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DammitDan's Grand Western Tour (part Deux)

dammitdan

dammitdan

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Well, folks...  I'm at it again, on the road traveling from Tennessee to the West Coast, and this time I brought along a real camera and a laptop so I can actually continue writing (last time I tried keeping a blog I had to do everything on a tiny iPhone 4s, which isn't very fat-finger friendly for typing out long posts).  I'm about a week in and am currently camping near Rabbit Ears Pass outside Steamboat Springs.  Updates, photos and video to come!  Watch this space :) :beerchug:
 
I figure I can do big updates once a week after I have culled through the hundreds of photos and written the story.  I have a hotel stay coming up tomorrow night, so I'll post the first week's travels then.

Until then, I have documented everything in public posts on my Facebook page...  http://www.facebook.com/dan.humberd

It isn't quite as linear as i plan the posts here to be, but it will certainly be updated more frequently!
 
DammitDan said:
Until then, I have documented everything in public posts on my Facebook page...  http://www.facebook.com/dan.humberd
Click to expand...

Sigh, damn Fakebook...

"or the page may only be visible to an audience you're not in."

For us non-Fakebook users...

I know that Group Fakebook page permission levels can be set as Public-Open, meaning everyone, even people who don't want to be part of Zuckerbergs world.

Public-Closed: only Fakebook users

Private-Closed: Only by invite

Don't know about Individual Fakebook pages, but probably similar permission levels.

Guess we'll wait till you get your blog updated.

Safe roads
 
Sorry about that, JPavilis!  I know Facebook is the debbil, but I have found it to be the easiest way to quickly keep people updated on where I am and what I'm doing :)
 
I come from a family that always put a lot of emphasis on travelling via muscle power alone, and as a result this was usually the type of vacation I experienced as I grew up.  When I was nine I rode a bicycle that weighed more than I did through 800 miles of Canada on a month-long trip.  I went on a week-long kayaking excursion through the Apostle Islands in Lake Superior when I was 16, and on another bicycle trip through burning Montana (the whole state seemed to be on fire back in 2000) when I was 18.  When I was growing up, I always saw these vacations as some kind of Bataan death march instigated by parents who loved to torture their children.  Why couldn’t we just go to the beach like everyone else’s family?  I grew so tired of sleeping on the ground that I swore I would never do it again if I could help it.

As I grew older I eventually realized the treasure that my mother and father had instilled in me.  They had (unbeknownst to me) provided an uncommon appreciation for the wonders of nature, and a wanderlust that has never really subsided.  When I turned 22 my brother in law, Cory, (who rode a 1980 BMW R100S at the time) got me interested in motorcycles.  They seemed to be the perfect combination of what I wanted…  The ability to experience nature and be a part of the outdoors without any of the physical effort that was usually required.  Basically it was all the fun of a bicycle (and then some) without any of the effort of a bicycle.  I was hooked.

I started off on a 1983 Honda CB650, affectionately known as my Lawnmower (because the damn thing sounded exactly like a strangled lawnmower).  It was the red-headed stepchild of the Honda CB family; it didn’t have the agility of a CB550 or the power of a CB750, it hadn’t been popular when it was new and it certainly wasn’t popular when I bought it 22 years later.  But, once again, this seemingly bad experience turned out to be a treasure for me.  I crashed it, fixed it, broke it, fixed it again, broke it again, fixed it again…  That little “worst of both worlds” Honda cost more in repairs than I could ever hope to get back out of selling it, but it also taught me everything I now know about four stroke motors, carburetors, clutches, brakes...  It gave me a sense of how stuff "works".  I had to get my hands dirty and either rebuild or replace the majority of the bike’s components, and that knowledge proved useful time and again in the years that followed.  So while I kick myself for spending so much money on a piece of junk, I also celebrate the knowledge it provided (besides, learning experiences are seldom cheap).


(My first baby: 1983 Honda CB650)

I moved from the Honda CB650 to a 1981 Yamaha XS850 triple in 2007.  The XS850 had loads of torque and was fairly nimble for a heavy UJM.  It also had quite a unique sound to its exhaust; there was a loping cadence that went along with the 3 cylinder design that you didn’t hear very often.  I loved it.  I hung on to that bike for several years before moving on. 


