It's A Small World After All

Before leaving for this trip, work colleague Gerry and I planned to meet following my return from vacation.  Ironically, he had a vacation planned for the same time, so we agreed to touch base when we both return next week.

This morning, while walking down main street in Breckenridge, I happened to glance over at three people sitting at an outdoor table at a restaurant.  I did a double-take...he did a double-take...and I realized it was Gerry, his wife, and one of his sons.

After digesting our amazement, we chatted for a few minutes; they were on their way to Estes Park and were merely stopping in Breckenridge for lunch.  Had I not decided to walk a block or so further down Main Street, and had they not stopped in Breck for lunch, our ships would have passed in the night.

After my own lunch, Sam and I headed up Boreas Pass Road to hike the Sally Barber Mine trail.  The fairly easy trail led to the remains of the Sally Barber Mine, a lead and zinc mine near Mt. Baldy.  The mine shaft house and boilers from the stationary steam engines remained at the remarkably intact site, where Sam enjoyed a little shade before we headed back down to the truck.

Blood on the Tires

After dealing with a few work issues in the morning, Sam and I set off for the Tennessee Pass, between Minturn and Leadville.  At 10,200 feet, the Tennessee Pass was the highest mainline railroad route in the United States. Originally constructed in 1881 as a narrow-gauge line by the Denver and Rio Grande, the route became the Southern Pacific's primary trans-continental route following its merger with the Rio Grande in 1988.  The Union Pacific bought the Southern Pacific in 1996 and ran the last train over the line in 1997.

The pass was also the location of Camp Hale, a Nordic training center for troops of what would become the 10th Mountain Division of the US Army during World War II.  Constructed in 1942, the camp housed nearly 16,000 soldiers for training in skiing, mountain climbing, and cross-country survival.  The concrete foundations of the field house, several barracks, and other buildings remain.

I unwittingly stumbled upon stage 3 of the Gore-Tex Transrockies Run, a six-stage trail race from Buena Vista to Beaver Creek.  The race features some of the top distance and trail runners in the world, and today's 24-mile stage took runners from Leadville to Camp Hale.  Sam and I hiked around a bit and watched runners finish the last half-mile of the stage.

Sam and I then returned to the campground for a late lunch, and I decided to take a quick ride over the Tiger Road off-road trail before dinner.  The trail sounded easy, it was nearby, and I figured I could get it in quickly, particularly if I drove the truck to the trailhead and started riding there.

The ride was a little trickier than I thought but quite scenic, including a couple of old cabins and a deteriorating dredge in the middle of a small pond.  I rode for a few miles and decided to turn back, hoping tonight would be the night I would finally break out the grill.

Perhaps the thought of a dee-lish Schnucks turkey burger was clouding my mind when I approached a mudhole in the middle of a rock run that I had crossed on the way in with no problem.  I thought for a second about trying to jump it but decided instead to ride through it, and, in an instant, that became the worst decision of this trip so far.  While traveling at a good clip, the front wheel of the bike slammed into what I realized too late was a sharp, deep, flat wall at the head of the puddle.  The bike stopped instantly, and the rear wheel flipped up and over the front of the bike, flipping it and me upside down.  I was still clipped into the pedals, so I went over, bringing the bike down on top of me in the middle of the rocks.  I unclipped and tried to assess the damage as blood streamed down my arm and hands.  I knew there was nothing I could do there; I was in the middle of nowhere, nearly three miles from the trailhead and the truck, so I righted the bike and rode back to the truck.

The damage seems limited to cuts and bruises on my hands, a mildly sprained wrist, a pretty big abrasion near my elbow, and bruises on my back, hips, and legs.  One bruise on my right leg perfectly matches my handlebar end, right down to the "S" for Specialized.  I had hoped for a less painful and more useful souvenir from this trip.

Big Fish Story

Ominous clouds rolled over the mountains while I walked Sam this morning, and I feared what I knew would be one of the highlights of this trip - a fly fishing lesson - was in peril. Light sprinkles fell on Big Blue's windshield all the way in to town.

At Breckenridge Outfitters, I was...well...outfitted with waders and boots, given my license for the day, and introduced to my guide, Mike. We hopped in his truck and headed back out of town for a less-popular section of the Blue River.

From the moment the lesson began, I realized fly fishing, for all its beauty and purity, is as much a science as it is an art. Within the first ten minutes, we had brushed upon the variety of casts, dry flies and nymph flies, inside, outside, and middle seams, entomology, fish psychology, and I'm certain other topics I missed while looking at Mike with the expression of the RCA dog.

