salad days. An absolutely stunning woman would walk into a room. Part of it was looks, part pure heat. Not an intellectual attraction at all. It's not personal. Guys all over the room straightened up and tucked in their shirts, without much thinking about it. When it happened, I knew I had only minutes to save my life. If she could stir me like this from 30 feet, what would happen if I got in closer?
On both occasions, for better or worse, I bolted, just like the Peaches. It was not fear of failure. It was fear of success. You cannot fool around with a sexual singularity like that. Either you leave, or else you do whatever it takes to marry her. And if you marry her, you will never know a moment's peace. Your life will not be your own.
I think the Peaches had a moment like that. I saw it in their eyes. I could be mistaken. Maybe they already knew the guy. But I think not.
Armand leaned back against the rocks, smiling and serene. A spider has no need to chase the flies. He started talking to the woman on his right, a hardy fit sort with weathered features. She could have been 45, maybe 50, but she suddenly looked a lot younger, talking to Armand. I thought of her as the Rancher's Wife, though the Rancher himself was not in evidence. She started telling all about her "cow/calf operation" and how the weather affected haying.
Armand nodded with grave courtesy, murmuring something that seemed like encouragement. He didn't talk much. I may be doing him an injustice, but "haying"? People who know much about that have funny tans, and get sort of drawn and lumpy from the work. Have missing fingers, that sort of thing. Just looking at Armand, you had to think he never worked at anything in his life, outside of the gym.
"Cow/calf"? This operation was going to be all bull.
Too much drama for me. I got out, feeling unusually pale and flabby, seeking a serenity suitable to my years. There was a break in the foliage, with steps leading down. Someone had made a pool of rocks, jutting out into the stream. Maybe 8 inches deep, and large enough for maybe 3 very friendly adults. It caught the overflow from the various pools above.
Another old guy was splayed out down there, half asleep. I got him to move over.
This place was the best of all, more delicious than you would imagine, just looking at it. The bottom was sand, and I lay my head back against small rocks, mere inches from the rushing creek. I scrunched down into the bottom, making my bed. Moved a few rocks. Now and then a little ice water leaked through and crept down my neck. The pipes above splashed water onto flat rocks, which splattered the precious stuff in turn, and it fell as a continuous warm mist on my legs and chest. Young green cottonwoods overhead let through a dappled dancing light, and later a soft sprinkle of cool rain. When I closed my eyes the roar of the creek went right through my head from ear to ear.
I only woke, some time later, when the other guy stepped across me. It's a good thing. I might be there yet.
Up top, Armand and the Rancher's Wife were not to be found. Ain't life a funny thing?
I had some enchiladas down in Buena Vista. The only Mexican joint in town seemed pricey to this Texan, but then this isn't Texas. The grub was tasty, though, and they even made a darned good Cointreau Margarita. Two, in fact. The couple next to me were from New Jersey, here on their honeymoon.
After the soak, the drama, the meal, and the drinks, I was wasted. I wandered in late to White Star Campground, up the road at Twin Lakes, and slept like the dead.
Bob
Buena Vista, Colorado
Seen from Cottonwood Pass, Taylor Park and the Sawatch Range around it seem like a vast emptiness. It is an illusion. There's thousands of people down there. Twenty years ago it mostly was empty. Now it is teeming with development. The "ghost town" of Tincup, which held perhaps 6 or 7 souls on my last visit, is now pumped full of new houses. The Denver Post is delivered there, always the last nail in the coffin of solitude.
The road down from the pass into Buena Vista was dirt back then, about one and a half lanes with turnouts. Great cottonwoods arched over the ruts of the road, and in October when they let fall their leaves it was like driving through a golden blizzard, for miles. That road is no more. The cottonwoods have been cut back, the road widened to two lanes and paved up to the pass.
You know, I'm beginning to sound like an old crank, lamenting the "good old days". I'm gonna stop that. It is entirely possible I have contrived to depopulate my memories. And that was October, anyway, not July. It is beautiful country, still.
About 5 miles short of Buena Vista, I passed by "Cottonwood Hot Springs Resort" on my left. I remember this place. My back actually cried out in longing, so I found a place to turn around and go back.
The resort is charming, and far from full. It reminds me of a place I visited up in the Olympic peninsula. "Sol Duc Springs"? Something like that. The spa here consists of a line of cabins strung along Cottonwood Creek, and a series of 5 or 6 well designed pools running from tepid to 106 degrees. There is a narrow entrance, and a sharp turn to the right, but once you are in you can make your way to the upper parking lot, which has room for several trailers like mine. You can turn around up there. The spa costs $10 for all day, until midnight. Massage is available for $65 an hour, which seemed a little high to me.
I stayed a couple of hours. At first the sun was burning down, but then storm clouds gathered. It never rained hard. I liked the hottest pool. They had these tubular spongy colorful floats about 4 feet long and two inches through, that you could wrap around your neck. That let you lean back into the water and halfway drift off without immediately drowning. Stuff looked a lot like pipe wrap.
I took possession of a quiet shady corner, pulled my cap down over my eyes, and listened, desultorily, to the conversations around me. There was a bench built into the perimeter of the pools, and shiatsu stones on the bottom to rub your feet on. Felt good. The only thing that kept me from drifting off completely was that there was no lip on the bench, and the lapping water would eventually suck me off if I didn't keep anchoring my feet.
There was a small dead branch or tree planted right by the pool, with sharp snags like arms flung upward, the base decorated with raked gravel and stones in the Japanese manner. Someone off to the left with an eye to the sky half joked that the tree was alive last week before the lightning struck it.
Sometime later a very unusual looking fellow came out of the bathhouse and entered the pool. He looked like he had just walked off the cover of one of those bodice-ripper romances you can buy at the grocery store. "Rogue of the Wilderness", that sort of thing. Harlequin publishes a bunch of them.
He had that deep V from shoulders to waist that you see on competitive swimmers, with little bumps where most people sport a stomach, and big arms, the kind you can only get by pumping iron. He had wide, deep set, dark brown eyes, and there was something Gallic about the nose and mouth. The telling feature, though, was thick brown-gold hair that swept back from his noble brow, over and down his shoulders, almost to his waist. He was a sight to see.
Somewhere in Fennimore Cooper's Pathfinder series, Natty Bumpo is described as "walking like a cat". Or maybe it was a cougar. Anyway, this guy could walk like that. Looked like maybe a Natty Bumpo of the Boudoir. He just exuded physical charisma, sex, and self-confidence. I thought for a minute they had put out a slightly different species of human, and hadn't told me. The latest model, so to speak. I never heard his name, but I thought of him as Armand. He sort of looked like an Armand.
I had been quietly studying a couple of young women in the pool, sitting opposite. From a safe distance, of course, and in an entirely paternal manner. Of course. They were both in their early 20s, animated and alive, with the sort of lithe figures most women enjoy only once, and briefly, on their way to having babies.
They were ripe beestung Peaches, hanging sweet and heavy on the bough.
When Armand entered the water, both the Peaches lost their composure. They seemed to lose control also of their lovely jaws, for their mouths hung open. Armand took it in stride, smiled and said hello to them, and then walked a short distance away to sit down. He did nothing in particular, and yet there probably was not a person, male or female, in this pool or the next, that did not notice him.
I watched the Peaches. They recovered slowly, began whispering to each other. You could almost see tiny Technicolor reflections of him in their eyes. Then suddenly something happened, they shared a sober look, got up together, and left the pool. They did not return.
It's only speculation, but I had the feeling I could read their minds just then. They were completely out of their league, and didn't like it much. It is never a comfortable feeling.
