New Mexico: An unexpected pleasure

I really hadn't thought out New Mexico as a destination and was just playing it by ear, listening to suggestions, although the UFO Museum in Roswell had been on the radar screen from the beginning.
I found some other amazing compelling places and faces there with the whole state truly an unexpected pleasure.
You'll read all about that below, but know that if I was making a list of where to move if I had my druthers, New Mexico would at least be in the top five states for a variety or reasons.
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I drove this route to take this picture. Just had to..

NEW MEXICAN JUMPING BEAN!

Southern New Mexico seems quite agreeable, easy going and, with a southwestern flare, charming.
Wonderful weather is the norm out here in the high desert. All seasons, I’m told, the temperature is consistently between 70-95 degrees during the day (a dry comfortable heat; zero humidity in my short six-day stay) and it may cool down to the 50s after dark. According to locals, it hardly ever rains, and it never snows. There is so little precipitation out here that if folks see rain clouds on the horizon, they say it “looks promising.” The air is clean, crystal clear, and there are no bugs!

The everyday, every roadway, scenes in New Mexico were outstanding.

It is routine to roll pass magnificent mountains 10,000 feet tall and above (The many medium-sized small peaks are all around 7-8,000 feet, although it is relevant to note that the elevation up here runs near or over a mile above sea level). The scenery is so consistently awesome that I stopped taking pictures of it (if I
didn’t, that’s all I’d be doing and, you may not believe it but, I’ve got a schedule to keep). The mountains, the canyons, the desert and the clear blue skies melt together to make travel hereabouts a visual delight.
It seems cheap, even to tourists such as myself. Everything appears priced below market except, of course, a gallon of gas or, say, vodka on the rocks in a restaurant, both of which bear big-city price tags. According to one overly chatty resident in Carlsbad, a small town that passes for a big city here, you can rent a nice three-bedroom house on the “bad” side of town for $300 a month or an opulent one-bedroom apartment over on the “good” side for around $250. Of course, a paycheck here is not up to big-city standards, so there are trade-offs in the affordability department.
In these old cow towns and railroad crossings, rejuvenated of late by sightseer’s dollars, I‘ve discovered people to be direct in speech, yet friendly and talkative. The southern part of the state seems like a come-as-you-are locale, and since come-as-you-are is the best I can presently (and usually) muster, it is quite relaxed and comfy.
That said, southern New Mexico, at least for tourists, seems a curious mishmash of the Old West and the New Frontier of space exploration. I visited a half-dozen intended sites, along with a couple of quick stopovers, in the southern part of the state, some well known, others just for a hoot. I will attempt to encapsulate my observations and/or opinions on those spots already experienced below.
Here goes:

In the Hall of Giants at Calsbad Carverns.

To the Batpoles, Robin …

About 250 million years ago, the Chihuahuan Desert sat under the Permian Sea. The Carlsbad Caverns, on the northern edge of the desert, were formed when that sea receded, but this 400-mile reef in southeastern New Mexico remained, buried under salt and gypsum. Just a few million years ago, erosion slowly began to expose the reef, then corrosive substances, from above and below, combined to carve out the Caverns.
Archeologists say that Indians had visited the mouth of the caves many times through the centuries, but sensing evil spirits below, they never ventured inside. Later, settlers mined the bat guano or droppings available near the entrance. (Eeeeeeew! you say, but bat guano, the most nutritious, and also odorless, fertilizer still known to man, was so valuable along the frontier that, in the mid-1800s, the U.S. government passed laws to protect those mining caves for it, along with their claims, as if they were panning for Yukon gold.)

One of the many pools in the carverns.

It took an intrepid ranch-hand, Jim White, in the 1880s to bring the caves to international renown. White had seen what he thought was smoke arising from the caves and became curious. The smoke was, in reality, a cloud of millions of bats rising up out of the caves to begin their nightly hunt for insects. Strangely struck smitten with the caves, White’s spelunking adventures began a journey that led to the Caverns to being named a National Park in 1930.
Now 46,766 acres large, the Caverns have recently been designated a World Heritage Site, alongside many other American gems such as the Grand Canyon, Independence Hall in Philadelphia, the volcanoes in Hawaii and the Great Smoky Mountains – all to be protected in perpetuity for the planet’s future generations.
Personally, I felt a bit under-whelmed in part by the caves. Perhaps it was due to the advertising pamphlet I picked up upon arrival in Carlsbad that over-hyped the “Big Room” down under as being the size of three-or-so Astrodomes. It had me expecting a immense open cave with a high ceiling, but that space below, while large and surprisingly airy, encompassed all the corridors and a variety of different-sized connected “rooms.”

Well-marked exhibits here.

That considered, it was, all-in-all, a stunning journey beginning with the swift walking descent down some paved but twisting ramps to 750 feet under the earth’s surface. Once far underground, you walk along paved but steep and narrow passages that open into large rooms containing famous features with monikers such as “Bottomless Pit, Hall of the Giants, Rock of Ages, Painted Grotto and the Boneyard.” Temperature-wise, it is consistently in the mid-50s, comfortable -- but you may want a pullover or a sweater.
Although there is always enough light to find your way, the caves are intermittently lit, with many of the top features high-lighted. The Park Service hired a Broadway lighting engineer to expose these aspects but, truth-be-told, I feel he missed a few spots. A flash camera allows for many great photos, and I took hundreds – great shapes, large and small -- with names like stalactites, soda straws, draperies and popcorn among others, accented by amazing colors and auras (due, no doubt, to the camera flash).
For years, a mining bucket lowered tourists down into the cave. Nowadays, a swift elevator lifts visitors back to the surface. After three hours of exploring the caves and snapping pictures, a park ranger had to chase me onto the lift, the last straggler down below that day. I truly enjoyed my extended visit, but I still wish I hadn’t read that damn pamphlet …

In front of the worldwide sightings interactive bulletin board at Roswell.

Earth to Roswell … Over?

