Rocky Mountain High

Pardon my lack of originality and the many references to musical titles and lyrics but what can I say? When the music shuffles to just the right song at the right moment on the road, it's pure inspiration and this John Denver classic was spot on to define a brilliant new chapter.

Today we'd explore Mesa Verde and hopefully find a place to camp, making up for yesterday's travesty. The ranger at this national park greeted me by complimenting my attire that matched my mount! The old chap then noticed my camping gear in back and actually warned that the price to pitch a tent here was too steep for even him but that I was more than welcome to check it out first. I appreciated his honesty and did see the grounds for myself. Some spots were really charming but I felt that the RV presence was too much and the sites too close for peace and quiet. No worries, though, the day was young! In the meantime, I had a "green table" to explore, home to some of the most preserved archaeological sites in North America!

The twisty road up this mesa was tricky but halfway up there was a lookout with a sign sporting pictures of the old roads up the mountain. Pictured was a Ford Model T slipping off the very path I was looking at.

The narrow dirt path that disappeared into the rocks was a little too hairy for an adventurous motorcycle photo opportunity so I kept Chance where he happily was.

That's Ute Mountain to the left and the valley below I believe is known as Montezuma.

At the top of the mountain was the visitor center and a sign pointing out where to find the famous cliff dwellings of the Anasazi people. Impulsively I took a sign that preceded many other signs that seemed to deter any traffic short of bold. This road is closed most of the year due to untraverseable conditions during anything but sunny, dry days. I would come to find it rather technical for a fully loaded motorcycle and even warranted a stop to look at the map the ranger provided. The adobe cliff village I was heading to was the most remote, among the smallest of the sites and didn't require a guided tour which pushed me further down the road. Chances are I'd have it all to myself!

A little hiking was required but it was a welcomed change of pace, especially for my rear.

Like Meteor Crater, I had read about the Pueblo people's ancestors and their unique homes when I was a kid. A connoisseur of forts (pillow, tree, snow and the like) then and still, I was naturally fascinated.

There were some petroglyphs that the ranger nearby refreshingly admitted not knowing anything about. One pet peeve of mine when it comes to the natural sciences are the scientists arrogant enough to make presumptions based on a so-called professional opinion. Until the facts are there in stone, I prefer the mysteries to simply just be - not pigeon-holed into one person's limited imagination.

Oh, to have happened upon this place first after centuries of abandonment. The Indy in me was having a field day out here! The original rocky staircase that the Anasazi used to enter and exit the dwelling was tempting to use on the way out but the ranger seemed to keep a close eye on it. Fair enough!

The ride back to the visitor center was much more enjoyable now that I knew the road better.

On the way down I stopped by a fire lookout post to take a gander at the valley we were heading back to. The roadside fire I saw yesterday was more than likely due to a cigarette butt, however I did hear of a slew of forest fires plaguing the southwest lately. Considering I had only one day of rain during my entire trip, it was no surprise, especially with the high winds. From my perch, not a single flame came into view and I was looking forward to camping in that wilderness.

In need of fuel for both Chance and myself, we stopped over at the town of Mancos. Cowboys from this town were the first westerners to discover the cliff dwellings, as a matter of fact. Initially lost, we found ourselves in the residential area and I must say, it was a wholesome all-American town. Everything about the traditional American dream seemed to be found in this quaint hobble. Even got a wave from a little girl on a bicycle with training wheels as I turned around with my bearings. I felt like I could write a whole slice of life book on this place.

Instead, Chance and I got what we came for: gas and grub. The restaurant I walked into was pretty empty but the waitress inside seemed busy - just not so busy that she couldn't stop to chat everytime she passed by. Before we knew it, the bubbly and curious lass named Adrien, also from San Francisco, exchanged life stories with me. For some reason she appeared rather entertained by what I thought was essentially a cliche "go find yourself" road trip. With a small crossroads of a town, surely she's heard every story. The other waitresses had looks on their faces and whispers betwen them that told me I wasn't Adrien's usual customer. Before long she shared my table and a story about how she once followed a band around the States. It reminded me of the one I met in Vegas that I thought would have been worth a story to follow as well.

She seemed torn with staying and heading off to pick up her son but I made it easy by reminding her I had a two-wheeled lady waiting for me outside. When I mentioned looking for a place to camp, Adrien seemed to catch herself from inviting me home and rattled off some national forests nearby. I nearly forgot what John from Cedar City mentioned about dispersed camping anywhere in national forests. The sweetly enamored waitress made sure not to let me walk out without mentioning a bakery in town that she'd hope to see me at in the morning. As flattered as I was, I'm afraid these buns were spoken for and with that, I parked them in their rightful saddle.