I remember situations like that, a time of two, from my salad days. An absolutely stunning woman would walk into a room. Part of it was looks, part pure heat. Not an intellectual attraction at all. It's not personal. Guys all over the room straightened up and tucked in their shirts, without much thinking about it. When it happened, I knew I had only minutes to save my life. If she could stir me like this from 30 feet, what would happen if I got in closer?
On both occasions, for better or worse, I bolted, just like the Peaches. It was not fear of failure. It was fear of success. You cannot fool around with a sexual singularity like that. Either you leave, or else you do whatever it takes to marry her. And if you marry her, you will never know a moment's peace. Your life will not be your own.
I think the Peaches had a moment like that. I saw it in their eyes. I could be mistaken. Maybe they already knew the guy. But I think not.
Armand leaned back against the rocks, smiling and serene. A spider has no need to chase the flies. He started talking to the woman on his right, a hardy fit sort with weathered features. She could have been 45, maybe 50, but she suddenly looked a lot younger, talking to Armand. I thought of her as the Rancher's Wife, though the Rancher himself was not in evidence. She started telling all about her "cow/calf operation" and how the weather affected haying.
Armand nodded with grave courtesy, murmuring something that seemed like encouragement. He didn't talk much. I may be doing him an injustice, but "haying"? People who know much about that have funny tans, and get sort of drawn and lumpy from the work. Have missing fingers, that sort of thing. Just looking at Armand, you had to think he never worked at anything in his life, outside of the gym.
"Cow/calf"? This operation was going to be all bull.
Too much drama for me. I got out, feeling unusually pale and flabby, seeking a serenity suitable to my years. There was a break in the foliage, with steps leading down. Someone had made a pool of rocks, jutting out into the stream. Maybe 8 inches deep, and large enough for maybe 3 very friendly adults. It caught the overflow from the various pools above.
Another old guy was splayed out down there, half asleep. I got him to move over.
This place was the best of all, more delicious than you would imagine, just looking at it. The bottom was sand, and I lay my head back against small rocks, mere inches from the rushing creek. I scrunched down into the bottom, making my bed. Moved a few rocks. Now and then a little ice water leaked through and crept down my neck. The pipes above splashed water onto flat rocks, which splattered the precious stuff in turn, and it fell as a continuous warm mist on my legs and chest. Young green cottonwoods overhead let through a dappled dancing light, and later a soft sprinkle of cool rain. When I closed my eyes the roar of the creek went right through my head from ear to ear.
I only woke, some time later, when the other guy stepped across me. It's a good thing. I might be there yet.
Up top, Armand and the Rancher's Wife were not to be found. Ain't life a funny thing?
I had some enchiladas down in Buena Vista. The only Mexican joint in town seemed pricey to this Texan, but then this isn't Texas. The grub was tasty, though, and they even made a darned good Cointreau Margarita. Two, in fact. The couple next to me were from New Jersey, here on their honeymoon.
After the soak, the drama, the meal, and the drinks, I was wasted. I wandered in late to White Star Campground, up the road at Twin Lakes, and slept like the dead.
Bob
Weather, 'Tis Nobler In The Mind
7/28/03
Taylor Reservoir, Colorado
Well, here's Bob. Webless in Paradise, once again.
I haven't been up in this country for 20 years or so. I am surprised to find most of the road paved. Lakeview Campground, which wasn't here before, has electric service for $16 a night. It is well named, for the view of the lake and the Collegiate Peaks beyond is unsurpassed. The campground is arranged in tiers up a hillside, much like an outdoor IMAX.
It is cold and rainy. I was met with a short slushy burst of small hail as I entered the campground. 50 degrees, some wind. At one time this place held the record for the coldest temperature ever recorded in the US. This was before Alaska entered the picture. A high pressure node moved into the mountains and stayed for something like two months. Every day the temperature fell to a new low. Ordinary thermometers broke. Mules died. Miners were driven off their claims. Finally reached something like -50 degrees F. They had a poster up about it somewhere, last time I was here. Up in Tincup, the ghost town, I think. I'll probably find it tomorrow, unless it has disapparated.
I actually like weather like this once in a while. It gives you a chance to stay inside, cook, read, relax, listen to the satellite radio. The view doesn't hurt. Every time I get up I feel confined. When I sit down, I am in the midst of miles and miles of miles and miles. Clouds float above the lake even with my eyes.
Brorrorrrrmmmmummnummnum. Neeee,neeeeen,nneeeeeeneeneenee. Brumble, brum, brum, brum. I'm telling you, the motorized nuisances have taken over much of the high country. They are everywhere, and you can hear them for miles. But mostly they fill the campgrounds, which some people think of as a swell place to throw up a tarp and tune up, holler at each other, try out the redline, have a little beery good natured NOISY fun.
You know, between the helmets, the jackets, the gloves, and the noise, these guys are completely sealed off from nature. I don't know why they come up here. They could have the same experience doing laps around a junkyard.
There's not a thing I can do about it, at least during the day. If I take an ax to one, there's 20 more right behind him. Besides, some of these fellows are as big as I am. They and I are looking for incompatible experiences up here, and we can't get away from each other. Maybe they'll get the damn thing fixed in a little while, and be off into the rain.
Taylor Reservoir is obviously down a bit from its normal fill line. But in general, Colorado is doing much better than this time last year. They finally got an above average snow last winter, most places. Blue Mesa was down 90 feet when I came through last fall, reduced to mud flats and a pitiful trickle down the middle. Now it's down only 45 feet, and looks somewhat like a lake again. Maybe the multiyear drought is over. Hope so.
When I get to Buena Vista, I've got to find another grease cup to fit the end of my axle. Lost it when I had the flat. The bearings are somewhat protected from dirt by a plastic cover and excess grease, but it's hardly sealed. Nothing could be done in Gunnison over the weekend.
_______________
Completely socked in this morning. Can't even see the lake, presumably right down there in front of me. I'm getting a little antsy and cooped up. I don't want to go through Cottonwood canyon without seeing it. And if I don't get some exercise pretty soon, I'm gonna lose it. First my back, now the weather. I think I'll take a blind walk in the fog. Maybe I'll stumble on a bear. That might liven things up. Nothing clarifies the mind like the sight of an animate hillock coming out of the fog, with beady red eyes and fangs dripping saliva.
I don't usually think of myself as locked into rituals. But danged if I'm not. I'm just not aware of them until things go awry. This morning, like every morning, I stumbled out of bed, put water on to boil, brushed my teeth, shaved, and stepped into the shower....oooops. Uh Oh. No hot water.
Pilot light blew out. So I drag on my jeans and go out into the white cold to light it. 40 degrees and a bit of wind. Now what? Probably be 10 minutes till it's hot. What 'll I do, what'll I do?
I come from pioneer stock. O how the mighty have fallen.
I cook up some biscuits and gravy, eat, drink coffee. Now my mind's awake, but my svelte cranky body still wants its shower. When I was putting biscuit rounds into the pan, I dropped one on the floor WHILE I WAS LOOKING AT IT IN MY HAND! What the bloody hell? Was I always this clumsy? If I climb Elbert, will I just walk off a cliff?
Then it came to me. My rituals were out of order. I hadn't had my shower yet. That's all. We mess with this stuff at our peril. Nothing will seem right until I get things back in synch.
See what I mean? Completely nuts. Time for that walk.
But first I gotta go take a shower.
Bob
Taylor Reservoir, Colorado
Well, here's Bob. Webless in Paradise, once again.
I haven't been up in this country for 20 years or so. I am surprised to find most of the road paved. Lakeview Campground, which wasn't here before, has electric service for $16 a night. It is well named, for the view of the lake and the Collegiate Peaks beyond is unsurpassed. The campground is arranged in tiers up a hillside, much like an outdoor IMAX.