Click HERE for slideshow

After viewing the Marfa Mystery Lights, it was only right and proper I continue north a few days later to the Mecca of the Moonbats.
After a short spell of driving through the many cattle ranches north of Carlsbad and passing many signs heralding local establishments such as the Crashsite Café and Out Of This World Tattoos, I pulled over directly across from an old theater situated along the main thoroughfare in Roswell, New Mexico.
Looking over and up at the marquee and the vertical sign above it, decorated with flying saucers and reading “UFO Museum and Research Center,” I thought, how appropriate that this joint should be housed in an 1950-60s era celluloid fantasy factory.
Once inside, however, I found that these folks take this UFO business very seriously indeed.
After meeting the true believers at the welcome desk, I proceeded to the main open room the size of … well, an old theater, where I found a variety of exhibits, which included framed newspapers front pages -- from the small-town Roswell Daily Record, of course, up to the conveniently now-defunct Los Angeles Herald-Examiner and Chicago Daily News – detailing the events surrounding the early July 1947 “crash.” Also there were displays of documents demonstrating the government cover-up of the event. Some of these documents were copies; others were “recreated.” Written first-person accounts and photos accompanied many of these papers.
Also on exhibit, among other items, were a timeline of the incident and cover-up, models and written “eyewitness” descriptions of the space visitors, photos of the “saucer” debris, magazine covers and stories down through the years about the event, a crop circles photos and discussion area, letters detailing first-person accounts of alien abduction, photos taken of alien crafts in flight, an historical prospectus of cave drawings detailing pre-historic UFO visits, a section of some hilarious cartoons lampooning the crash and another detailing the movies and TV shows about the incident and Roswell itself, along with a full-scale reproduction of the medical examination of an alien. And, yes, the Marfa Mystery Lights phenomenon has its own special corner.
Two things dominate the big room: at one end is huge painted interpretation of the crash by Miller Johnson; at the other a monstrous relief map of the globe, fronted by a counter topped with buttons you can push which light up areas of reported UFO sightings and alien abductions (see above). Floating above this is a recreation of a flying saucer with rotating flashing lights.
Supporters and skeptics mix it up alongside the many exhibits. I overheard two high-school age girls going at it:
“It looks like a squid.”
“That’s not a squid."
“Aww, a squid lives underwater”
That discussion begged the question: Which is more unlikely: A squid out of water or a man from Mars?
As if …
When I was leaving, one of the believers at the counter asked me, as they request of every patron, to take a pushpin and place it upon my hometown on a nearby U.S. wall map that sat next to a world map. He said they pull these pins out at the end of every month, and since it was the first day of May, I took notice of just how many of the pins were already on the map, and of how far-flung all over the globe these places were located from which just today’s visitors had journeyed.
Yes, indeed, these folks take this UFO business very, very seriously.
And I'm being serious when I say that when you look up at so many millions of stars, many of which may have planets orbiting them, you have to wonder, Are we really alone? Look up in the night sky, there are millions - no, make that billions - of possibilities that we are not.
For me, no Little Green Men seen in Roswell, but - truthfully - isn’t it the thought that counts?

A view of the truck and trailer from atop a "Torreon", a fortress used first against  the
Apaches and later as a snipers' nest during the Linclon County Wars (see below).

Got to be Kidding me!

After the museum, it was back to the road up through the foothills northwest of Roswell. I passed some more cattle ranches, but also some fertile fields and lots of trees.

Much of this road has been designated “The Billy the Kid Scenic Byway,” which was appropriate as my next destination was Lincoln County, New Mexico, the site of the famous late-1870s “Lincoln Co. War,” a battle between cattle barons and wealthy townsfolk of which “The Kid” was a pivotal participant.The “Five Day Battle” began over some horse-thievery, featured a five-mile running gun fight and ended the lives of many a hired gunman.

Three years later, after a spectacular jailbreak and murder of two guards, “The Kid,” was shot dead in Fort Sumner, N.M. by Sheriff Pat Garrett following a prolonged manhunt.

I was tipped to Lincoln by a Key West buddy, who had visited these parts about a decade or so ago - back when New Mexico probably cared. He said this town had been left untouched since its Wild West days, save for a museum and some historical markers. I found it to be left untouched all right, but now it’s also downright neglected – a real sorry state of affairs.

I should have known after I stopped at a roadside exhibit that had been advertised by signs along the route. It was bare, its display boards stripped, with trash strewn about.
The town was deserted, and although I found several areas worth photographing, many of the more modern buildings about had For Sale signs fronting them. Depressing.
This town has been designated a state monument and, that said, New Mexico has a lot to answer for.


Closed when I arrived.



Like it or not, famous outlaw Billy the Kid’s nickname, like The Babe's or Bogart's, has been a part of the American lexicon, in “The Kid’s” case, for over a century. If a state is going to use that name and folklore to promote its areas, it ought to take care of said advertised area.

A real shame! 'Nuff said.
Later, traveling west, I may have found the root of the problem. The many roadside signs advertising “Tribal Homeland of the Mescalero Apaches” should have read “Home of the Tribal Casinos.” I counted three such joints is just about 10 miles as I crossed through a small chunk of a very large reservation. Perhaps the state is putting all their dough into promoting the casinos instead of its cowboy past. Sure seems that way.
As for me, I liked the TV show “The Rifleman’ as a kid, but to tell you the truth, I always thought that “F-Troop” looked like more fun.

Small section of space vehicles displayed outside New Mexico Museum of Space History.

Space ghosts – coast to coast

Next I journeyed to Alamogordo, New Mexico, the home of the New Mexico Museum of Space History.
When the Air Force got into the outer space business in the 1950s, after searching for a home base, they found southwestern New Mexico to be made to order for its experiments: a sparse population, very high elevations, a southern latitude and predictable weather patterns. And so, facilitated by some captured Nazi scientists, American rocketry was born.

Lots of fun exhibits here.

The hillside museum is surrounded by many full-scale representations of space and rockets, et al, and makes for some fine photographs. Inside it chock full of interesting NASA exhibits, telling the space tale from the get-go, as well as some interactive displays. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t become an astronaut as I crashed the Space Shuttle twice while interactively trying to land it, making quite a bit of noise.
There also was a scale demonstrating your lessened weight, due to lower gravity, on the Moon or Mars. I won’t tell you what my weight was on other planets but, suffice to say, if my doctor was beside me when it registered, the first thing out of her mouth would have been, “How soon can you pack?,” quickly followed by “When’s the next launch?”

In Mercury Program capsule
 outside museum.