I would spend the rest of the day scouring the countryside for access roads into the adjacent San Juan National Forest. If I had to name an antagonist in this story it would always be the setting sun. After riding miles out of the city of Durango only to find an established fee-infested campground, I just about gave up. On my way back to the city I took a purely random right turn off the highway that initially winded through a rural neighborhood. Soon, however, the road climbed and climbed higher and suddenly the pavement turned to a rough dirt road! This was promising!

A half dozen slippery slopes later and a little turnout off the side of the rocky road invited us for a little breather. There, I noticed a large pile of rocks a small sign saying to keep motored vehicles on the road. Curious as to what the makeshift barrier was blocking, my eyes traced a faint trail into the woods. My friends, at the end of this trail was home for the night.

About fifty paces in was a small clearing just a ways before a cliffside. It had a great view of the sky and the forest separated the spot well enough from the dirt road to enjoy some solitude. I set up my beloved, classic A-frame tent with a view of Chance's chrome through the trees. Once my presence was established, I hit the road, albeit much more slowly as I had to avoid sliding downhill and off the cliffside. Racing the sun, as was the routine, I rode out to the nearest store to get supplies. Initially I stuck to dry goods as not to tempt any wildlife but a campfire isn't a campfire without roasting a dog or two thus the decision to take on an additional piece of luggage was made at the last minute at the register. I invested in a collapsible cooler to house my hot dogs.

We got back to my camp to find it untouched as it was no surprise since the only company I had seen was a truck coming up the hill on my way down. Then the peace was shattered. Explosions rang throughout the forest and echoed off the cliff walls against the mountain adjacent to mine. Apparently that truck parked just up the road and some locals were using another clearing to set off fireworks. I did my best to ignore the booms as I made myself at home but I did notice a blackened patch of exploded earth next to where I left Chance.

Welcome to camp, buddy. I'd rather pay a hefty fine than leave my only friend on the road to the mercy of those pyromaniacs out there. The motorcycle cover I had been using managed to resemble a tent. I also covered the tracks incase a passing ranger felt like snooping. It was highly unlikely that anyone would be coming around due to the remoteness of the area, though.

Once everything was secure in my tent I went ahead and built the fire. That is truly satisfying. Especially since I used firewood stolen from the pyro's camp. The explosions ended a while ago and the truck left. I assumed they weren't staying for the night. Now I was truly alone in the wild.

That night I whittled a mighty fine scewer, cooked my dogs, watched the night sky light up with countless shooting stars, humored my wild imagination with my hand constantly on butt my knife, listened to the wind in the trees, put out the fire then climbed into my sleeping bag to sleep like a log. This was the good life.

I vowed to sleep in today, taking advantage of not having to worry about a check out time for once. I escaped the usual cold of the morning by fulfilling my personal oath. My tent was pleasantly toasty so I was in no rush to climb out. When it finally got too warm, I simply rolled down the window layers and enjoyed the breeze in my cozy fort.

There wasn't a mirror for me to witness it but I'm sure I had that proud, morning after look usually sported after a satisfying night of sex. Losing my solo camping virginity was very gratifying.

The best moment in camping has to be that morning after when you get that crystal clear picture of where you hastily set up camp the night before. It must always be surprising, if not pleasantly. As I took in the scenery and fresh air, I recalled that at some point in the night someone did temporarily park on the roadside. I heard their conversation which was at first excited to find a great site only to stumble across my tent. The woman's disappointed returned to excitement when she declared that the owner of the spot was sleeping in a teepee! The husband, I remembered vividly, shushed her saying it wasn't a teepee but "one of those cool old school tents." I may have smirked in my half asleep state. Looking at my tent now I could see how she must have thought it to be a little teepee.

Chance seemed well and grateful to have stayed near me overnight. I wasn't in any rush to saddle up anytime soon so after a breakfast of jerky and trail mix, I opted to explore the nearby area.

I don't know why but the area felt nostalgic, as if I were on the set of Little House on the Prairie or anything filmed outside in the 60s and 70s for some reason or another. Old horse dung were scattered around leaving me to believe the usual campers were probably locals on horseback. There were many dried old branches scattered across the hillside so it was good that I kept my fire small. Returning to camp from the bush, I was in a cowboy mood and thought I'd take advantage of the solitude to test to see whether the Doc, aka MD, aka Manifest Destiny was still I working order.