It is cold and rainy. I was met with a short slushy burst of small hail as I entered the campground. 50 degrees, some wind. At one time this place held the record for the coldest temperature ever recorded in the US. This was before Alaska entered the picture. A high pressure node moved into the mountains and stayed for something like two months. Every day the temperature fell to a new low. Ordinary thermometers broke. Mules died. Miners were driven off their claims. Finally reached something like -50 degrees F. They had a poster up about it somewhere, last time I was here. Up in Tincup, the ghost town, I think. I'll probably find it tomorrow, unless it has disapparated.
I actually like weather like this once in a while. It gives you a chance to stay inside, cook, read, relax, listen to the satellite radio. The view doesn't hurt. Every time I get up I feel confined. When I sit down, I am in the midst of miles and miles of miles and miles. Clouds float above the lake even with my eyes.
Brorrorrrrmmmmummnummnum. Neeee,neeeeen,nneeeeeeneeneenee. Brumble, brum, brum, brum. I'm telling you, the motorized nuisances have taken over much of the high country. They are everywhere, and you can hear them for miles. But mostly they fill the campgrounds, which some people think of as a swell place to throw up a tarp and tune up, holler at each other, try out the redline, have a little beery good natured NOISY fun.
You know, between the helmets, the jackets, the gloves, and the noise, these guys are completely sealed off from nature. I don't know why they come up here. They could have the same experience doing laps around a junkyard.
There's not a thing I can do about it, at least during the day. If I take an ax to one, there's 20 more right behind him. Besides, some of these fellows are as big as I am. They and I are looking for incompatible experiences up here, and we can't get away from each other. Maybe they'll get the damn thing fixed in a little while, and be off into the rain.
Taylor Reservoir is obviously down a bit from its normal fill line. But in general, Colorado is doing much better than this time last year. They finally got an above average snow last winter, most places. Blue Mesa was down 90 feet when I came through last fall, reduced to mud flats and a pitiful trickle down the middle. Now it's down only 45 feet, and looks somewhat like a lake again. Maybe the multiyear drought is over. Hope so.
When I get to Buena Vista, I've got to find another grease cup to fit the end of my axle. Lost it when I had the flat. The bearings are somewhat protected from dirt by a plastic cover and excess grease, but it's hardly sealed. Nothing could be done in Gunnison over the weekend.
_______________
Completely socked in this morning. Can't even see the lake, presumably right down there in front of me. I'm getting a little antsy and cooped up. I don't want to go through Cottonwood canyon without seeing it. And if I don't get some exercise pretty soon, I'm gonna lose it. First my back, now the weather. I think I'll take a blind walk in the fog. Maybe I'll stumble on a bear. That might liven things up. Nothing clarifies the mind like the sight of an animate hillock coming out of the fog, with beady red eyes and fangs dripping saliva.
I don't usually think of myself as locked into rituals. But danged if I'm not. I'm just not aware of them until things go awry. This morning, like every morning, I stumbled out of bed, put water on to boil, brushed my teeth, shaved, and stepped into the shower....oooops. Uh Oh. No hot water.
Pilot light blew out. So I drag on my jeans and go out into the white cold to light it. 40 degrees and a bit of wind. Now what? Probably be 10 minutes till it's hot. What 'll I do, what'll I do?
I come from pioneer stock. O how the mighty have fallen.
I cook up some biscuits and gravy, eat, drink coffee. Now my mind's awake, but my svelte cranky body still wants its shower. When I was putting biscuit rounds into the pan, I dropped one on the floor WHILE I WAS LOOKING AT IT IN MY HAND! What the bloody hell? Was I always this clumsy? If I climb Elbert, will I just walk off a cliff?
Then it came to me. My rituals were out of order. I hadn't had my shower yet. That's all. We mess with this stuff at our peril. Nothing will seem right until I get things back in synch.
See what I mean? Completely nuts. Time for that walk.
But first I gotta go take a shower.
Bob
July 26, 2003
A Peculiar Day
7/26/03
It's been an odd day. Things kept going wrong, then mysteriously went right. The scary thing is, the day's not over yet.
I got into Gunnison about noon, looked over some motorcycles, got on the web for the first time in a week, and inundated everyone I knew with the preceding tardy emails. Got some financial stuff done, made some calls, went to the store for supplies. Connected with the world, however briefly.
I set off for Altmont, into the teeth of a storm. About 8 miles north, I passed a tired looking hiker sitting on a rock. He was not obviously seeking a ride, but as I passed he jumped up and pointed to me. More specifically, right behind me. Immediately I heard it: thump, thump, thump. My second flat on the trailer since I bought it, and in the same spot: right rear. By humping it a bit, I got the tire changed before that wall of water arrived.
Back to Gunnison, took a long look at Walmart but didn't see any bays. Stopped at the Sherwin-Williams store to use the phone. Fellow there informed me Gunnison was one of those towns that closes up early on a Saturday. It was already 4 o'clock, after all. Sure enough, tire stores didn't answer, one after another, until finally: "Yeah?" I explained my situation. "Well, I'm not really open, but if you come over right now, maybe I can help you." You bet. Last man in town, and $80 later I'm all fixed up. Kinda like the last time, in Clinton, Oklahoma, repaired after hours. Only that time it set me back $110.
So, I head on up to Altmont, stop for a pulled pork sandwich, and the heavens open up again. How do you find a campsite in this mess? Then I remembered the Walmart back in Gunnison. Why not? Never tried it before. Give me a chance to surf the web on my weekend minutes, watch a little TV. So, back to Gunnison for the third time, through the rain and wind. Only trouble is, there are several large signs in the parking lot: "No Overnight Parking".
So now I'm sitting on the street behind them, facing an empty field, and the gutters are flowing. Ain't camping wonderful? And no, this is not something else that went wrong. That came when I tried to turn on the TV.
The first inverter I installed in the trailer was a cheap Vector 400W from Sam's. Only problem, every time I plugged in the computer it turned off, and the "fault" light went on. It was explained to me that the thing had an improper ground, so I got a Prowatt 600 for twice as much and quit having that problem. I put the Vector in an outside compartment, in case I wanted to run a drill or something. And just in case, I snaked a line from it to the general area of the Prowatt.
A couple of months back, I bought a new 16 inch Samsung TV for the trailer, but never got around to plugging it into the Prowatt. When I did tonight, the Prowatt turned off, due to a "fault". But when I plugged it into the old Vector, it worked fine! What the heck is going on here?
Well, it's still raining, for one thing. And the trailer's rocking. And I'm not moving. I'm watching "Woman of the Year" on a local PBS channel, with Hepburn and Tracy. Funny show. Somehow I never managed to see it before. Never had to sit out a storm at just the right moment.
And everything's working, sort of. The computer is plugged into the Prowatt, with the power line snaked across the floor from the kitchen cabinet. The TV is working on the Vector, thanks to that line I ran a year and a half ago.
But the right things are working wrong, and the wrong things are working right.
All I need now is for the parking cops to show up, step in with muddy feet and serious faces, shake the rain from their hats, and tell me "You in a heap a trouble, boy."
Guilty, Ossifer. Take me away. Just don't trip on that cord.
Bob
It's been an odd day. Things kept going wrong, then mysteriously went right. The scary thing is, the day's not over yet.
I got into Gunnison about noon, looked over some motorcycles, got on the web for the first time in a week, and inundated everyone I knew with the preceding tardy emails. Got some financial stuff done, made some calls, went to the store for supplies. Connected with the world, however briefly.