Jumping ahead but keeping with the space theme, a few days later, twice on the road to Arizona, once going north on Highway 25 and later heading west on Highway 60, I passed two barren plains, distinctive only for the reason that both were fronted by signs claiming each to be the “Future Home of New Mexico’s Spaceport.”
These signs were separated by hours of driving time, and so, if both are correct, that’s going to be one hell of a place to loop around while waiting for your party to land on their flight back from, oh … say … the moons around Jupiter.
A spaceport! I know I’m dating myself, but it sounds like something right out of a Tom Swift book. I just hope I live to see it.

Red Sox Nation, Part II

At a comfortable RV Park in Alamogordo, I met Allan and Pauline, a wonderfully welcoming retired couple. He was in textiles, she the office manager for some lucky CPAs. Originally from Britain, but then longtime Long Island residents, they decided to rent out their Florida retirement haven and now are just slowly touring the country in their RV for, as Pauline says, “As long as it takes, wherever it takes us.”
One of the evenings I was there, the Red Sox were supposed to be playing the Yankees on ESPN. The game was rained out, but that didn’t stop us from talking a little baseball. Allan said he was mystified at first by the sport, being from Britain and all, but after the rules were explained to him, he visited Yankee Stadium many times, and even Shea a couple of times. Though his heart is with the Yankees, being from Long Island and all, he always liked Carl Yastrzemski, going so far as to demonstrate the Hall of Famer’s peculiar batting style.
As the baseball talk was winding down, Allan turns to me and says, with a British accent, but American syntax, “Did you ever think that you’d be sitting in New Mexico … talking to a British guy … about Yaz?

Really dry at White Sands, the search for water paramount among the flora and fauna here.

Let it sand, let it sand, let it sand...

These are campsites here!

Also in the Alamogordo area is the White Sands National Monument. And just as advertised, it’s a heck of a lot of white sand. Surrounded completly by the White Sands Missile Range, it is 275 square-mile basin of white sand, formed when that pesky Permian Sea receded and left behind this fine gypsum powder. Since no river drains this basin, it still stands today.
Ringed by the San Andreas and Sacramento mountain ranges, this area makes for some fine photos.
The Dune Life Nature Trail had been suggested to me by the park ranger, so I walked it. It was only about a mile over the dunes. Throughout the printed guide it talked about the shifting sands swallowing things wholesale, and I found this to be true along this trail: a lot of the wooden markers were denoting … I don’t know, something gobbled up by the sand, I guess.

Not so stealthy.

As I cruised around the park, I was struck by its resemblance to ski country in northern New England after a deep snowfall. Got to give the Park Service credit though. They had just over a half-million visitors here last year.
Also of note, as I was in the park, I watched four stealth bombers take off from nearby Holloman AFB. They were heading northeast and I recognized the telltale roars and shapes from several flyovers at a couple of Indy 500s I attended in past years with the Captain.
In closing this item, in my never-ending quest to address someone – anyone – around here without them shooting back a sideways glance and asking “Where you from?,” the ranger at the Visitor Center thought my accent was Australian. I’m out there all right, but not that far!

A dish, one of many here, shown at main building at National Radio Astronomy Observatory.

Over the hills & very far away

Cruising along Highway 60 heading west, one begins to see huge satellite dishes along the north side of the highway -- way too many of them for it to be a coincidence.
Finally a roadside sign told the tale, this was the site of a National Radio Astronomy Observatory or Very Large Array Radio Telescope.
Featured in Hollywood movies like Jodie Foster's "Contact", these satellite dishes are spread over a 27-mile area and have made more scientific discoveries in outer space than any other such ground-based instrument in history. Some of these dishes are in fixed positions while others in outlying areas are on railroad tracks so they can be moved about as calculations change.
As I approached and then got underneath one of the monsterous dishes on the walking tour of the facility, I couldn’t help thinking that, with a little tinkering, I could get all the pay-per-view channels with this baby.
Driving down the access road to the VLA area, I had been surprised by a pack of antelopes charging across the plains toward the truck. Some crossed the road just in front of the truck, the others veering off behind it. It was so startling, I was late with the camera.
At first, I thought they were whitetail deer, same size and color, but the aggressive manner of the pack, the way they leapt over the berm at the side of the road and their oddly shaped horns told me otherwise.
Once more demonstrating my lack of accrued knowledge, I had no idea that there are North American antelope as well as African, but a fellow working at the VLA Visitors Center set me straight, adding “There’s so many of 'em around here, they got a season for ‘em. But, most folks hunt ‘em for their racks, ‘cuz they ain’t much in the eating department.”

Rolling uphill into the high desert toward Arizona, I first crossed The Contiental Divide.

School kids & Samaritans

After leaving The VLA area, I cruised west through the Cibola National Forest, the elevation rising with each mile as I approached the Continental Divide (elev. 7,796 feet). It was getting cooler by the second, but the situation was about to heat up…
Just west of the Divide roadside marker sits the tiny hamlet of Pie Town (you can probably guess what’s they’re selling). I rolled on through on through, stopping only to photograph the Pie Festival sign for posterity.
A few miles out of town, I felt a rumbling coming from the truck. I stopped to investigate. Oh No! Another blowout -- this one on the right rear of the truck itself. Uugghh!
Lots of railroad tracks around those satellite dishes. I’ve got to learn to take it slow going over tracks. They are everywhere out here and I’ve got a lot weight on this combination rig.
With no cell phone signal available, I was on my own. The Triple-A cavalry wasn’t coming to the rescue this time. Curses! But I was not left to my own devices for long. As if a wish came true, two young guys drove by me, then doubled back to help out. This pair of teenagers, Lester and Kyle, were from the Pie Town area and, as far as I was concerned, straight from heaven, prayers answered.
At first I lied, saying I was OK with this, I’d get it done, but they literally took over – quickly jacking up the trailer to free the truck, crawling under the truck to release the spare and then changing the tire – all because, as Lester said, “It’s right to help somebody out if they need it.”
As they were leaving, I offered them a few bucks, but they refused. When they were working on the tire, they had told me they both were heading off to school in the fall, so I again offered, telling them to put the money in their college funds. And again they demurred, Kyle saying, “Nah, but thanks all the same … Just happy to help you out.”
We shook hands and, as they drove away, I was dumbfounded. Be honest with yourself, admit it – I calculate the odds of that situation, never mind its financial finishing touch, happening in the Northeast to be about the same as a 100-year flood.
Next town down the line, Quemado, I stopped and purchased a new radial and, though the shop was busy, it was speedily mounted on the truck. The whole “crisis,” from flat to finish, took about an hour-and-a-half. Amazing! Must be something about the fresh air up here.
In case you’re keeping score at home, it’s now:
Southwest train tracks ….. 2
Truck and trailer tires .….. 0
Or, more realistically, three old tires down, three to go……
Just waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Over the rainbow …

I’m heading west, bound for the Grand Canyon this weekend with a few stops first, then north to South Utah for a visit to some of the National Parks clustered there.