But the complexity, science, and study of the sport only added to its quickly growing appeal to me. After nearly three hours of fishing, praise from Mike for my casting, and one lovely little brown trout, I realized danger may lie ahead. I could really get into fly fishing. I could take it home with me to the rivers around Branson, I could bring it back out West when I travel, I could get completely wrapped up in the art and science of an incredibly pure, beautiful, and intellectual sport that respects and pays tribute to nature.

After lunch in the trailer, Sam and I headed for the Saints John trail near Montezuma, east and a little north of Breckenridge. Hiking the trail required parking three-quarters of a mile from Montezuma and walking through the town and up to the trailhead. The trail itself was easy; I realized just how easy it was when a Cadillac Escalade passed me on it. But I was determined to hike to one of the abandoned mining towns in the area, and the Saints John trail rewarded me with the ruins of the old town and mines.

It's How Much Farther?

I've moved away from my old tendency to plan every minute of a vacation and to fill it with a mandatory checklist of things to see, do, try, eat, photograph, and drive past quickly as a windshield tourist in order I could at least say, "I was there!" Perhaps it's age, perhaps it was the realization that vacations like that felt a little to akin to work, or perhaps it is just plain laziness. Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, my new approach is much more relaxing and allows for more spontaneity.

However, once I settle on doing something, I usually try to do a little research to find the best - the best breakfast, the best museum, the best scenic overlook. With today's goal of hiking in mind, I discerned McCullough Gulch is recognized as the must-do hike in Summit County, so I emailed directions to my phone, loaded Sam in the truck, and headed off.

The directions took me south of Breckenridge and indicated parking at the trailhead was a little over two miles up a gravel road. I started to point Big Blue up that road but became nervous when the road narrowed to a single lane with vehicles parked on what might serve as a shoulder for ants. That trend appeared to continue for as far as I could see, and even though I'll take Big Blue over almost any other vehicle in a head-to-head duel, I decided the best course of action was to back down the road and park in a gravel lot at the bottom. That decision added almost two and a half miles each way - five miles total - to the hike for the day, but I saw no other alternative.

Until I began hiking up the road, that is, and learned had I charged forward, I would have been greeted by a wide-open, two lane gravel road that climbed up the mountain. By the time this valuable little piece of information became available to me, Sam and I were well on our way, so we continued walking, holding our breath every time someone wiser than I drove past and kicked up dust.

We finally made the trailhead, where a kindly guide gave me directions. The hike was all that was promised and more; the two-mile or so climb up the mountain rewarded Sam and me with waterfalls about a mile and a half up and a cold, shallow, translucent glacial lake at the top of the mountain. I reveled in the solitude and stillness, and Sam reveled in traipsing through the falls and swimming in the cold lake. He returned the favor by pooping not once but twice right at the top of the mountain. I would have preferred to pack out only memories and a few pictures rather than two bags of Labrador-sized poop, but I guess when ya gotta go, ya gotta go...

By the time we made it back down to the truck, over four hours had elapsed. We were tired and hungry, but I was glad we had made the trek. Next time, though, I'm driving up that road.

As afternoon clouds rolled in over the Ten Mile Range, we headed back to the campground for an afternoon and evening of napping (both of us) and reading (just me - Sam's a great dog but not that great).

Mud on the Tires

I awoke with three goals for the day: Exercise Sam, cave in and buy a bicycle helmet, and go to the Asleep at the Wheel performance in Breck in the evening. I achieved all three plus one I hadn't intended.

Sam needed a little exercise and attention after two days of driving, so we hopped in the truck (well, Sam doesn't hop any more - he puts his front feet on the rear seat and waits for his gullible mom to pick up his caboose and lift it in) and headed out for a brief hike and a few moments of Sam playing in the Blue River. I kept his leash on, though, knowing free rein would mean me having to go in after him to get him out of the water at some point.

We headed back to the trailer, where he promptly sprawled on his bed as though he had just finished the Iditarod, so I got on the bike and headed into town. Stop one was Breckenridge Outfitters, where I signed up for a flyfishing lesson and trip on Monday morning. Stop two was lunch at Crepes a la Cart, the pleasures of which had been revealed to me by a checker at Trader Joe's back in St. Louis before leaving for the trip. I didn't go full-bore with one of the sweet crepes and decided to mitigate the crepe damage by choosing the veggie lover's crepe, but it really was quite good.