I set off for Altmont, into the teeth of a storm. About 8 miles north, I passed a tired looking hiker sitting on a rock. He was not obviously seeking a ride, but as I passed he jumped up and pointed to me. More specifically, right behind me. Immediately I heard it: thump, thump, thump. My second flat on the trailer since I bought it, and in the same spot: right rear. By humping it a bit, I got the tire changed before that wall of water arrived.
Back to Gunnison, took a long look at Walmart but didn't see any bays. Stopped at the Sherwin-Williams store to use the phone. Fellow there informed me Gunnison was one of those towns that closes up early on a Saturday. It was already 4 o'clock, after all. Sure enough, tire stores didn't answer, one after another, until finally: "Yeah?" I explained my situation. "Well, I'm not really open, but if you come over right now, maybe I can help you." You bet. Last man in town, and $80 later I'm all fixed up. Kinda like the last time, in Clinton, Oklahoma, repaired after hours. Only that time it set me back $110.
So, I head on up to Altmont, stop for a pulled pork sandwich, and the heavens open up again. How do you find a campsite in this mess? Then I remembered the Walmart back in Gunnison. Why not? Never tried it before. Give me a chance to surf the web on my weekend minutes, watch a little TV. So, back to Gunnison for the third time, through the rain and wind. Only trouble is, there are several large signs in the parking lot: "No Overnight Parking".
So now I'm sitting on the street behind them, facing an empty field, and the gutters are flowing. Ain't camping wonderful? And no, this is not something else that went wrong. That came when I tried to turn on the TV.
The first inverter I installed in the trailer was a cheap Vector 400W from Sam's. Only problem, every time I plugged in the computer it turned off, and the "fault" light went on. It was explained to me that the thing had an improper ground, so I got a Prowatt 600 for twice as much and quit having that problem. I put the Vector in an outside compartment, in case I wanted to run a drill or something. And just in case, I snaked a line from it to the general area of the Prowatt.
A couple of months back, I bought a new 16 inch Samsung TV for the trailer, but never got around to plugging it into the Prowatt. When I did tonight, the Prowatt turned off, due to a "fault". But when I plugged it into the old Vector, it worked fine! What the heck is going on here?
Well, it's still raining, for one thing. And the trailer's rocking. And I'm not moving. I'm watching "Woman of the Year" on a local PBS channel, with Hepburn and Tracy. Funny show. Somehow I never managed to see it before. Never had to sit out a storm at just the right moment.
And everything's working, sort of. The computer is plugged into the Prowatt, with the power line snaked across the floor from the kitchen cabinet. The TV is working on the Vector, thanks to that line I ran a year and a half ago.
But the right things are working wrong, and the wrong things are working right.
All I need now is for the parking cops to show up, step in with muddy feet and serious faces, shake the rain from their hats, and tell me "You in a heap a trouble, boy."
Guilty, Ossifer. Take me away. Just don't trip on that cord.
Bob
July 24, 2003
Cliff Time
7/24/03
Lake City, Col.
I do like to sit on the cliff in the morning.
On the one hand, midges like to hover there also, in towering columns of thousands. On the other hand, this is not Texas, where each of these insects would be a bloodsucking pest out to turn you into something from Night of the Living Dead. Insects in high Colorado are either mild mannered, or slow, and either way dealing with them doesn't involve trauma. A few squashed flies might disagree, but they are strangely silent.
Midges pay no more attention to me in the morning than if I were a rock. They will adulterate my coffee sometimes, which is annoying. Occasionally they will descend in a solid cloud around my head, but it's not personal. They have their own agenda, and pay me no mind. A few waves of the hand, and they'll happily move over a couple of feet.
They are attracted to an open wound, though, a fact I discovered on my first day here, when I cracked my head open on the header of the door frame in the trailer.
Thousands of black dots hover there randomly, moving forward and back in synchrony, forming a coherent cloud that varies constantly in density. There have been columns 8 feet tall and 3 or 4 feet through, and globular clusters up to 6 feet or so in diameter. Seen clearly against a cloudy background, they can be hypnotic, forming in the viewer a moving mimicry of mind, a kind of Brownian emotion, in which images and thoughts and feelings combine and fly apart and recombine. Sometimes it even threatens to make sense.
It's a lot like looking into a fire.
Surprising order in random ordinary things has given me a lot of pleasure lately. Yesterday the lake shone like a dull glass plate. Today there's a fine roughness to it, like orange peel, and a moire overlay where wakes from unseen boats cross and mingle, making the mountains ripple and reappear in reflection. Besides this, there are peculiar thin lines or streaks, striations of stubbornly calm water running undisturbed the length of the lake. In the right light, it's like looking at thin sedimentary layers in a cut through a hillside. Only horizontal. Or like taut thick translucent ropes running just under the water.
I haven't the math to make sense of it. Or much else. I better get up and have breakfast, or I'll sit here pointlessly mesmerized until I turn into stone. No doubt some enterprising soul would erect a disrespectful sign and turn me into a tourist attraction, viewed for the pittance of a dollar a head. Maybe even a Canadian dollar. Can't have that.
Lot's wife was the salt of the earth, but she got no respect for it. Sold by the scruple, no doubt.
I guess I could explain how I came to have leisure for these speculations. My back got a hitch in it the day I left Georgetown, for no apparent reason, and I've been treating it in various ways. Heat and stretching help, and long walks. I've even tried grain alcohol, applied from the inside. But the sovereign cure seems to be simply time and rest. Last Wednesday, when I leaned over to get something off the floor, it was not clear how I would get back up. Now, after a week of reading and lolling about the cliff, I'm much better.
Still having trouble picking up where I left off, though. Retirement is a hell of a dangerous job. That's what I get for volunteering.
I've thought of testing out Bob's Amateur Back Repair by taking the kayak out in the morning. As my neighbor Benny from Oklahoma said, "What's the worst that could happen? You might have to lay over here another week?"
A palliative thought if there ever was one.
The camp host says they stocked the lake with Rainbows just a week before I showed up. That explains all the boats. Perhaps I should join them. During the winter I bought some sponsons to make the kayak stable for casting. I might be able to trade a backache for a couple of trout.
But darned if it doesn't sound like work.
Bob
Lake City, Col.
I do like to sit on the cliff in the morning.
On the one hand, midges like to hover there also, in towering columns of thousands. On the other hand, this is not Texas, where each of these insects would be a bloodsucking pest out to turn you into something from Night of the Living Dead. Insects in high Colorado are either mild mannered, or slow, and either way dealing with them doesn't involve trauma. A few squashed flies might disagree, but they are strangely silent.
Midges pay no more attention to me in the morning than if I were a rock. They will adulterate my coffee sometimes, which is annoying. Occasionally they will descend in a solid cloud around my head, but it's not personal. They have their own agenda, and pay me no mind. A few waves of the hand, and they'll happily move over a couple of feet.
They are attracted to an open wound, though, a fact I discovered on my first day here, when I cracked my head open on the header of the door frame in the trailer.
Thousands of black dots hover there randomly, moving forward and back in synchrony, forming a coherent cloud that varies constantly in density. There have been columns 8 feet tall and 3 or 4 feet through, and globular clusters up to 6 feet or so in diameter. Seen clearly against a cloudy background, they can be hypnotic, forming in the viewer a moving mimicry of mind, a kind of Brownian emotion, in which images and thoughts and feelings combine and fly apart and recombine. Sometimes it even threatens to make sense.
It's a lot like looking into a fire.
Surprising order in random ordinary things has given me a lot of pleasure lately. Yesterday the lake shone like a dull glass plate. Today there's a fine roughness to it, like orange peel, and a moire overlay where wakes from unseen boats cross and mingle, making the mountains ripple and reappear in reflection. Besides this, there are peculiar thin lines or streaks, striations of stubbornly calm water running undisturbed the length of the lake. In the right light, it's like looking at thin sedimentary layers in a cut through a hillside. Only horizontal. Or like taut thick translucent ropes running just under the water.