These razor-sharp cliffs line the highway along I-70 heading east. The dot on the right is my truck.

COLORADO: A Rocky Mountains primer




CLICK TO ENLARGE

  State meets higher standards

Leaving the high desert for a side trip east to Colorado, I joked that this trip would be good, because I was running out of adjectives to describe the Southwest.
Boy, was I wrong! Colorado is also extraordinary. The mountain scenery, the historic sites and, indeed, the tourist traps all exuded western charm amid the wonders.
Leaving Moab, Utah and driving northeast, I traveled along the state's tremendous I-70 highway system and, after several stops, the mountain byways leading up to the magnificent Rocky Mountain National Park.
Several days there reminded me of why I fell in love with mountain camping when I was just a little boy. I met some really interesting and intrepid folks at the park, most on unusual quests much like my own.
Heading south to the city of Denver, I met up with an old running buddy and a couple of his colleagues for a four-day sojourn off the road and through the heart of Colorado's tourist area. Lots of enjoyable stops made on this leg of the trip and the company was equally enjoyable.
The trip westward after Denver was also full of firsts, a famous fowl and a couple of cop stops. All in all, a great week, time and sights I'll always remember and cherish.

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This sign was just below the Continental Divide on the west side of the Rocky Mountain National Park. The road above the Divide was closed by 20-foot snowdrifts.

MEET ME ON THE MOUNTAIN TOPS

Driving east up into the Rocky Mountains, one cannot help but be struck by the excellence of the roadways, most of which had to have been constructed under the most difficult of circumstances. Some of the mountainside roads are full of switchbacks and hairpin turns all constructed next to very steep drop-offs, but it is smooth sailing as the roads were built to last, and are scrupulously maintained.
Here are two excellent examples of these construction wonders that I passed through:

Double-deck I-70 cuts through cliffs above river.


* First was the piece of Interstate 70 that stretches through the Glen Canyon near the west end of the state. It’s a system of bridges and tunnels -- two tiers in some spots -- with 500-foot cliffs on both sides. Fifteen miles long, it’s a true engineering marvel, and exciting to drive through. (Like something a kid would construct in the family playroom for Matchbook cars and the best scene-building set-up ever. That good!)
* The second is the Eisenhower Tunnel, also on I-70, lying in between the bulk of Colorado’s famous ski resorts to the north and south. It channels under the Continental Divide for 1.7 miles at an altitude of 11,013 feet – not only a Big Dig, but a tall one too!
Also of note along this route is the fact that a lot of the towns are named using the singular form: Ranch, Rifle, Parachute, Eagle, etc.
I stopped at Glenwood Springs and secured lodging for the night, with the steep climb up to Rocky Mountain National Park on tap the next morning.
Glenwood Spring is famous for its hot springs and vapor caves, which were considered sacred by the Utes, and later exploited by the descendants of the settlers who chased that tribe from this area. Indeed, in the 1890s, with a European invasion of the spa in full swing, the Utes were banned from the city. These hot springs, though surely of dubious health benefit, are still a tourist attraction today.

"Doc" Holliday

Glenwood Springs is also the place where the hot-tempered, hard-drinking card shark and gunslinger “Doc” Holliday journeyed to in search of a cure for his raging tuberculosis. The reckless ex-dental student had roamed the West for 14 years, from Dallas to Dodge City to Tombstone and back again, drinking and gambling … gambling and drinking, occasionally shooting up a barroom just to keep sharp. He arrived in The Springs a dying man in 1887, and succumbed to his infirmity, a constant companion since the age of 21, in a local sanitarium just a few weeks later.
With a long drive beckoning, I stopped for a hearty breakfast the next morning and the waitress created a small stir in the restaurant when, after I ordered Cheddar cheese in my omelet, she nearly fell over laughing, pleading with me to “Say Cheddaaa again, just once…. Please!”
Back on the road, there was a noticeable chill in the air as I climbed up the roads into the Rockies. It was a beautiful day though, blue skies full of sun with wonderful wildflower aromas wafting aloft on the crystal-clear air.
As I dipped into a valley, I came across a herd of enormous Black Angus cattle relaxing near a spring. Around the next corner was a sign for the town of Radium. The huge cattle? … Radium? … Hmmm! Nah … Probably just a coincidence.

Denizens of Radium? Hmmmm....

I needed to stop for some gear as I forgot my camp stove back when I quickly packed in Moab. Driving up into the mountains, these beautiful foothills were ringed by snow-tipped peaks and filled with the lush green fields of enormous cattle ranches but paved roads had ceased a while back. Gravel or ground stone was all the rage up here.
Off the beaten track now, driving northeast, I rolled into the town of Kremmling. A two-horse town, at least, Kremmling main business seemed to be a general store-outfitters where I was able purchase a one-burned stove and some fire paste, a product of Canada that acts like napalm in fireplace. Great stuff.
How do I know Kremmling is at least a two-horse town? Because there was a horse parking rail outside the store, but no parking set aside for vehicles.
Finally at the park, I neared the gate when five elk cows sauntered into the road and took their sweet time crossing it.

Two-horse town for sure.

I stopped at the Visitors Center and spoke to a ranger, whose information scuttled my plans. My strategy here was to camp on the west side of the park the first night, drive north then east the next day across the main road which lay horizontally across the northern stretches of the park, exploring as I went. Then I would take a campsite on the east side of the park for the second night, and from there proceed down into Denver for a four-day respite from the road, meeting up with an old running buddy from Boston in town on business.
The ranger told me that there was 20 feet of snow blocking that northern crossroad and that is was impassable, so the west side of the park was the best I could hope for.
I took a site for two days at the Timber Creek campground, my location just a few steps through the woods from, you guessed it, Timber Creek. The campground is at just over 9,000 feet in elevation and the temperature was sliding downward as the sun dipped behind the peaks. After a substantial dinner of cobbled-up chicken stew and bread, I built a big fire and kept it stoked. With snow banks all over the park and 20-foot snowdrifts in the hills just above, Old Man Winter still lurked nearby. Time to break out the long johns and bundle up.
As the sun fled west, the Milky Way appeared overhead. The stars seemed big enough to reach up and get a grip on one. A three-quarters-full moon then rose, flooding the camp with light. Truly, it doesn’t get much better than this in the camping game.