(The XS850 was quite an upgrade from my CB650)

In the meantime I had added a few more bikes to the stable: I rebuilt a junked 1981 XS650 twin from scratch and turned it into a beautiful café racer (and turned a profit for the first time) and later picked up a fun 1976 GS1000 Goldwing that ended up with a broken transmission.  I have no idea how the broken transmission happened; it has nothing to do with wheelies.  But a word from the wise:  Don’t do wheelies on 1976 Goldwings, because you’ll *probably* break something, if not yourself.


(This XS650 started off wrecked and non-running for $125…  My brother in law Cory found it for me.)


(The Goldwing was a favorite of mine…  It just looked big and mean.)

Eventually the day came when I decided to move to something newer and more reliable.  I had always wanted to ride a motorcycle across the country, and all the bikes I had owned before had been older than I was.  I loved the shaft drive on the XS850 and the ‘Wing, and I knew I wanted something 1000cc’s or bigger.  I also wanted a sporty bike that could carry luggage.  The Concours checked all of those boxes, and I even found one in blue (my favorite color).  I picked up my 2006 ZG1000 in 2010, and have held on to it ever since.  And given the plethora of experiences I have had on it, I doubt I will ever let it go.  It has been the most reliable motorcycle I have ever owned; it shrugs off torrential rainstorms that would have made my XS stutter and die, and it gives me the power that my little CB never could.  It has the agility of a Ninja and the touring capability of a Goldwing, and carries a classic look that never gets old for me.  Did I mention it also sounds like a superbike when you run hot into a sweeping corner and roll on through the exit?  Because it does that, too.  It has been my reliable little burro that packs a mean kick and shrugs off adversity.


(My 2006 ZG1000 Concours on the day I bought it)

In the six years I have owned it, my Connie has traveled for more than 35k miles through 24 states and 22 National Parks.  It has carried me from the frigid summit of Pikes Peak to the scorching depths of Death Valley, to Big Sur on the Pacific coast and back again.  I have broken throttle cables on Utah's Moki Dugway, bent clutch levers and footpeg mounts on gravel roads miles from pavement, hydroplaned at high speed at night on Arizona’s Route 66, and in Montana I have even made the transition from pavement to deep gravel at 70 miles per hour (fully loaded, pucker factor 11) and the Concours has carried me safely through all of it.  It got me through an 11,000+ mile trip two years ago, so what better bike to choose than my tried and true ZG for another cross-country trek?


(The temperature got over 125 degrees that day…  But not all bucket list items are going to be particularly pleasant)


(Packed up and ready to ride to my Manifest Destiny!  As you can probably tell, I've made a few "adjustments" to the bike over the years...  ;D)

 
July 6, 2016



I decided to kick things off with the most difficult ride I have ever attempted:  The dreaded Iron Butt ride.  An Iron Butt consists of travelling 1,000+ miles in a day on a motorcycle, and as reward I would receive bragging rights, a check off of the bucket list, and a sticker to add to the collection.  This decision came with a dose of trepidation, since I had driven 1000+ miles in a car before and, following the experience, had sworn I would never do it on a motorcycle.  But the way I see it, the Plains states (western MO, KS, and eastern CO) don’t offer a whole lot of sights to enjoy unless you’re the kind of person who REALLY enjoys watching the grass grow.

Last time I split my trek across the plains into three days and avoided the Interstate like the plague, instead choosing to follow US54 and US50 west towards the Rockies.  This time around, seeing as how I had already “done” the whole US Highways “thing”, I chose to stick to I-70 from St Louis to Denver.  This provided me with plenty of opportunities to refuel (a problem I had run into before when sticking to highways) as well as the chance to snag an easy hotel room should I get too tired and have to bail on the Iron Butt.


(In 2014 I decided to go all-highways no-interstates.  Here’s what a desolate US highway crossing Kansas looks like!)