I haven't the math to make sense of it. Or much else. I better get up and have breakfast, or I'll sit here pointlessly mesmerized until I turn into stone. No doubt some enterprising soul would erect a disrespectful sign and turn me into a tourist attraction, viewed for the pittance of a dollar a head. Maybe even a Canadian dollar. Can't have that.
Lot's wife was the salt of the earth, but she got no respect for it. Sold by the scruple, no doubt.
I guess I could explain how I came to have leisure for these speculations. My back got a hitch in it the day I left Georgetown, for no apparent reason, and I've been treating it in various ways. Heat and stretching help, and long walks. I've even tried grain alcohol, applied from the inside. But the sovereign cure seems to be simply time and rest. Last Wednesday, when I leaned over to get something off the floor, it was not clear how I would get back up. Now, after a week of reading and lolling about the cliff, I'm much better.
Still having trouble picking up where I left off, though. Retirement is a hell of a dangerous job. That's what I get for volunteering.
I've thought of testing out Bob's Amateur Back Repair by taking the kayak out in the morning. As my neighbor Benny from Oklahoma said, "What's the worst that could happen? You might have to lay over here another week?"
A palliative thought if there ever was one.
The camp host says they stocked the lake with Rainbows just a week before I showed up. That explains all the boats. Perhaps I should join them. During the winter I bought some sponsons to make the kayak stable for casting. I might be able to trade a backache for a couple of trout.
But darned if it doesn't sound like work.
Bob
July 23, 2003
At Home On The Lake
7/23/03
Lake San Cristobal
Colorado
On those days when I am not sleeping in, I like to get up before anyone else. Between 5 and 6 am is a good time. Go on, move your butt. The other animals are already up, of course, and you can hear them unobtrusively getting about their breakfast. The chipmunks seem surprised, sometimes, to see me.
Coffee tastes better outside, sitting on the bluff. Cools off quickly, though.
It's quiet. The lake is glassy smooth beneath the intermittent mist, except for the occasional dimple and splash of gulping fish. The short stuttering cry of a waterbird is startlingly clear from across the lake, and there's squeaks and twitters from tiny swallows flittering about the cliffs. Around 6:30, geese begin their first circling touch-and-goes down on the marsh end of the lake, honking encouragement to each other. They are by far the noisiest animals here.
Besides us, that is. There is no comparison.
Around 7am a boat appears off to the right below, silently ambitious, trolling along, the small V of its passage half hidden by the fog.
Slowly, as the air continues to clear and brighten, you begin to hear a scattered chorus of hacking coughs and spitting around the campground, and a groan or three in the background, followed by the muffled bump and clatter of breakfast.
Not much talking, right at first.
But you know the day's begun in earnest when generators begin to serenade each other, and soon after there is, always, a diesel clatter somewhere.
What animals? What birds? There are none here. But there are plenty of people around, and they have their own sort of charm.
Don't they?
After a bit I went to breakfast at the Tick Tock Diner in town, and sat out on the back deck, where I was entertained by the sight of a young father being trained by his 17 month old daughter. He'd get one mouthful of pancake, then "Olivia! Come back here, honey. Don't pick that up. Olivia. Don't touch that." Then he was up, and chasing after her. Over and over and over. She was a charmer, leaning back calmly and waving up at anyone who came out of the back door. She was repeatedly fascinated by a couple of recumbent bicycles leaning against the railing. I was kind of fascinated myself. The Barcolounger of bicycles.
Mom was off hiking this morning with a friend. He was an off-road biker, and they were taking turns with Olivia, renting a condo at the foot of the lake. Olivia was in constant motion, and obviously more than a match for the pair of them. He didn't stand a chance alone. He was her personal climbing wall.
I said, "You've got quite a handful there."
He laughed, "Yeah. But she's worth it. Aren't you, Olivia?"
She smiled with her whole face and grabbed the forkful of food he was holding in front of her. Then she beamed over at me and waved with her other hand.
I don't doubt it for a minute.
I got rained out the second night I was here, but I've made a habit of having a campfire every night I can. I stopped at a woodlot in La Veda on the way up, and filled up every available space with wood, and I'm gradually working my way through it. Usually some temporary neighbor will come up and share it with me. One guy from Colorado Springs showed up with his wife and a cold 6 pack of home made Christmas Ale. Flavored with ginger and other stuff. Usually I don't care for it when people muck up beer with flavorings, but this stuff was good. Kind of a hot aftertaste. I broke out the wood and guacamole, they brought the chips and beer, and a good time was had by all.
Fell in with a professional photographer from Austin night before last, who wanted to put his tent temporarily on the bluff near my trailer, so he could take a picture against the lake and mountains. I told him he could spend the night there if he wanted. He was a campfire addict also, and his father a Captain of Texas Rangers. He had some stories. And to my surprise, so did I.
Last night I was alone, though with a campfire you are never quite alone. Somewhere into my second Turkey and coke, I realized why I'd rather watch a fire than TV. Campfires encourage a longer attention span. One measured in logs, rather than soundbites. You can dream long thoughts of your very own, down there in the flames.
And you can go pee off a cliff in the moonlight without missing a thing.
See you later. I need some more cliff time.
Bob
Lake San Cristobal
Colorado
On those days when I am not sleeping in, I like to get up before anyone else. Between 5 and 6 am is a good time. Go on, move your butt. The other animals are already up, of course, and you can hear them unobtrusively getting about their breakfast. The chipmunks seem surprised, sometimes, to see me.
Coffee tastes better outside, sitting on the bluff. Cools off quickly, though.
It's quiet. The lake is glassy smooth beneath the intermittent mist, except for the occasional dimple and splash of gulping fish. The short stuttering cry of a waterbird is startlingly clear from across the lake, and there's squeaks and twitters from tiny swallows flittering about the cliffs. Around 6:30, geese begin their first circling touch-and-goes down on the marsh end of the lake, honking encouragement to each other. They are by far the noisiest animals here.
Besides us, that is. There is no comparison.
Around 7am a boat appears off to the right below, silently ambitious, trolling along, the small V of its passage half hidden by the fog.
Slowly, as the air continues to clear and brighten, you begin to hear a scattered chorus of hacking coughs and spitting around the campground, and a groan or three in the background, followed by the muffled bump and clatter of breakfast.
Not much talking, right at first.
But you know the day's begun in earnest when generators begin to serenade each other, and soon after there is, always, a diesel clatter somewhere.
What animals? What birds? There are none here. But there are plenty of people around, and they have their own sort of charm.
Don't they?
After a bit I went to breakfast at the Tick Tock Diner in town, and sat out on the back deck, where I was entertained by the sight of a young father being trained by his 17 month old daughter. He'd get one mouthful of pancake, then "Olivia! Come back here, honey. Don't pick that up. Olivia. Don't touch that." Then he was up, and chasing after her. Over and over and over. She was a charmer, leaning back calmly and waving up at anyone who came out of the back door. She was repeatedly fascinated by a couple of recumbent bicycles leaning against the railing. I was kind of fascinated myself. The Barcolounger of bicycles.
Mom was off hiking this morning with a friend. He was an off-road biker, and they were taking turns with Olivia, renting a condo at the foot of the lake. Olivia was in constant motion, and obviously more than a match for the pair of them. He didn't stand a chance alone. He was her personal climbing wall.
I said, "You've got quite a handful there."
He laughed, "Yeah. But she's worth it. Aren't you, Olivia?"
