MY 50-STATE STRATEGY

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.