The park gate.

 Nature was tapping out a little tune, a verse coming from the wind, a stanza from the water nearby and then the chorus emerged from the woods. With company from the animal kingdom apparent nearby in the trees, it reminded of a time in southwest Alaska, when I was kayaking with my friend and guide, let’s call him “Little Joe,” and several other fellows.
To me, Little Joe seems lifted directly from Alaskan poet Robert Service’s prose, but rock’n’roll fans might see a resemblance to members of ZZ Top. Anyway, as we paddled down the river, lunchtime was approaching and Little Joe asked me to go ahead and see if a landing spot for a meal was in the offing nearby. When the other kayaks approached I had to inform them that the place hoped for was a muddy mess and we would have to keep looking.
I then told Little Joe that the mud was criss-crossed with tracks, elk or caribou, black bear, raccoons, maybe a wolf or coyote. The tracks were everywhere, and many were fresh. But, I inquired (paraphrasing here), “Where are their owners?” Little Joe replied, “They’re all around us now, watching … Just waiting for us to leave.” With that memory clear, I realized that I would just have to hold my ground here for this and another night.

Camp site at Timber Creek as dusk settles.

With the fire waning and my sleeping bag singing its siren song, the temperature was in the low 30s, and it dipped into the 20s overnight. I was fully equipped to handle this degree of cold, but it was still chilly!!!
As the sun came up the next morning, two coyotes were howling back and forth along the peaks. Unusual except during the spring mating season, these morning howls seemed to lament the dawn, competing with the singing celebration of morn by what seemed to be the voices of a thousand birds.
As I arose, a couple of large blue-winged birds with black crowns were squawking in the trees above. Then, as I prepared breakfast, the forest suddenly filled with many of these beautiful birds, hoping branch-to-branch, their squawks almost deafening – Chack! … Chaack!! … Chaaack!!! (A later e-mail consultation with my bird expert, the Poet, found me informed that these were Steller’s jays, which sometimes grow to the height of 12-13 inches, and haunt the Rockies on a regular basis.)
After the meal, I toured the nearby woods and the creek’s edge, then hopped in the truck and proceeded north, headed for the snow’s boundary at the Continental Divide. The twisting road rose almost 1,500 feet in less than four miles with many switchbacks and six hairpin turns. At the Fairview Curve overlook, the miles and miles of the Long Meadows valley led up to Mount Ida, almost 13,000 feet tall.

A Steller's jay, one of many crowding my site.

It was here at Fairview Curve, just below the Two Miles Above Sea Level sign (see above), that I met Nick and Judy, a fortyish British couple from Bournemouth, England who’ve been RVing through North America since 2003, with only a seven-month break in 2004 to go home to apply for and receive an extended visa. They had left Judy’s mom, Winn, back at their RV, painting, and had mountain-biked up to the Continental Divide and were cycling back down when we ran into each other. Now in the last month of their extended holiday, they had visited most of the 58 National Parks in the system, along with many other U.S. landmarks. We discussed many of the areas they visited, a few of which we had in common, and this pair was full of good tips and also good cheer.
On the way back down to the campsite, a moose blocked the road before stubbornly moving along into the woods.
Later, seated at the camp’s table, I was typing some notes for this post into my laptop when a fellow camper approached. Barbara had crossed over to the Rockies from just outside of Seattle. She came looking for the headwaters of the Colorado River, and will now follow its watercourse down to the Sea of Cortez (or Gulf of California), swimming or at least getting in the water along the way, reminding me somewhat of my quest several years ago to dip into every Great Lake.

Barbara, the river sleuth from Seattle.

This pretty blond, the mother of a 24-year-old son, put her self-maintained business ventures as a yoga instructor and bookkeeper on hold to pursue this quixotic journey. Besides her business interests, she also left behind her husband Scott, a computer exec busy re-igniting a company brand. He’ll have to fend for himself, as Barbara will be on the road for two-to-three months. Following a path that will take her from the Rockies, through Utah, then Arizona, Nevada, and California, this trip will climax in Mexico when she swims in the Gulf of Cortez. She had stopped in for this chat after a long day of snow-shoeing through the upper reaches of the park in search of those headwaters. We shared a few tips and had a pleasant discussion about life on the road, solo style.
Later, as twilight began its creep and a repeat of last night’s routine loomed, the campsite right next to me filled. Finn and Natalie, a South African couple in their 30s, are soon returning home after spending two years in London. First, these avid hikers are taking two-and-one-half months to tour the West and are on some of the same paths I am, but in the opposite direction. Finn’s a lawyer involved in investment banking, Natalie's an event coordinator. Finn, who told me that a few years in London are every South African’s dream, said they are worried about the tight job market in South Africa, but if pluck and personality are the standard, their prospects seem, as Natalie would say, “Brilliant!”
Finn – Over From South Africa, mind you – said almost immediately as we began talking, “I want to ask you, are you from Boston?” He had played for the Boston Rugby Club some years ago and lived in Beantown for three months. Apparently he knows a bean-eater when he hears one.
Me? I think I’m just going to fashion a sign to string around my neck saying simply, “Yes! That’s Right! I’m From Boston.”It will save a lot on the chit-chat ...
For more on the Rocky Mountain National park, click HERE.

The magnificent Rockies stretch westward.

Your correspondent in front of Wild West legend Buffalo Bill's final resting place high atop Lookout Mountain above Golden, Colo.

THINGS TO DO IN DENVER ...

After striking camp in the Rocky Mountain National Park, I swiftly descended down into the Mile-High City, hugging the deep curves on the alpine cliffs through switchback after switchback. Throw in a few dozen sharp hairpin turns and a rush-hour traffic jam on the short stretch of I-70 that I had to travel to reach Denver and you have my commute from the forest to the freeways in a nutshell.