She smiled with her whole face and grabbed the forkful of food he was holding in front of her. Then she beamed over at me and waved with her other hand.
I don't doubt it for a minute.
I got rained out the second night I was here, but I've made a habit of having a campfire every night I can. I stopped at a woodlot in La Veda on the way up, and filled up every available space with wood, and I'm gradually working my way through it. Usually some temporary neighbor will come up and share it with me. One guy from Colorado Springs showed up with his wife and a cold 6 pack of home made Christmas Ale. Flavored with ginger and other stuff. Usually I don't care for it when people muck up beer with flavorings, but this stuff was good. Kind of a hot aftertaste. I broke out the wood and guacamole, they brought the chips and beer, and a good time was had by all.
Fell in with a professional photographer from Austin night before last, who wanted to put his tent temporarily on the bluff near my trailer, so he could take a picture against the lake and mountains. I told him he could spend the night there if he wanted. He was a campfire addict also, and his father a Captain of Texas Rangers. He had some stories. And to my surprise, so did I.
Last night I was alone, though with a campfire you are never quite alone. Somewhere into my second Turkey and coke, I realized why I'd rather watch a fire than TV. Campfires encourage a longer attention span. One measured in logs, rather than soundbites. You can dream long thoughts of your very own, down there in the flames.
And you can go pee off a cliff in the moonlight without missing a thing.
See you later. I need some more cliff time.
Bob
July 22, 2003
Lake City
| |
No Verizon on the Horizon, so I guess these things will be coming in batches.
I'm at Lake City, Colorado. Or, more properly, at Lake San Cristobal, above the town. Last few days I've just been letting the abundant calm here soak into my bones. Taking long walks, and catching up on my reading.
| The Wupperman campground on the bluff above the lake is a treasure. Dry camping only, but there's a dump station and water and toilets nearby. Only 10 bucks a night. What a deal. The setting is so magnificent - mountains rising abruptly from the lake, and falling equally to clouds in perfect reflection - that any impulse to leave has to survive this question: " What could be better than this?" |  |
There is no easy answer.
You do have to be careful drinking your coffee of a morning. Midges like to drown themselves in your cup. There's even the occasional floating fly, working on a backstroke.
Excuse me a moment. I'm being swooped by hummingbirds.
They seem to have an inordinate interest in this cherry pie I'm having for breakfast. They are fierce little creatures, maybe 3 inches long, with wings of iridescent green and a slash of scarlet, sometimes violet, at the throat. They have an unnerving way of checking you out, floating -brrrrrrrrrrrt- a foot in front of your face. Makes you want to shield your eyes, which no doubt they could peck out in a nanosecond if they wanted.
Well. I have been Swooped, Examined, and Found Wanting.
Perhaps they are impatient for me to put out a feeder, like everyone else. Sorry, kids. Haven't bought one yet. I was told some camps were banning them, as they attract bears. It ain't honey, but it's close. Take them in at night, unless "in" is a tent.
My nose is bleeding, and it's less than 10,000 feet here. That's never happened before. But then I've never before been taking 75 mg of Plavix every evening, either. It seems strange to think so, but after two heart attacks I suppose there may come a day when I won't be able to travel this high. Dang.
Better bag some more fourteeners while I can, and store them up for later. Handies Peak is handy.
Yesterday I was sitting down in town, in the patio of EB's, a burger bar, when a thirtyish couple rolled up to the curb in front of me on their new Electra-glide. Very nice bike, and no more noise than a sewing machine. Less. It just hums.
They took the table next to me. Four seats: two for them, and two for their elaborate helmets. After a while, he said: "Man, these big RVs are everywhere. Everywhere. They're like giant Roaches. You can't get around 'em, and you can't get away."
She laughed, and held up one leg. "We're gonna need bigger boots."
I think they're metaphorically abusing the wrong insect. I used to be a caterpillar like them, running along from one green leaf to the next, fast as my hundreds of little feet would take me. Munch, munch, munch. But now I'm in chrysalis. And a comfortable stick-and-fiberglass cocoon it is.
If they're lucky, maybe they'll still be around when I emerge.
I can see it now. RVers everywhere, up and down the roads, abandoning their diesel pushers by the scenic wayside. Trailers split wide open, left behind like empty husks. Look. They rise, slowly, on the morning air, flapping and drying their great golden wings. Monarchs, for the moment, of all they survey.
Okay, okay. But it sure beats the Roach scenario.
I didn't say any of this. I was too busy thinking it. I probably did glare at 'em a bit, though. That'll show 'em.
You know, I used to be these guys. Same hotshot attitude, same need for speed, same ignorance, same arrogance, same everything. Still would be, I guess, if I could manage it. Dang.
Ain't life a funny thing?
Bob
July 18, 2003
Spanish Peaks, Colorado
7/18/03
Near Cuchara Pass
Colorful Colorado, USA
When my wonderful neighbor woke me up with his generator at 8 am sharp this morning, it was 40 degrees outside, 50 in the trailer. Allllll Riiiight .... One person reported it got down to 28 last week.
I'd stay here a while if it weren't so crowded. I'm good for a couple of days, anyhow. I think.
I came into Blue Lake campground last evening about 7pm, and took the last available site. Bear Lake, a little higher, was completely full of motorcyclists, toy ATVs, and other noisy stuff. I am not used to going to the trouble of getting high and still finding crowds, especially on a Thursday. I asked the park host if there were something special going on, or was I just too close to Trinidad? "O no, honey" she replied, "most of these folks are Texans."
I have met the enemy, Pogo, and he is us.
After I got situated last night, I raided the fridge for yogurt and fruit, and noticed the foil lid on the yogurt was grossly distended. Good lord, ruined already? Then I remembered I was at 10600 feet. There's a connection between altitude and air pressure, right? Duh.
As further proof, my new Aerobed mattress was hard as a rock. Another 500 feet, and I might have been sleeping on shredded plastic.
I ate the yogurt. It didn't smell any worse than usual. If you don't hear from me for a while, perhaps I am sitting with a distended belly and a funny look on my face, somewhere among the Spanish Peaks. Feel free to loose the hounds, but don't forget to attach that little flask of whisky to their collars.
While I'm feeling frisky, I might as well try out that bowtie pasta and meat sauce that's been hiding in the bottom of the fridge all week. One man's misadventure is another man's lunch.
Sometimes I amaze myself. Last night any place with 40 degree nights was coterminous with Heaven. This morning I'm already crabby about it - too crowded, too noisy. Danged Harps.
The people lined up in their deck chairs around Blue Lake seem contented - all 30 of them. Bear Lake is a little bigger, but it still looks like you ought to take a number, and no pushing, please.
If I were British, this queue in the wilderness might seem perfectly fine and normal. But I'm not. It's noon now, and only 65 degrees. Maybe I can lose this crowd if I go walking. Most of them don't look like they do much of that. Bye.
Bob
Later: Heck with this. I forgot about the 4 wheelers. I'm headed for Lake City. My only ISP nowadays is Verizon Wireless, and coverage is spotty up here. See you in a few days, maybe.
Near Cuchara Pass
Colorful Colorado, USA
When my wonderful neighbor woke me up with his generator at 8 am sharp this morning, it was 40 degrees outside, 50 in the trailer. Allllll Riiiight .... One person reported it got down to 28 last week.
I'd stay here a while if it weren't so crowded. I'm good for a couple of days, anyhow. I think.
I came into Blue Lake campground last evening about 7pm, and took the last available site. Bear Lake, a little higher, was completely full of motorcyclists, toy ATVs, and other noisy stuff. I am not used to going to the trouble of getting high and still finding crowds, especially on a Thursday. I asked the park host if there were something special going on, or was I just too close to Trinidad? "O no, honey" she replied, "most of these folks are Texans."