I had packed the bike the night before so I could get as early a start as possible, but still managed to leave Clarksville, TN just after 9am CST.  As I moved off the northern terminus of I-24 and on to the I-54 connector to get me to St. Louis, I noticed the skies to the west beginning to darken.  The first few pockets of misty rain pushed me to the nearest interstate exit to don my raingear and check the forecast (as I should have done before I left…  Something I always seem to forget to do.)  This is what I saw:


(Not the most reassuring sight after watching the sky become increasingly menacing for the past hour…)

I should have pulled over to grab some lunch and weather the storm, but had the crazy idea to push through it instead.  I couldn’t let myself off easy, after all; besides, I didn’t *actually* know if the rainsuit I had bought specifically for this trip was actually waterproof.  I managed to hit the reddest of the red part of that thunderstorm exactly as I passed through downtown St. Louis, and it drove the traffic around me to turn on their blinkers and slow down to 30 miles per hour.  But in my full face helmet and full rain suit, I was dry and comfortable.  To be honest, I have NEVER been so comfortable in a rain storm as I was after I put on that Tour Master jacket and pants (and I have ridden through 400 miles of near-continuous rain through western Wyoming and Colorado.)

I stopped not far west of St. Louis to grab some fast food and repack the raingear then continued pushing on through Columbia, then Kansas City, then Topeka.  The sun began to set as I passed Salina, KS, and with 425 miles to go I committed to the Iron Butt.  Hell, I had just ridden nearly 700 miles…  Another 400 should just be icing on the cake, right?  I pulled over at an I-70 rest stop, booked a room at a hotel in Denver and pushed on into the gathering twilight.

To keep myself entertained throughout the day I had enjoyed a combination of music, podcasts and books on tape through my Sena 20S Bluetooth headset.  But when I hit the 900 mile mark I started to get a little delirious…  The roads in western Kansas at night are long, straight, very dark and not very populated at 11:00pm, and as I learned all about the secrets of the H.L. Hunley, a Confederate submarine that was excavated in the 1980s, I felt myself zoning out.  The combination of tedious Interstate night riding and tedious descriptions of marine archaeological processes nearly proved disastrous; I flipped the music over to some pounding electronic mix that put me back on my toes.

I don’t recommend riding a motorcycle across the plains at night, simply for the reason that you cannot SEE what you can definitely SMELL.  I had forgotten about the massive cattle yards situated just off of I-70 in western Kansas, and there was no warning in the midnight darkness of the stench that quickly permeated my very being.  The only recourse was to hold my breath for as long as I could and *hope* that the cattle yards were behind me when I took my next breath.

When I could finally see the shimmering lights of Denver across the eastern Colorado plains, I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment.  As I rolled into the hotel’s parking lot at 2:30am MST, put down the kickstand and pulled my leg across to dismount I nearly collapsed; my legs had turned to gelatin.  My entire body ached, and it seemed the contours of my Bead Rider seat cover would be forever imprinted on my butt.  But I had done it.  I had ridden 1,112 miles from Clarksville, TN to Denver, CO in 17-1/2 hours.  I unceremoniously unpacked the bike and dumped my luggage on the floor, took a nice hot shower at 3am and fell into bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.
 
Congratulations on your ride. It's a great feeling pulling into that last gas station and getting that final receipt to stop the clock.
Now you can enjoy your trip. Time for some flower sniffing!
 
July 7, 2016

Colorado – Mount Evans Day 1



I woke up late the next morning (really only a handful of hours later) still sore following my arrival at the Denver motel.  But checkout time was 11am so I had little time to choose where I was headed and to get everything packed up again.  I had lucked out the night before and snagged the parking space directly in front of my room, so carrying everything out and strapping it down was a breeze.  I got some odd looks from passers-by, but I just smiled and waved as I continued to load up.

I filled both my cooler and water jug with ice from the motel’s ice machine and headed to the nearest grocery store to gather camping supplies.  I have decided this time around to actually spend time cooking at the campsite to save money, which means I now carry pots and pans like a real lumberjack.  Thus loaded up on noodles n’ sauce, canned chicken and quesadilla fixings I headed west out of Denver towards Mount Evans.

I have always loved Colorado’s roads; they provide the perfect combination of scenery and technical riding, and while there are some potholes and fissures that could throw an inattentive rider in the middle of a sweeping curve, the majority of the time the roads are clean and well-maintained.  This means I get to start pushing my burro up some real mountains for the first time in two years, and the bike was responding with equaled enthusiasm.

The Concours’ cornering agility is well suited for this kind of riding (especially considering it is in the weight class of a larger cruiser), and the upgraded heavy fork springs and fork brace I have installed make the bike rock solid in the corners.  The only issue I am wary of is undulation of the road surface in the middle of a corner, but I have learned to compensate for the bike’s bouncy response through throttle control and gentle rear braking to push the momentum back to the front of the bike.  Oddly enough, the bike seems to be MORE stable in fast corners after I have strapped on a hundred pounds of luggage; of course, the added weight also makes low-speed maneuvering more akin to wrestling with a pissed off goat than riding a motorcycle.