Then it was off to Christy Sports for a helmet. I was last in their Breckenridge store a few years ago, and the disparity between then and now was shocking. The rows and rows upon bikes, the rooms of ski and board equipment and clothing, the myriad sales and equipment staff...nearly all had vanished, leaving a lonely sales person, a few racks of sale clothing, and some rental bikes out front. Clearly an idyllic retreat like Breckenridge isn't immune to economic woes, and I left successful in my helmet quest but saddened by the store's apparent fate.

The visit was productive beyond the helmet, however; the sales person was very helpful in answering my questions regarding which downhill trails would be best suited for a Midwesterner used to simple singletracks and not in I-live-in-Colorado-and-bike-every-day-and-eat-tofu shape. She recommended loading my bike on the Breckenridge lift and riding up Peak 8, where there were several easy trails and one more technical trail. She also indicated riding my bike up the road to Peak 8 wasn't a terrible ride but was obviously more difficult than taking the lift.

I departed, information, helmet, and bike trails guide in hand, and started heading for the campground when I saw a sign for the road to Peak 8. Without thinking things through - or thinking at all, really - I quickly turned left onto the road and started pedaling. And pedaling some more. And more and more, in lower and lower gears, until I realized I was very near the top. Now, lest the dear reader insinuate from this I am in some kind of impressive cardiovascular shape, allow me to state unequivocally the uphill climb kicked my tail, hard. Had I considered any of this in advance, I would have talked myself out of it. But there I found myself, quite proud of the achievement.

That pride - perhaps combined with oxygen deprivation and exhaustion - provoked me for some unknown reason to choose the Colorado Trail at the trailhead. I reasoned that any trail with such an uninspired name - as opposed to Shock Hill or Boreas Pass - must be the easiest trail of all, and I rewarded myself for the uphill climb by choosing it. Or so I thought.

Almost three hours later, bruised and battered from brush and after near falls, hanging my pedals up on rocks and tree stumps, riding through mud, water, and rock the size of railroad ballast, almost overshooting switchbacks, and trying not to look down at sheer dropoffs less than a foot from my wheels, I was again at the bottom of the mountain where I had begun.

Despite my near-misses (and in the case of one particular tree, a near-hit) and my exhaustion, I loved every single minute of it, from the quiet moments of reflection in the open meadows to the sheer terror of navigating tree root- and rock-ridden sharp downhills at speeds much higher than a novice like me should. I found glory in the scenery and pride in myself, more for tackling it than surviving it without having to find my insurance card.

The pedal back to the campground felt like a ride around the block with training wheels after the downhill, and I showered, read the bike guide and found the Colorado was the hardest of the trails after all, and crashed before heading to the Asleep at the Wheel concert back at Riverwalk.

I loved this concert, plain and simple. I've always enjoyed western swing. I appreciate authenticity in music - authenticity of time, of place, of the story - and it's hard to get much more authentic than western swing. Asleep at the Wheel played a tight, seamless, disciplined yet riveting set that drew heavily upon Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys as well as the band's own original work. I enjoyed every second of it, as did the dozens of couples who danced along.

Another good day.

Rocky Mountain Marimba

The morning dawned crisper and cooler than I had expected, which was a pleasant change from the heat of the previous afternoon. I slept in a bit, dealt with a few emails from work, and started preparing to depart. I rolled out of the Goodland KOA without indulging in the all-you-could-possibly-stomach pancake breakfast.

The drive to Denver was smooth and quiet, and the drive through Denver was predictably slow. My initial excitement at my first glimpse of the mountains in the horizon turned into a small case of the nerves as I climbed out of Denver and began counting the stranded fifth wheels, travel trailers, and motorhomes on the side of the interstate. I turned off the iPod to concentrate on the sounds of the truck working hard - but thankfully, not too hard - as we lugged up and then paced down through the mountains. My first solo mountain drive with 15,000 pounds either pulling or pushing me was quiet and uneventful. Love ya, Big Blue.

Tiger Run RV Resort was just as I had remembered from a Vintage Airstream Rally held there a few years back - lovely resort, fancy rigs, a few noses too high up in the air at this or any altitude. I scored a back-in Lodge site near, well, the lodge, and I was able to back the fiver in on the first shot. Love ya yet some more, Big Blue.