I have met the enemy, Pogo, and he is us.
After I got situated last night, I raided the fridge for yogurt and fruit, and noticed the foil lid on the yogurt was grossly distended. Good lord, ruined already? Then I remembered I was at 10600 feet. There's a connection between altitude and air pressure, right? Duh.
As further proof, my new Aerobed mattress was hard as a rock. Another 500 feet, and I might have been sleeping on shredded plastic.
I ate the yogurt. It didn't smell any worse than usual. If you don't hear from me for a while, perhaps I am sitting with a distended belly and a funny look on my face, somewhere among the Spanish Peaks. Feel free to loose the hounds, but don't forget to attach that little flask of whisky to their collars.
While I'm feeling frisky, I might as well try out that bowtie pasta and meat sauce that's been hiding in the bottom of the fridge all week. One man's misadventure is another man's lunch.
Sometimes I amaze myself. Last night any place with 40 degree nights was coterminous with Heaven. This morning I'm already crabby about it - too crowded, too noisy. Danged Harps.
The people lined up in their deck chairs around Blue Lake seem contented - all 30 of them. Bear Lake is a little bigger, but it still looks like you ought to take a number, and no pushing, please.
If I were British, this queue in the wilderness might seem perfectly fine and normal. But I'm not. It's noon now, and only 65 degrees. Maybe I can lose this crowd if I go walking. Most of them don't look like they do much of that. Bye.
Bob
Later: Heck with this. I forgot about the 4 wheelers. I'm headed for Lake City. My only ISP nowadays is Verizon Wireless, and coverage is spotty up here. See you in a few days, maybe.
July 17, 2003
Trying to get out of Texas
7/17/03
On Texas 385, near the Canadian River
I have good intentions. In fact, I have so many good intentions I will be happy to give you a few, if you are short. I'll never use 'em all.
For instance, I really meant to get an early start yesterday, and spend the night up in Raton Pass. But of course that didn't happen. Never does. There's always some last minute washing to do, tanks to dump, checks to cash, propane to buy, etc. Hey, I'm retired.
I lingered over some migas this morning, reading about Claudette. Seems like a hurricane with a name like that would head directly for Louisiana instead of going astray in south Texas. Around Georgetown there's nothing but wind and a few sprinkles.
It is cooler, though still soupy with humidity, and that's a good omen for this trip, which is not about being cool, exactly, which is sort of a stretch for me, but at least feeling cool. I'm gonna give high Colorado a chance, despite the torrid temps, even fires, that I see on the news, and then head north and west until I have to use the covers at night. Maybe Vancouver. Maybe Prudhoe Bay.
The COE camp at Lake Georgetown has an almost perfect dump station. There's a paved apron, a V slope toward the drain, a pair of long rinse hoses, and hardly ever anybody there. I've been using the macerator at home, and I noticed the tank hasn't been fully emptied by it. I think the suction of the pump is not as great as with the gravity dump from a 3 inch slinky. At least not great enough to carry all the solids along.
I determined on a little experiment. After the dump slowed to a drip, I removed the slinky and forced the rinse hose far up into the tank, running full blast. An amazing amount of stuff came out of that supposedly empty tank. Mostly clumps of paper. And my tank sensors are actually working now, for the first time in 2 years. How much of this accumulation was due to back pressure from the macerator, I dunno. But I think I've found a brand new semi-annual ritual to give meaning to my life.
O yeah. In case you were planning to visit, be assured I cleaned up after myself. The concrete apron made it easy. Don't try this on gravel, folks.
As I proceeded up 183 into West Texas, I could see there's been a lot of rain. Even way up into the Panhandle, the land was an unlikely pleasant green, and shallow brown lakes lapped up close to the road, where there should be only dusty fields. I hope Colorado got some of this.
I recommend XM and Sirius satellite radio. I've been this way many, many times, but seldom so pleasantly. The plains of the panhandle may be remarkably verdant right now, but this area is a stubbornly arid desert of the airwaves. Of course you could carry a bunch of CDs to while away the miles. I do. The advantage of playing CDs is that you know exactly what you are going to hear. That's also the disadvantage.
Doggone it. I pulled up in front of the Slayton Bakery, southwest of Lubbock, exactly 23 minutes too late. I'm very partial to their pies.
I needed gas in Littlefield, and turned into a convenience store, only to find the pump I picked was not being used by reason of being broken. Instead of driving around and waiting for another slot, I pushed right on up Hwy 385 in disgust.
Big Mistake. Right out of town, the fuel light came on. 21 miles to Springlake. Feeling an unexpected jolt of testosterone poisoning, I plunged ahead with reckless confidence. I rather liked placing myself squarely in the hands of Fate. Brash, romantic, devil-may-care. That's me.
Nothing open in Springlake. Nothing much closed, either. About 7 miles west, and inconveniently out of my way, is Earth. Supposedly. 22 miles straight on to Dimmit.
Hmmm.
I slowed to 55, which seemed like crawling, engaged overdrive, and turned on the speed control. I began to be passed by all the traffic I had blown by earlier, which is the North Texas equivalent of having your life pass before your eyes. For the first time ever, I saw the indicator actually touch the red line on E. Dimly, ten miles in the distance, the grain elevators of Dimmit rose up like a mirage.
What had seemed like a small adventure now began to take on the hue of Stupidity. I thought about jettisoning the trailer. I thought about heaving out loose objects. I thought about getting a life. I thought about a lot of things, and while I was thinking about them, I rolled right on into Dimmit.
Knew I could make it.
It was about 9:30 when I crossed the Canadian River. Over the bridge and up on the east side, just before Cal Farley's Boys Ranch, there was a picnic area. As the sun was going down, I pulled in there. It's a deep roomy place, with tables and pits and defined places to back a rig into. The drive is lined with whitewashed pilings. Nobody home. A couple of motorcycles came through while I was eating a sandwich, but they moved on, presumably in search of a motel.
I remember this place. The first time Jan and I took the boys to Colorado, we stopped here on the way back. Sean and Cory were about 6 and 12. They scampered into a dome tent as soon as I got it raised, barely ahead of the rain. Jan and I climbed up under the camper shell.
It gets right windy along the Canadian, sometimes, and that night was exceptional. It howled. The truck lifted and shook. Rain pounded sideways on the windows, and lightning flared in the sky. Somewhere in the middle of all that I remembered I hadn't tied down the tent. If the boys wanted to climb in with us, I'd have to get out there and collapse it. I dreaded having to do that. But it was okay as long as they were in it.
Came the bright sunny morning. Jan noticed right away the tent was gone. We found it fifty feet away. The boys were sound asleep in their bags, lumped up against the ceiling of the upside down tent. The dome shape was still perfectly intact. Apparently they had done a continuous slow sleepy roll and tumble during the night. They might have made it clean to the road if the fence hadn't caught 'em.
After my sandwich I rolled up a throw pillow, turned out the lights in the trailer, and went outside. I lay back on top of the picnic table and smoked a small cigar. The concrete was cool. It felt good against my back.
Boy, there's a million stars up there. Occluding swift black shapes flickered across them. Bats, I think, out foraging. I could hear trucks laboring up from the river. The park is about 100 yards deep, about the same distance from the road as my upstairs bedroom window was, when I was a boy. Sounds about the same. Somewhere in the distance there's a train.
I wish I knew more about the stars. Even something mundane. I can pick out the dippers, and the pole star. Occasionally I can even spy a small red spark that is arguably Mars. That's about it.
There's an intermittent meteor shower tonight. And I can see a satellite ticking across, off to the south. Remember Sputnik? What a sense of wonder that was, to know something man-made had entered that immensity. Still is.