I placed an empty sweet tea bottle on a stump, thinking it's accuracy somehow improved after weeks without shooting. The British relic was made to fire a rather heavier bullet, first to gain the moniker of manstopper which had since been outlawed by terms in the Geneva Convention. These days, it can fire the same caliber but a lighter weighted cartridge so accuracy would fall short. Nevertheless, I was satisfied if it still managed to fire.

My ringing ears answered that question. It only occurred to me then that the last time I shot her I had ear plugs in. The blast, though lacking any reverberation in the footage, actually managed to echo considerably louder and longer than the fireworks from last night. The bottle still stood, which was no surprise considering my amateur marksmanship with a close-quarters weapon, but alas, Manifest Destiny was still able to deliver.

Suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, I moved Chance back to the roadside and absolved myself of any other unlawful deeds.

Packing up was done leisurely. Eventually it just took a lot of time to get everything back in their respective bags and secured to my mount. Next time, I thought, for all the effort, camping ought to be a two-night minimum. I could have stayed another spell this time but I wanted to be further along in my travels.

With the sun high over head, casting virtually no shadows to anything standing, we were ready to hit the dusty old trail again. Somehow I even managed to fit the newcomer, the small cooler, into the methodical madness that is my luggage. Before dousing the fire pit, I verbally expressed my gratitude to my surroundings for providing me a peaceful sanctuary for the night. With that, I took one more swig of the water jug and poured the rest into the smoldering ashes and coals and Chance and I disappeared with the smoke.

Back in the valley floor, I swung by a place off the road called the Appalosa Trading Post, thinking it was another Native business. I thought I'd reconcile for my past transgressions by purchasing one of their hand-made, non-factory manufactured goods. My hopes were set on poncho like Clint Eastwood's.

To my disappointment, it wasn't Indian-owned nor did they carry ponchos but the owner offered a warm greeting and the joint was still a wonderland of fine leatherworking that I would have loved to outfit myself and the steed with. Interwoven between the rugged displays of saddles, bullwhips, and Stetson hats were mint movie posters from classic Westerns like Tombstone and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It was heaven. I even found the very same high quality Italian cap guns I used to okay with!

Coming away empty handed, I felt, wouldn't honor my admiration for the shop so I fetched a post card for the misses. The owner, a kind woman, wished me a Merry Christmas and let me have it on the house. On the way out was a sign with two cartoon pioneers greeting one another and captioned, "You meet friendly people in the mountains!" Ain't that the truth.

Back outside in the makeshift parking lot I had a view of where where I had just spent the night. I'm a bonafide mountain man now, I reckon!

Today's ride would end up being the most enjoyable thus far. Perhaps it was because it was the first time in a month and a half that the land on either side of the road wasn't desert but lush mountains. I still have an affinity with the arid geography but this was unimaginably refreshing. The sun was still shining, breeze crisp, and scenery inspiring. That's when the song, Rocky Mountain High kicked in and all was bliss.

My brother and I used to make fun of the song as well as many others during those cheesy Time Life Music commercials that interrupted our Nickelodeon cartoons. Little did I know I'd be loading the very same album on my iPad nearly twenty years later. At the risk of sounding like an angsty teen insisting a song was written just for him, I'm going to quote parts of this oldie that just seemed to fit the moment.

He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Comin' home to a place he'd never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again
You might say he found a key for every door

Now he walks in quiet solitude the forest and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake


Now his life is full of wonder but his heart still knows some fear
Of a simple thing he cannot comprehend
Why they try to tear the mountains down to bring in a couple more
More people, more scars upon the land

It's Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
Friends around the campfire and everybody's high
Rocky mountain high

Besides the obvious references relatable to my own journey thus far, I later read that one stanza even referred to the musician's lament of the destruction of tourism on the land and also one line about a friend who visited from Minnesota and crashed and died on Denver's motorcycle. Now I won't say this is the trip's theme song but I will be careful about letting Mike take Chance out for a spin anytime soon.

We passed several ranches and properties for sale. My mind played with the idea of inheriting one. No, not buying - inheriting. I used to half joke that that's what I would do for a living when I was younger. My plan was to visit retirement homes, genuinely befriend the residents and I'd hear those magic words, "Bonne, I like you. I'd like you to have my seaplane." This time my thoughts imagined running into a old fellow about to sell his ranch to the bank because his kids are too busy with the city life. But then I pull over to fix a flat, he offers to help, we hit it off and on a whim he'd say, "Son, how would you like take over my farm?" Yeah... that's exactly how it would go.


Eventually, the mountains stopped flanking us and we were riding up one! I didn't remember seeing any squiggles on the map but there were were, mountaineering.