I headed west from Golden, Colorado and found myself surrounded by vehicles bearing Range Rover, Mercedes and Porsche emblems.  I was relieved of my anxiety at the sign to Mount Evans, and quickly exited to escape the expensiveness as the road began to wind its way upward.  About halfway to the gates to the summit road I pulled off the highway and headed down a rutted dirt jeep trail towards my campsite.  Fortunately the campground was only a few hundred yards from the highway, and I got to selecting a site from the largely empty National Forest camping area.


(I have moved from my beloved Hennessey XL to a DD Superlight Jungle Hammock, which has awesome spreader bars that make the interior super spacious and comfortable)

Once settled in I unpacked the bike and set my sights on the summit of Mount Evans.  I had intended to visit the mountain on the tail end of my 2014 trip, but when I came back through Colorado in late July the summit road had been blocked by a snow storm and was totally inaccessible.  On this particularly clear and warm July afternoon I easily reached the gates to the summit road, which turned out to be oddly vacant – I was sure there would be a fee to visit the top, but apparently I got lucky and the sign left behind welcomed me to continue on to the top.  As I headed skyward the road transitioned from a winding forest lane to bare outcroppings of rock above the tree line.  But even above 11,000 feet I was amazed at the variety of hardy life that thrived before me…



For this trip I’ve made it a point to always stop and take photos of anything that catches my eye, and Summit Lake was the first place where this promise really paid off.  I made a visit to a trail leading around the lake to get a closer look at some of the beautiful flora at 12,830 feet…





I was beginning to feel the effects of the high altitude on my body so I made my way back to the motorcycle.  I wound my way along the trail enjoying the colorful wildflowers and trying not to wheeze, and upon reaching the gravel lot I was delighted to encounter my first fauna of the trip.  A herd of nine or ten bighorn sheep had converged on the parking lot with a gaggle of tourists standing around them snapping pictures, and I joined in with my Canon 70D.  The sheep didn’t seem particularly concerned about the group of people gathered less than 8 feet from them, and I got some pretty cool pictures as a result…







I moved on from Summit Lake to the final three miles to the top.  As the road rose away from the lake it became obvious that the surface had been washed out and repaired season after season, and now the ride felt like a rollercoaster.  The lane would dip and weave like a mountain trail, and the unloaded burro began to feel like a dirtbike as I cut back and forth to follow the easiest line through the valleys and ridges in the road.  Climbing higher led to a smoother road as countless switchbacks weaved their way up the mountainside, and I was struck by the awesome power of the very accurately named Rocky Mountains.  Surprisingly, even more fauna was to be found as I climbed higher.




(The mountain goats were, once again, surprisingly and alarmingly acclimated to the presence of people)

At this photo opportunity I also made the mistake of pulling just a little *too* far off the roadway (sadly enough, in an effort not to spook the wildlife for the other folks taking photos).  I felt the back wheel start to slip down through the soft gravel as I tried to pull it forward to get back to the asphalt.  I made the decision to stop making things worse when the bike started to angle upward, with the back wheel now even further down and further away from the road surface.  I gently laid the bike over on its tipover bars and took a step back to really assess the situation, which looked dire.  The burro was quickly approaching the point where gravity would start moving it of its own accord down the side of Mount Evans if I didn’t do something to stop it.  The best kind of learning experience in the making.

I’d like to take a moment to give an unsolicited plug for MC Enterprises’ Canyon Cages…  They’ve served me time and again since installing them in the National Forest outside Glacier National Park two years ago, and they have prevented the breakage of many a component in any of my numerous drops; and some of them were quite *ahem* severe.

Within 30 seconds a man on his way down the mountain in a silver Silverado saw that I was in distress and asked if I needed any help.  This has been a consistent experience in all of my travels thus far; one of the beautiful things I have observed about this country (and it is something that I think has been overshadowed by the media’s continuous and increasing fear mongering) is that no matter where I have been, strangers have always recognized when I am in trouble and have been overwhelmingly willing to do what they can to help.  Considering that I’m from Tennessee, I suppose I shouldn’t find it surprising that I always find myself relying on the kindness of strangers.  Then again, trouble coming my way has never really made me blanche.