It's 77 degrees. It's a lot drier here than back home, and with the fan on it feels almost cool. Been a long day. Eleven hours on the road. I've made good time. And had a good time, too.
Time now for a lullaby. One of the best, which popped in my head while I watched the sun go down, goes something like this:
Day is done.
Gone the sun.
From the hills,
from the lakes,
from the sky.
All is well.
Safely rest.
God is nigh.
Bob
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
On Texas 385, near the Canadian River
I have good intentions. In fact, I have so many good intentions I will be happy to give you a few, if you are short. I'll never use 'em all.
For instance, I really meant to get an early start yesterday, and spend the night up in Raton Pass. But of course that didn't happen. Never does. There's always some last minute washing to do, tanks to dump, checks to cash, propane to buy, etc. Hey, I'm retired.
I lingered over some migas this morning, reading about Claudette. Seems like a hurricane with a name like that would head directly for Louisiana instead of going astray in south Texas. Around Georgetown there's nothing but wind and a few sprinkles.
It is cooler, though still soupy with humidity, and that's a good omen for this trip, which is not about being cool, exactly, which is sort of a stretch for me, but at least feeling cool. I'm gonna give high Colorado a chance, despite the torrid temps, even fires, that I see on the news, and then head north and west until I have to use the covers at night. Maybe Vancouver. Maybe Prudhoe Bay.
The COE camp at Lake Georgetown has an almost perfect dump station. There's a paved apron, a V slope toward the drain, a pair of long rinse hoses, and hardly ever anybody there. I've been using the macerator at home, and I noticed the tank hasn't been fully emptied by it. I think the suction of the pump is not as great as with the gravity dump from a 3 inch slinky. At least not great enough to carry all the solids along.
I determined on a little experiment. After the dump slowed to a drip, I removed the slinky and forced the rinse hose far up into the tank, running full blast. An amazing amount of stuff came out of that supposedly empty tank. Mostly clumps of paper. And my tank sensors are actually working now, for the first time in 2 years. How much of this accumulation was due to back pressure from the macerator, I dunno. But I think I've found a brand new semi-annual ritual to give meaning to my life.
O yeah. In case you were planning to visit, be assured I cleaned up after myself. The concrete apron made it easy. Don't try this on gravel, folks.
As I proceeded up 183 into West Texas, I could see there's been a lot of rain. Even way up into the Panhandle, the land was an unlikely pleasant green, and shallow brown lakes lapped up close to the road, where there should be only dusty fields. I hope Colorado got some of this.
I recommend XM and Sirius satellite radio. I've been this way many, many times, but seldom so pleasantly. The plains of the panhandle may be remarkably verdant right now, but this area is a stubbornly arid desert of the airwaves. Of course you could carry a bunch of CDs to while away the miles. I do. The advantage of playing CDs is that you know exactly what you are going to hear. That's also the disadvantage.
Doggone it. I pulled up in front of the Slayton Bakery, southwest of Lubbock, exactly 23 minutes too late. I'm very partial to their pies.
I needed gas in Littlefield, and turned into a convenience store, only to find the pump I picked was not being used by reason of being broken. Instead of driving around and waiting for another slot, I pushed right on up Hwy 385 in disgust.
Big Mistake. Right out of town, the fuel light came on. 21 miles to Springlake. Feeling an unexpected jolt of testosterone poisoning, I plunged ahead with reckless confidence. I rather liked placing myself squarely in the hands of Fate. Brash, romantic, devil-may-care. That's me.
Nothing open in Springlake. Nothing much closed, either. About 7 miles west, and inconveniently out of my way, is Earth. Supposedly. 22 miles straight on to Dimmit.
Hmmm.
I slowed to 55, which seemed like crawling, engaged overdrive, and turned on the speed control. I began to be passed by all the traffic I had blown by earlier, which is the North Texas equivalent of having your life pass before your eyes. For the first time ever, I saw the indicator actually touch the red line on E. Dimly, ten miles in the distance, the grain elevators of Dimmit rose up like a mirage.
What had seemed like a small adventure now began to take on the hue of Stupidity. I thought about jettisoning the trailer. I thought about heaving out loose objects. I thought about getting a life. I thought about a lot of things, and while I was thinking about them, I rolled right on into Dimmit.
Knew I could make it.
It was about 9:30 when I crossed the Canadian River. Over the bridge and up on the east side, just before Cal Farley's Boys Ranch, there was a picnic area. As the sun was going down, I pulled in there. It's a deep roomy place, with tables and pits and defined places to back a rig into. The drive is lined with whitewashed pilings. Nobody home. A couple of motorcycles came through while I was eating a sandwich, but they moved on, presumably in search of a motel.
I remember this place. The first time Jan and I took the boys to Colorado, we stopped here on the way back. Sean and Cory were about 6 and 12. They scampered into a dome tent as soon as I got it raised, barely ahead of the rain. Jan and I climbed up under the camper shell.
It gets right windy along the Canadian, sometimes, and that night was exceptional. It howled. The truck lifted and shook. Rain pounded sideways on the windows, and lightning flared in the sky. Somewhere in the middle of all that I remembered I hadn't tied down the tent. If the boys wanted to climb in with us, I'd have to get out there and collapse it. I dreaded having to do that. But it was okay as long as they were in it.
Came the bright sunny morning. Jan noticed right away the tent was gone. We found it fifty feet away. The boys were sound asleep in their bags, lumped up against the ceiling of the upside down tent. The dome shape was still perfectly intact. Apparently they had done a continuous slow sleepy roll and tumble during the night. They might have made it clean to the road if the fence hadn't caught 'em.
After my sandwich I rolled up a throw pillow, turned out the lights in the trailer, and went outside. I lay back on top of the picnic table and smoked a small cigar. The concrete was cool. It felt good against my back.
Boy, there's a million stars up there. Occluding swift black shapes flickered across them. Bats, I think, out foraging. I could hear trucks laboring up from the river. The park is about 100 yards deep, about the same distance from the road as my upstairs bedroom window was, when I was a boy. Sounds about the same. Somewhere in the distance there's a train.
I wish I knew more about the stars. Even something mundane. I can pick out the dippers, and the pole star. Occasionally I can even spy a small red spark that is arguably Mars. That's about it.
There's an intermittent meteor shower tonight. And I can see a satellite ticking across, off to the south. Remember Sputnik? What a sense of wonder that was, to know something man-made had entered that immensity. Still is.
It's 77 degrees. It's a lot drier here than back home, and with the fan on it feels almost cool. Been a long day. Eleven hours on the road. I've made good time. And had a good time, too.
Time now for a lullaby. One of the best, which popped in my head while I watched the sun go down, goes something like this:
Day is done.
Gone the sun.
From the hills,
from the lakes,
from the sky.
All is well.
Safely rest.
God is nigh.
Bob
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
July 4, 2003
Second Wind
 |
The house was empty and for sale, but buyers were scarce. After sitting in the driveway for 6 months, I was getting bored. Hey, I was a gradual student once. Boredom I can take. But then the temperatures around Georgetown, Texas, started climbing. And climbing. When it reached 100 degrees, I took a long sweaty look at the wheels on this trailer. Still round. Still rolled. So what was I doing here?
I cut out for cooler climes.
I was the Tourist from Hell, or at least the Outskirts. Like in the Austin Lounge Lizards song: "I'm Number 667, the Neighbor of the Beast". I was taking a bead on salvation in the form of 70 degrees. I wasn't of a mind to compromise on cool. But other than that I was pretty open to Divine Guidance or the Advice of Friends, whichever came first.
Sometimes it's a little hard to tell the difference.
Bob
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