 

I didn't see any elevation markers but this newfound cold told me it was at least 10,000 feet above sea level! This was a sensation that I hadn't felt since the winter back in the Pacific Northwest! Apparently this was why:

We were on the spine of the western hemisphere, itself! Everything east of here would be downhill until the Appalachian mountain chain near the East Coast. If only I could kick the bike into neutral and not spend a drop of gas here on! All water falling to the left of the bronze line flowed to the Pacific Ocean while the right, to the Gulf of Mexico. I confess, I hiked a ways off the road not only to touch the first snow I had seen but also take a leak. I wonder where my piss will end up - west or southeast?

I noticed a trail while out there. When I got back to Chance I read about it. Sounded mighty tempting but it would have to wait for another adventure.

Apparently I wasn't the only one feeling the cold and suiting up. Retired, they said they were in no rush to get back home to Michigan. They asked me where I was heading and admitted not knowing but that I, too, was not in any rush. As I got my chaps on and switched out my Ryan Gosling gloves for less sexy but more warmer ones, a psychedelicly-painted van slowly putted up the hill. Hoots could be heard from it and upon closer look, it was full of hippies! For the first time in my life I didn't think ill of them, even going so far as to cheer them on. Suddenly, I wanted to follow them! Regrettably, I could not get geared up quickly enough. Oh well - my next adventure will find me.

The camera battery died there. For the most part, the rest of the day was uneventful, albeit the road and scenery ever entertaining. The first town happened upon was Monte Vista but there were nary a place to stay. Carrying on, we weary travelers reached Alamosa and tried our luck at the first inn at the outskirts. The office smelled of curry so this was a good sign as the Indian-run lodgings, I had found, were the cheapest. The woman quoted me a price that surprised me for a Monday and I humbly bowed out. Nevertheless she demanded I try her. Not much of a haggler out of respect, I insisted that I'd carry on but she managed to sell me a room at nearly half the rate. So there I laid my head.

When I came to the next day, I felt like a million bucks though I was truly near broke. On the television was a favorite film, O Brother Where Art Thou. As I packed, singing along to the songs, I had a eureka moment and found myself ideas about where I'd like to go and what I'll do to get there and back before setting my sights for home. Excited, I started a list...

The sky seemed bluer today. Right outside of town was a national park known for it's tallest sand dunes in North America. Holding the Oregon Dunes as a very special place, I rode out with a bit of a bias. But when I reached the ranger station to get my pass, Chance received a compliment then was reminded to stay in the parking lot to look pretty. No motorized vehicles allowed! The vast dunes were only to be enjoyed by your own two feet which the dunes on the west coast unfortunately lacked! One could truly emerse themselves here...

After walking through the Secret Garden-esque tunnel of trees, the giant sandbox emerged. Like a moat surrounding a castle, a small creek filled with wading toddlers amidst soggy sandcastles isolated the dunes from the rest of the world. I carefully crossed the wet threshold, careful not to get any water in my left boot whose sole was dangling.

These sands were beautiful.

The serenity was unrivaled. I could just watch the shadows of clouds roll across the dunes all day.

Even with the breeze, though, the heat emitting from the sun and climbing the hills took a lot out of me! I wanted to use the tall bottle of water I picked up from the general store on my head and feet but I had drank half just getting out here!

As mesmerizing as the seemingly infinite grains of sands were, the sky seemed to hold my attention all day.

I was satisfied. Back at the lot I practiced an old tradition that I started after fording a river in Australia in my Frye boots. Though nowhere near as durable, these boots had faired me well so far.

With rarely another vehicle to share the road before me, I comfortably enjoyed quite a bit of sky gazing to pass the time. The sky definitely seemed different in Colorado. When I used to travel around the world in my younger days the sky was always the first thing I'd note about each new destination. Something about them always seemed subtly distinct.

With visibility being more than ten miles and the valley floor being relatively flat as well as my background scenery barely moving as we put miles behind us, I could see the skies changing in the direction I was headed. For once, they actually looked like a rain clouds!

We crossed a definite line of sunshine to ominous cloud cover and climbed in elevation to the summit of the pass. There I geared up for what may be a rain ride ahead.

The overcast set next to the pine trees painted a picture reminiscent of home. The only thing missing was the rain. The texture of the clouds, though, reminded me of what I saw on the salt flats last month. Was a thunderstorm brewing?

I think not. While barreling down hill into the next valley, there peaked some blue sky under the dissipating greys. The long ride came to an end in a huge city called Colorado Springs and now the skies were ablaze with a lovely sunset which, for once, I welcomed.