Folks tried to convince me to carry a concealed pistol on this trip, “Just for protection…”  I asked protection from what, exactly?  Thieves?  Rapists?  Bears?  Kleptomaniacal bear rapists?  Granted, I camp in some pretty remote places…  But what are the chances that one of the half dozen or so people who pass my campsite want to murder me, or the other campers in the area where I’m camping want to steal all my stuff?  I’ve never had a single thing stolen in the past, or really had anything bad happen in ALL my years of camping going back to my childhood…  Besides, I have always held the opinion that adding a gun to an altercation tends to make things worse, not better.  And to be honest, if someone needs a sleeping bag enough that they feel the need to steal it from me, they clearly need it more than I do.  I just wish they would let me give them $150 instead of taking my bed and creating a crisis for me that night; I find the motive to be sincere but the execution is just plain inconsiderate.  In other words, it would piss me off enough that I might want to murder someone.  Now add a gun to THAT situation…

I do carry pepper spray, an assortment of pocket knives and a heavy steel handaxe, and I can also be a pretty intimidating dude at 6’2 - 240lbs, so I don’t consider myself completely defenseless.  Nor will I stand by like some modern day Jesus and turn the other cheek as someone accosts me and/or tries to take my shiz.  But I already regularly leave behind things like my hat, gloves, keys and occasionally my $1000 iPhone, so just the idea of being responsible for a lethal weapon absolutely terrifies me.

I reached the summit of Mount Evans as the sun dipped inexorably toward the Western horizon.




(The top of the mountain also featured the skeleton of a restaurant built back in the 1930s that exploded due to a propane leak buildup in the ‘70s.  It perched as the highest altitude restaurant in the world for many decades.)

I can honestly say the vistas from the summit were literally breathtaking (I found myself leaning on railings to take photos – the gasping wasn’t helping me steady my hands).  And once again, more life was to be found at the highest paved point in North America…  If you can find the Marmot in the panoramic photo of the restaurant you get a cookie!

A sundial stands on the northern face of the summit lot with its dial facing Longs Peak, the highest point in Rocky Mountain National Park.  You can see six other major peaks of Colorado’s Front Range from the top of Mount Evans facing to the North.





I stayed at the top taking photos until the temperature started to get to me…  Upon returning to the bike and checking the thermometer, I found it had fallen in the past 25 minutes by about 25 degrees.  Combined with wind chill I’m sure the temperature was below freezing.  I donned both my fleece and rain jacket and made my way back down from the top of Mount Evans as twilight gathered around me.  Camping at 9,400 feet would prove to make for a cold evening.
 
Great write up! Sounds like an amazing trip.  Speaking of Longs peak, I climbed that a few moons agiago.  It was spectacular, so I imagine Mt Evans is amazing.
 
Good for you Dan, I rode up Mount Evans in 2007 on my 550cc Yamaha Vision, scared me the whole route, not much room for any errors on that road!  I could not believe the number of people riding bicycles to the top on the day I went.

Next chapter.......
 
July 8, 2016

Colorado – Mount Evans Day 2

The night turned out to be cold, dropping to the mid-30s, but I stayed warm in my hammock with my topquilt and underquilt…  and I woke in the morning to the natural beauty of my neighbors fornicating like banshees.  The sun had only just begun to cast a blue haze through the forest around me, and it was still cold enough to keep me in the hammock even though I needed to go pee pretty badly.  This meant I could do nothing but lay there and try to ignore my wonderfully inconsiderate neighbors.  Did I mention they were camped about 150 feet away?  HALF A FOOTBALL FIELD AWAY?

Eventually I got fed up with being forced to listen to all of their unnecessarily obnoxious pornish moaning…  It was as if they weren’t aware that nylon is indeed a fabric that will transmit sound waves without an ounce of resistance…  That, or they just didn’t give a shit.  After 25 minutes or so (one tends to lose touch with time when trying to wooo-saaaaah one’s way through such a traumatic experience) I took a deep breath and yelled as clearly as I could at the top of my lungs, “JUST FINISH ALREADY!!”

They continued on as though no one had just obviously objected to what they must have thought was an enjoyable experience for everyone involved in their unfettered coupling.  Then members of the other ten or so neighboring campsites started yelling variously salty degrees of, “Shut up!”