Buffalo Bill

As I reached Denver and was trying to locate the hotel I would be lodged in, I began to notice the multitude of street people who congregated on the corners and along the avenues or in front of the many missions of this city. They were legion! – The Back Bay of Boston or Central Square in Cambridge to the 10th power.
(Later, it was related to me, second-hand via the hotel‘s concierge, that Denver has never had any vagrancy statutes and that other cities in the area export their people problems here by bus. This city, alongside its many massive religious missions, foots the bill for the care, feeding and nightly housing of these folks and, truth be told, they seem non-threatening as well as somewhat clean and reasonably well-robed. They appear satisfied with their lot in life and if, for some reason, I can’t get a job after this trip, at least I’ll know in which direction to start walking … Just kidding!)

The Junction Jet, Ol' 56 and Rockie Roy.

Since, due to the winter conditions at the national park, there was no water available to wash myself with up there, I was rather dusty and crusty myself following two days in the bush. After garaging the truck and wearing grimy, smoky-smelling jeans and a soiled sweatshirt as well as hoisting an old camping duffel bag, I found that I blended in with the hordes of hobos near the hotel complex.
However, I firmly believe that I was the only one among these folks who appeared to be a bum at 5:30 p.m., but had a table set at Morton’s for 7 sharp. Fine dining for the so-recently shabby!
At the hotel, I met up with a Back Bay buddy of mine, from the salad days of the late 1980s and early-‘90s. Let’s call him “Ol’ 56.” Now happily married and the father of a young daughter, he’s recovered from the long hours of toil, sleepless nights and endless amusements available during the heady times of yesteryear - as have I.
Ol’ 56 is half-a-big wheel in the business world today, travels extensively to service his accounts and knows how to live the good life on the road. Four-star hotels … Fine restaurants … Toss in a token business meeting (or three), and you’ve got a pretty good four-day trip. Always the backslapper, a serial flatterer and a hale fellow well-met, Ol’ 56 has managed to turn his prodigious talent for the high-schmooze into a very bankable skill. (This fine fellow deserves our congratulations. Who knew? Maybe he should teach a course at the Harvard “B” school!)

Gene Simmons

As I began my journey across this country, Ol’ 56 and I caught up by phone when I was in Marfa, Texas and he told me, if I was near to Denver during this time period, to come on over and share somewhat in his bounty. It was an invitation I gratefully accepted then and fully appreciate now.
Ol’ 56 was accompanied by his young protege and assistant, for our purposes, “Rockie Roy.” To his credit, Rockie Roy is beginning to recognize a war story for what it is, a skill that will serve him well as he climbs up the slippery ladder to success. Also joining our merry band on several forays was a local fellow, a boyhood chum of Ol’ 56 from Long Island and now a teacher employed near Denver during the school year as well as a gentleman rancher weekends and summers near the western end of Colorado. His name here will be “Junction Jet.”
After a bout with the fine food and drink the first night in town, I was easily tuckered out and early to sleep. Rising the next morning I joined Ol’ 56 and Rockie Roy in the sparsely populated hotel dining room for a hearty breakfast. At a nearby table sat the lead singer from the rock band KISS, Gene Simmons. With no envy for what must it must be like to live your life as if in a fishbowl, I’m here to report that the rocker, sans his costume, kept a cell phone pressed to his ear the entire time he dined. He may have had some early business or this may have been a defensive mechanism to fend off would-be glad-handers, but either way, that practice just can’t be good for the digestion. (As Simmons rose to leave, we discussed how tall he seemed. I researched his height on the web to relate it to you, but it is listed at only 6-2. If true, I swear he must have been sporting shoe lifts as well as high heels, as he seemed to us, from 20 feet away, to be close to a half-a-foot taller. Considering the makeup and wigs he wears to work, height elevators aren’t such a stretch.)

Keystone cases roll down line at Coors Brewery.


Later the same day, the three of us toured the city somewhat, cruising the 16th Avenue Mall. It is a near-clone of Boston’s Washington Street’s Downtown Crossing district except that, in Denver, it is carried out to the length of 16 blocks and serviced by free street trolleys in both directions.
(I realized later that I lost a small camera bag on a scenic overlook across from "The Summit", a group of mountain peaks seen when heading west on I-70. Inside that bag was a digital film chip holding photos from our downtown Denver tour, so no photos here. Where available, I'll link up what I can, but it is unfortunate.)
We visited the ornate Colorado State House, a magnificent structure downtown stuffed with political artifacts and heavy with history lessons. Always worth a visit, if and when I come across one, the peoples' houses never disappoint. We were also shut out of a tour of the Denver Mint as reservations made far in advance were required, then found the Denver Art Museum virtually closed during a massive spate of remodeling. Lastly, we spent several hours at the  Colorado History Museum, viewing its collections of Wild West memorabilia, railroad paraphernalia, old gold-mining gear and tools, Women in the West, scale models of the forts and frontiers scenes from the days of the Indian Wars as well as uniforms, weapons, photos and letters from members of the 10th Mountain Division, the U.S. Army's answer to winter combat in World War II, which had trained in the Colorado mountains. That evening, Ol’ 56 and Rockie Roy left me to my own devices as they were off on a bit of business.

The next day, joined by the Junction Jet, we headed west to Golden, Colo. Our first stop was the grave of American legend Buffalo Bill (see photo above), high atop Lookout Mountain. Buried there 90 years ago, William Cody was an Indian fighter, Pony Express rider extraordinaire and master Wild West showman, and his resting place and the museum surrounding his exploits still draws a crowd.


An empty Red Rocks is still magnificent.

 Next we headed to the Coors Brewery in the valley below Lookout Mountain. We joined a tour of about 20 folks and were regaled with tales of the brew’s origin and the processes needed to maintain its excellence. We learned how hops, barley and variations and amounts of yeast are combined with clean fresh water to produce Coors products, saw the huge grain-filtering trays, heating kettles and cooling vats, the bottling plant and the assembly line (see above), generally following the brew master’s techniques all the way from the crops into the cases. This visit culminated with a wee taste of the brew in the Coors Lounge.

A poster board covered with promotion materials from famous shows

played at Red Rocks. Music fans should click on this photo to enlarge it.