I unhitched without a snag and then managed to take a grease bath in the simple act of unloading my bike. I haven't ridden this bike for a while, and getting reacquainted with the clipless pedals cost me a few minutes and very nearly a scraped shin. After that aggravation, lunch and some downtime were in order before I took off on the four-mile ride to Breckenridge.

I like and almost love Breckenridge. It has more than its share of historic structures, it's perched alongside the Blue River in the middle of the Ten Mile Range, and it's a very walkable and bikeable town.

The box office for the Riverwalk Center was open, so I picked up my tickets for the Breckenridge Music Festival Orchestra concert tonight and Asleep at the Wheel tomorrow night. After watching oodles of other bike riders, almost all with helmets, I decided to take a ride over to Christy Sports to buy a helmet, which would have been my first in, oh, thirty-six years. But they were already closed for the day, leaving me to wonder if this child of the quit-yer-cryin' generation of helmetless bike riders will actually succumb to the political pressure - and, I guess, the common sense - of wearing a helmet. I then loaded up with some groceries and pedaled back for a quick shower before meeting college friend Jen for dinner and the concert.

I've missed seeing Jen, and it was remarkable how having a girls' night out with her for the first time in fifteen years felt both familiar and strange. But good friendships always feel more familiar than strange irrelevant of the passage of time, and I was reminded of the familiar each time I caught her hiding her boredom during the concert.

I enjoyed aspects of the concert; Khachaturian's Piano Concerto in D-Flat Major featured a brilliant piano soloist and felt, in particularly the first and second movements, reminiscent of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff but with a more modern flair. It also featured a flexatone, a rarely seen instrument most often replaced by the musical saw. I enjoyed the piece; give me a good, conflicted German or Russian composer with a bit of a tortured soul and keep your happy Austrians.

The next concerto was written for the marimba, and a marimba is pretty cool for one movement. By the third movement, all I could focus on was wondering how easy it would be to snap marimba mallets in half. Would it require breaking them over my knee? I think not. I would have liked to have tried at the twenty-three -minute point of that concerto.

When the concert ended, Jen and I said our goodbyes before she headed back to Wheat Ridge. I trotted back to the truck in the cold air and took a slightly evil pleasure in the ability of the sight of a girl behind the wheel of a big crew cab dually in a small parking lot to part a sea of people before heading back to Tiger Run and the virtues of a comfy bed.

Day One

Anticipation to drive across Kansas didn't awaken me the morning of departure day, as I doubt such a thing exists. Lila's barking was the culprit, and my typical big-driving-day-please-don't-let-anything-go-wrong butterflies kept me awake.

The drive across Missouri was uneventful, but as usual, the trek across I-70 through my adopted state left me pondering two related questions. Why must Missouri have - and advertise so heavily - umpteen thousand adult stores, and why does the owner of Passion's - yes, that's Passion's with a possessive apostrophe - feel the need to add that apostrophe? For years I've been bugged by that establishment's billboards, but I finally reconciled that aggravation yesterday by convincing myself that Passion is actually a large cross-dressing man with killer calves and a slight five o'clock shadow who is living out his entrepreneurial dream.

I love Kansas City. It's always felt like the edge of the mythological American West. It has the greatest architectural salvage store in the country, and its neo-Classical Union Station is one of the finest railroad stations in the world. I stood under its clock at the turn of the millennium.

Part of my love for Kansas City traces back to a trip to the FFA (for you city kids, that would be Future Farmers of America - hey, I had horses, and it offered as much credit as did my human anatomy, physics, and calculus classes!) National Convention in Kansas City during my junior year in high school. During that trip, I ate at my first real steakhouse, saw my first stockyards, and snuck into the then boarded-up Union Station. I also sat on a plastic folding chair on the dirt arena floor of the American Royal and watched a concert by a relatively unknown country singer; I thought his songs had some broad appeal, his voice was fair and mildly distinctive, that he was unusually active on stage, and that his shirt was horrendous. His name was Garth Brooks.

The drive across Kansas was, well, a drive across Kansas. Something about its undulating rhythms under an expansive blue sky render it an unappreciated gem of a state through which to drive. However, I knew I could depend upon massive bug splats on the windshield, scenery punctuated by wind farms...

...and triple-digit temperatures:

I made a reservation for the Goodland, Kansas, KOA about 200 miles out, knowing it would force me to push the outer limit of my driving goal for the day rather than to fade and stop short in WaKeeney. I set up, crashed on the couch, and was thankful for a good first day.