They finally quit their loud rutting.  I should have started sarcastically slow clapping.  Ah, missed opportunities.  I went back to sleep in peace…  Just another reason why I love Gatorade bottles.

I continued sleeping through most of the morning, and started the day off late heading into Golden to pick up some much-needed insect repellant and various camp gear knick knacks I had discovered I needed.  On the way in I passed by Clear Creek Canyon, and saw something one doesn’t normally see back east…


(There were signs warning against entering the water in rafts, boats or canoes…  I can see why.)


(One little climber… Two little climbers…)


(Apparently this is a resting position.)


(I doubt I would have the intestinal fortitude to do something like this.)

I made the rounds in town, grabbed some Mexican taco salad from a local eatery and returned to once again summit Mt. Evans as the sun was passing back down beyond the western mountains.  This time the gates were attended by park rangers…  Who just happened to be closing up shop for the night and were waving everyone through.  Double score!  And I am so incredibly glad to have made the trip for a second time, because I met a bunch of cool kids near the top of the mountain.


(The coolest kids around.)


(I felt eyes watching me from every direction...)


(In the distance you can see the Meyer–Womble Observatory, once the highest – now third-highest – astral observatory in the world.)

I stayed up longer this time and began my ride back down as darkness enveloped the vistas around me, but found myself starving when I got back to the campsite.  I decided to try out my campsite cooking skills and made myself some chicken spaghetti.  Something of a disappointment…  The chicken turned out nice and crispy/juicy, but it didn’t taste right with the marinara sauce.  I knew there was a reason you mix red meat with red sauce and white meat with white sauce!



I’ll be heading on through the Eisenhower Tunnel to Steamboat Springs tomorrow.  I’m looking forward to seeing more of the Rockies as I head north!
 
July 9 – July 12

Steamboat Springs, Colorado (Rabbit Ears Pass)




(There’s nothing quite so marvelous as a Rocky Mountain morning.)

Fortunately I didn’t experience another unique wakeup call, and packed the bike up to head on north towards Steamboat Springs.  I hadn’t decided exactly where I was going to camp, yet; I wanted to maintain the possibility of spontaneity, and I have found picking a good camping spot is the key to having a pleasant outdoors experience.  In other words, I like to be 100% flexible when it comes to choosing to camp somewhere else.  I headed down from the mountain to I-70 and headed west through the heart of the Rockies.




(Since I was eventually headed into the desert, I needed to figure out a way to secure my 2L insulated jug to the bike… I was pleased with the results.)

I cut north at Silverthorne and headed up lonely Hwy 9, hitting a patch of gravel construction zone that dragged on for 30 miles.  I was happy to take a break in Kremmling and rehydrate…  While there I stopped in at a CarQuest and found the perfect replacement for my broken-in-all-but-spirit air compressor.  It fits into the space just above my right rear turn signal in the saddle bag, and after some quick adaptation it now runs off my two-pin SAE port on the right side of the bike.


(I don’t do selfies…  But I’ve been told I need to get over it.)


(Good ole’ fashioned Dad Humor vis a vis advertising.)

The road smoothed out as I transitioned onto US40, although I must have passed at least 100 “loose gravel on road” signs all the way to my first campsite.  The GPS directed me off the highway about 35 miles south of Steamboat Springs in what looked like a construction equipment staging area.  There were a number of highway-sized bulldozers and earth movers parked neatly behind a mound of dirt with a deeply rutted jeep track leading north into the woods.  I do some crazy things on this motorcycle, but I tend to regret doing REALLY crazy things because I inevitably end up getting stuck – and that inevitability is instantaneously doubled if the bike is fully loaded.  I pulled around the bulldozers and parked the bike to see what my options might be.  I scrambled to the top of the dirt pile to get a better view and spotted a small trail leading off into the trees to the south.  Upon scrambling down, I had just taken up the trail when I made the spontaneous decision to camp elsewhere.


(Did I mention it was my FIRST campsite?)

I found another likely candidate site that was 10 miles closer to Steamboat but considerably more isolated; the GPS was guiding me 4 miles off of the highway near Rabbit Ears Pass onto a county road…  Usually not a good sign in mountain regions.  The road surface could be anything from smooth pavement to nature-lain cobblestone, but you never know until you get there.  It turned out to be a graded dirt road that passed through what I have dubbed Rabbit Ears Meadows.  Let it be so known.