The last stop that afternoon was an unexpected surprise. We drove a short distance south to Morrison, Colo., the site of Red Rocks, a legendary music amphitheatre of just under 9,500 seats reputed to have perfect acoustics with nary an obstructed view. It is nestled among the tall red rocks of a canyon with bench seating radiating up and outward from the stage.Opening in 1947, it seems just about everybody who is anybody in contemporary music has appeared on this stage. Lately a rock venue, top acts - from the Dead to Springsteen, Hendrix to U2, Neil Young to the Nine Inch Nails - have been graced to appear here. A snippet of a rockumentry looping in the Visitors Center has Phil Lesh, the bassist and guardian of all things Grateful Dead, relating that Red Rocks is one of his two favorite places to play - the other being the Great Pyramids of Egypt.
We finished off the day with another deluxe dinner, this time at The Palm. Thank goodness I’m not on the road with Ol’ 56 all the time. I’d need a crew of Sherpas to hoist me aloft and carry me about, here, there & just about everywhere.

Another day in Boulder.

The next day, we journeyed northwest to Boulder, Colo., the home of the University of Colorado and also site of a fine walking mall on Pearl Street. The mall reminds me of Harvard Square, after a fashion, with coffee shops, cafes, art stores, bookshops and ethnic restaurants. Between the plantings and benches dotting the mall, various street performers - fire jugglers, contortionists and portrait painters - plied passers-by for tips.
Before we had a fine Mexican lunch, I stopped at an information kiosk to pick up a couple of fliers on the area and the two fellows standing in front of the booth were discussing, of all things, the corruption and graft surrounding Boston’s Big Dig.
We capped off the trip by taking in a ballgame at Coors Field. Ol’ 56 had arranged for club seats. Coors Field is located on Blake Street in downtown Denver and it has been the home of the National League’s Rockies since 1995. Inter-league play began that weekend and the visitors that evening were the Toronto Blue Jays (see photo below). The Rockies held sway, 5-1, with Rockies’ left-hander Jeff Francis perfect through five innings. Truth-be-told, the Jays haunt the Red Sox, but on this night they appeared mediocre, quite inferior to the home club.

The next morning, after brief goodbyes, we split up, Ol’ 56 and Rockie Roy flying east, with the Junction Jet staying put, and me heading west to pick up the trailer in Moab, Utah. I’ll be taking it easy in the food department for the next few weeks, trying to drop the extra few pounds I surely gained in Denver.

Rocky Mountains sunset seen from the upper boxes behind the plate at Coors Field.

This sign sits astride the Continental Divide above both and between Breckenridge and Alma, Colorado. Beathtaking views up here.

TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS

After pledging my allegiance to salad bars for the next little bit, I hit the road, headed west out of Denver, my swelled belly surely leading the way, its blushing glow lighting my path.
Cruising out I-70, I passed through the Eisenhower Tunnel, which I mentioned several posts ago, then preceded to drive south.
I found I had become a real lead-foot since I no longer had the trailer in tow while visiting The Centennial State.
With the trailer behind me, I must keep pedal-to-medal, so to speak, to usually maintain even the minimum speed limit. After a short span at the start of this trip getting used to driving with the trailer, I have, for the great majority of time since, forgotten that it is back there. I’ve adjusted my driving habits accordingly as far as speed and turning radius, etc. and now, as a matter of routine, with-or-without the trailer, take corners wide and keep pressure on the gas pedal.


Peaks in "The Summit" area south of I-70 west of Denver.

 Still I was shocked when a local policeman stopped me for speeding through the town of Alma, Colorado. With the lights on his cruiser blazing after he called in my Florida plates, the cop breathlessly approached the car and said, “Ya blew right by me!”
Stunned by the accusation, as I had been purposely slowly tooling through the short distance of the burg’s main thoroughfare to acquire some perspective on the town, I still politely asked in reply, “I’m sorry, sir, how fast was I going?”
“Well … 37,” he sputtered, “In a 30 zone! I’ll need to see your license and registration.”
Happy now, convinced I was merely a scofflaw rather than a rank outlaw, I surrendered my papers and sat there, waiting patiently as I (as my late father had once characterized the effort), “catalogued my sins” traffic-enforcement wise. Then positive I was covered in that area, even recent parking tickets promptly paid, I relaxed.
The cop returned and asked me if I had “Any guns, knives or nuclear weapons in (the truck cabin)?”
Secretly amused to realize Homeland Security extends even up to this tiny town atop the Continental Divide, I nodded in the negative.
He rightly handed me back only a written warning along with my papers and, now relaxing himself, asked what I doing so far from Florida. I quickly summarized my trip in total, while deftly dancing around its local component. Soon he was giving me tips on just the best areas and overlooks locally from which to snap photos and we merrily parted company, he surely bound for the local coffee shop and its donut dish, with me crawling back through town, this time going 26 in a “30 zone.”
(Editor's note: The next day, I was pulled over again, this time by a Utah State Trooper for speeding on Route 191 just north of Moab, Utah. But, this time, I was pedal to the metal on the wide-open empty highway. The trooper seemed sympathetic, but it still cost me $75.)
I was in the area to scope out the town of Breckenridge, home to one of my nieces who is was then spending the early summer in Hawaii, and also to investigate the strange juxtaposition of Breckenridge, a small town with big money, and Alma, a small town seemingly with big problems – in the vast expanses among the peaks of the Rockies virtually right next to each other, although separated by 16 miles, gleam vs. grittiness and, big on this small list, the Continental Divide (see above).

Scene just north of Alma, south of Continental Divide.

A (now-passed) pal from Key West, Doc T, had alerted me to this combination. Doc T had lived down below the peaks in Alma for an extended period some 15-or-so years ago and he apprised me of the stunning contrast I would find driving through the mountains – the billionaires’ ski chalets in Breckenridge balanced against broken-down Alma, next along the road, just over the high hills.
And he was right. Pretty-in-pastel Breckenridge sparkles while the shambling hamlet of Alma seems to barely scuffle along, dull, drab and mostly brown.
According to my research, Alma had, as of the 2000 census, a total population of just 179 and, at an elevation of 10,355 feet, it is the highest incorporated municipality in the U.S. Most of Alma’s folks must work over the hills in Breckenridge and, due surely to the permanence of their employment, the per capita income in Alma is slightly higher than the income of the young transients in Breckenridge, many toiling just to fuel their skiing jones.