(I can’t get enough of Colorado’s wildflowers.)

I rode on the four miles to the GPS coordinates, and the road stayed fairly flat and well-groomed; only one spot was washed out, but otherwise it was a fantastic change of pace from the thousand miles I had traveled on pavement.  The campsite ended up in a beautiful spot just off the road at an altitude of about 9,600ft.  It was the perfect staging area for some forays to the surrounding countryside.


(It even had a strong Verizon LTE data signal!  A rare gem indeed.)


(I only glamp in style.)


(The weather was perfect for my whole stay…  Mid-70s in the daytime, low-40s at night.)


(I even got some furry visitors at my sittin’ spot in the Eastern Rockies.)

I ended up spending several days in Steamboat, exploring the sights and enjoying (or despising) some of the local cuisine.  The next day I headed back south to check out Rocky Mountain National Park, and once again saw something you certainly don’t see every day.  Of course, this isn’t my FIRST time on two wheels near a forest fire…  But that’s a story for another time.


(A tract was burning along the northeastern side of Routt National Forest.)


(Brave firefighters headed to battle the blaze.)

I followed US40 through Granby and turned off to head toward Grand Lake and the gateway to Trail Ridge Road, but stopped for some late lunch at a Mexican restaurant on Grand Lake’s main street.


(Classic VWs are in season this year.)

I was craving comfort food and was therefore unfortunate enough to order what was simultaneously both the most expensive and most disgusting plate of nachos I have ever eaten.  It was a giant platter of round stadium nachos (like I could buy in bulk at Dollar General) drenched in melted cheese and surrounded by various tasty looking fixins’, which sounds delightful, until you dig beneath the warm top layer to find what is underneath to be unmelted cheese and cold bean dip with ground beef mixed in.  I ended up sending it back suggesting, “Maybe put it back in the oven for ten or fifteen more minutes.”  It came back five minutes later, now luke-warm and sporting a newly formed lake of oil consuming the right quarter of the plate.  When the manager passed and asked if everything was okay, I politely told her, “To be honest, this is just… gross.  I think this recipe needs to come off the menu until it’s fixed.”  I paid the check for the horrible food and left a good tip for the horrible service – at one point I sat there for 15 minutes watching my glass not being refilled, and, after being unable to get anyone’s attention from the corner of the bar where they had stashed me, I decided to approach the bar to fix the problem myself) and hit the bathroom on my way out.


(I really shouldn’t be surprised they have a urinal with a **** pic stenciled into the drain…  Their food was shitty enough, but now I really feel violated.)

On the way out of town, all of my lunch woes were washed away after I chased down this fellow and his grandson and asked to snap some pictures…





It was also a gorgeous day for some landscape photography…


(When’s the last time you saw sailboats at 8,000 feet?)


(I added a new sticker!)

I headed up to the gates of Rocky Mountain National Park, but sadly they had just closed the shop when I arrived.  I decided to make my way back to camp via Walden, going north up CO125 and hooking back south via CO14 across to US40 and camp.  Along the way I came across an incredible monolith that stands as evidence of the awesome power of nature.

(This vertical stone rift towered well over a hundred feet tall, and stretched like a rocky spine up and away over the ridgeline.)


(I came across this gentleman camping a few miles in towards my own campsite…  I pulled over to introduce myself and take some pictures of his cool setup.)

I took the next few days with three goals in mind: to relax, enjoy the pleasant weather and make forays to see some of the local sights.  The former took precedence, and I ended up spending many hours at the campsite relaxing in the camp chair, editing photos, and performing small maintenance items that had popped up on the bike due to my rough daily commute. 


(My morning commute)


(Experience has taught me to carry more tools than I probably need…  But it pays off when you’re in the middle of nowhere!)

In fact, in the process of checking my front tire’s pressure before my daily outing, the valve core got stuck open and I soon found myself miles from any paved road with a flat front tire.  Boy was I glad I picked up that new air compressor just a couple days ago!  I pulled the core to inspect it, then screwed it back in and pumped up the tire, but the core continued to leak.  Instead of getting frustrated and trying to tighten the core until it stripped the threads inside the stem (yes, I was once this person), I pulled it back out to re-inspect it.  Everything looked fine…  I didn’t have any spare cores, so I had to figure something out pretty quick.  I didn’t have anything in my venerable tool bag to solve this problem, so I asked myself that timeless question, “What would MacGuiver do?” 

MacGuiver would rub a piece of dried, hardened pine sap on the rubber gasket to apply a slightly sticky yet pliable crayon-like paste to help the rubber seal against the inside of the metal valve stem.  With fingers crossed, I screwed the valve core back into place and re-engaged the compressor.  After fifteen minutes (it turns out that air compressors don’t work well at 9,600ft) I pulled the clip off of the valve stem and…  The valve core held!  I thanked MacGuiver and sacrificed a goat in His benevolent honor.

I never did get around to making it to Rocky Mountain National Park; I reasoned that I had ridden the high-altitude Trail Ridge Road bisecting the national park on my way back home in 2014, so I decided to do something that mixed nostalgia and adrenaline.  On the way there, I met a man who introduced himself as “Elusive.”



“That’s my trail name, of course…” he added as a quick follow-up.  I found Elusive walking down a lonely stretch of highway that was quite literally in the middle of nowhere.  He was a wiry older man who had obviously been hiking for quite a while, as his pack was well-worn and his focus was wholly on the route ahead of him.  As he receded in my rear-view mirror I thought to myself, “You know, I have that last cold Gatorade in my cooler…  I’d bet he would appreciate that infinitely more than I ever could right now.”  I swung the bike around and pulled in behind the hiker, tooting the horn a couple of times from a distance so I wouldn’t startle him.  Upon grabbing his attention and offering an, “ice-cold Gatorade” he nodded emphatically and I pulled the bike to the other side of the highway where I had a bit more space to park.

Elusive turned out to be a 72 year long-distance solo hiker who was hiking the Continental Divide Trail from Mexico to Canada.  He was only on the highway for a long stretch up to Rabbit Ears Pass (only a few miles from my campsite), and gratefully accepted the cold Gatorade as we chatted about our previous adventures.  Two years prior Elusive had hiked the length of the Appalachian Trail, and planned to take on the Pacific Crest Trail after walking to Canada.  I have always held a lot of respect and admiration for a person who has the drive to travel long distances on their own power alone; my parents always exhibited that kind of muscle-powered wanderlust, and I have learned that it is really in the effort from which you gain the reward.

Upon reaching Winter Park, I wandered around for a while trying to figure out where my damn destination actually was.  I made it just before they closed, and I got in line for the ride of my life.


(Winter Park has Colorado’s longest Alpine Slide, I haven’t been here since I was about 6 years old.  I can still remember the experience vividly.)

(ALPINE SLIDE VIDEOS COMING SOON)

I made my way back to my final night at camp as the sun was setting over the rolling hills.  Eastern Colorado possesses a striking beauty that is wholly unique.






(You never quite know what you’ll come across during the golden hour…)



Temperatures had dropped to the high 20s in the pre-dawn hours that morning, and I knew I would want to collect some firewood to help keep warm after the sun had set.  By about 10pm the temperature had dropped to freezing, but I was all set for a lovely evening by the campfire.




(And it only got colder from there.)


(Tardigrades are Nature's ultimate survivors. The surprisingly common micro-herbivore has weathered FIVE extinction-level events (a.k.a. The Apocalypse*es*), can survive both in the vacuum of space and in pressures up to 6x those found at the bottom of the ocean, temperatures from 0K to more than 300F, and has been successfully revived after being frozen for THIRTY YEARS. They have earned a shirt in my collection.  Also, there is a fire.)


(Safety Tip:  If you sit too close to a campfire, your pants WILL catch on fire.)
 
I am completely hooked Dan. I have patiently been checking the site for your next update.  How long are you going to keep me hanging?  Unfortunately I don't do facebook. Safe travels.
 
Enjoying your adventure Dan!!  Keep the pictures and comments coming!

:motonoises:  :motonoises:  :great:
 
Sorry everyone, I got a job offer to return to teaching while I was staying in Vegas, and the trip quickly turned from a journey into a vacation...  Which means I stopped writing updates and started enjoying myself full-time.  I still have all my notes and photos, so I WILL be finishing the blog (unlike last time), it will just take a little time.  I promise I'm not dead, but I am back in TN!  Further updates to come.
 
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