John C. Breckinridge

Breckenridge has a general head count of just about 2,500 residents, a figure that greatly swells during ski season. However, my niece reported, via phone, that the population has shrunk slightly this summer, as she and about a dozen-or-so of her friends have descended upon Hawaii, no doubt now working to fuel their swimming and surfing joneses.
Early on, the town desired a post office and the townsfolk shrewdly decided to name their town after the Vice President at the time, John C. Breckinridge. The ruse worked, and Breckinridge got its post office. But later, as Civil War broke out, Breckinridge himself sided with the Confederacy and the fickle pro-Union citizens of Breckinridge wanted to change the town’s name in revenge. One i became an e, and it’s been Breckenridge since.
I was only in Alma for a short period (to make some photos for Doc T), but while I must report that, with the general shabbiness of its structures withstanding, the valley the town is confined to is surrounded by spectacular alpine scenery and it’s comforting to know that not all the beautiful places haven’t yet been designated, “Beautiful People Only.”

This stop’s a No-Brainer!

Moving along west, I lodged for the night once again in Glenwood Springs and then set out the next day for Fruita, Colorado, a farming community lying near the state’s western border.
I drove through some fearsome thunder-boomers and close lightning strikes, once pulling off the road for safety and napping while the weather raged. The Colorado River was bubbling brown and white alongside the road, threatening briefly at several turns to swell over its banks. But, finally, the storms subsided and the western edge of the state loomed large.

Mike's monument in downtown Fruita.

It’s here at its southwestern corner that Colorado gets into the desert wonderland business. This fertile valley, due to its proximity to the Colorado River, makes the Grand Junction-Fruita area a desert oasis
The name Fruita here on the Colorado Plateau apparently seems, at least to me, to mean fine for farming. Although it’s Greener around here than the Jolly Giant, it appears corn is Fruita’s chief crop, not melons, grapes, berries or cherries, as its name would suggest. This is the third such bountiful area dubbed Fruita that I’ve traveled through along the trail, and they all have this oasis-style atmosphere to them.
A sleepy town of just about 2,500 households, Fruita is interesting nonetheless, with several building-sized murals about town and a well-attended dinosaur museum near some famous digs in the area. The town is also a gateway to the formidable Colorado National Monument. But I had journeyed here with none of those tourist enticements in mind. I was shooter for bigger game. Because Fruita’s largest attraction is its Chicken!
Mike The Headless Chicken to be exact. (That website is priceless.)
Permit me to briefly explain. Near the close of World War II, on Sept. 10, 1945, a local farmer, Lloyd Olson, fancied some fowl for Sunday dinner and proceeded to behead one of his own roosters with a good, sharp ax. However, Olson’s aim was high, leaving some of the bird’s brain stem intact. After flopping about in its mortal throes, the bird suddenly regained its feet and starting blindly fumbling about, then began flapping its wings and preening around as many a proud pullet often will. This strange occurrence, no doubt, overshadowed the family’s eagerly awaited Sunday sit-down and surely was the number one topic around the Olson table. There’s no record of what type of fare Mother Olson served up that fateful day.
As for Fruita, it’s never been the same.
Amazed and baffled by this turn of events, after several days Farmer Olson began to feed the bird with an eyedropper through its open neck. Mike began to gain weight and soon was crowing and pecking – sort of – just like any other chicken living without its head might.

Poster for 2006 "Headless Chicken" festival.

Being a male, this rooster would never lay the proverbial golden egg, but for Olson and the sharp promoter he hooked up with, H.B. Wade, the bird turned into a goldmine. Folks from all around began turning up in Fruita to eyeball the miracle chicken for themselves, Salt Lake City scientists had their say, Time & Life editors dispatched some shutterbugs and, before you knew it, the next stop was Hollywood.
Truly the talk of Tinseltown, “Miracle Mike” was put up in the plushest of people palaces, fed the finest grains, and soon this cap-less capon was a star. A legend set in large-letter type, Mike’s progress was daily fodder for the national newshounds.
Ripley’s Believe It or Not and The Guinness Book of World Records soon set the story of Mkle in print and a sideshow legend was born. Mike, now insured for $10,000, toured the country, appearing in circuses, headlining freak shows, on stage, no doubt, right after the bearded lady and a two-headed cow
Mike’s appearances were very lucrative for the Olsons, earning the family around $4,500 per month. That total wasn’t just chickenfeed back in the ‘40s, the equivalent of $45,000 a month today.
Mike was now considered The Prince Of All Things Poultry. However, uneasy sits the crown on a headless “hen” and Mike choked to death sometime in 1947, ending his reign as the carnival King Cockerel.
Each May, Fruita celebrates Mike’s life and lore, fare or fowl, with a weekend of festivities, including a 5K run, a chicken dance and an auto show. With food, entertainment and raffles, it’s a regular barnyard bonanza.
Fruita memorializes Mike with a Headless Chicken statue at the corner of Aspen and Mulberry Street. It’s made of old tools, wrenches, chisels and the like, some horseshoes, a few railroad spikes, etc. – just about anything metal that its artist, Lyle Nichols, could find to weld into that form (see above).
And, thanks to Mike, I’ll never be able to call anyone a birdbrain with the same sense of conviction again…

Monumental Minutes

My plan had been to enter the Colorado National Monument at its Grand Junction entrance and follow its Red Rock Drive for the 23 miles, exploring inside the park through to the Fruita entrance gate, from where I would then begin the search for Mike the Headless Chicken. But the storms mentioned above precluded that notion, and the events happened in reverse order.

 The 600-ton Balanced Rock.


With just a short while to explore the Monument I entered at the Fruita gate. The park service brochure describes the 32 square-mile area as, “One of the great landscapes of the American West. Big, bold and brilliantly colored.”
As I drove up to the Visitor’s Center, about four miles from the gate, the scenery was indeed breathtaking,. The road rises along the way, up almost 1,100 feet along the cliff walls, to about 5,800 feet, I observed many a geological wonder among the many switchbacks and hairpin turns, including a splendid example of the Balanced Rock, this one a 600-ton version (these formations appear to be a staple of National Parks in the West) and the Book Cliffs, some very tall blade-like rocks, seemingly arranged like books in a bookcase.
The camping options at Saddlehorn campground reminds one of the Arches with sagebrush, red clay colors and varied vegetation high up on a plateau, surrounded by canyon walls. Many sites here also contain unusual rock formations.

There is a full-service Visitors Center at the park’s west end. I wish I had more time to explore here, but that storm I met heading west cost valuable time.

The Book Cliffs in the Colorado National Monument.