Spring Break, 1977

I had nothing to do for my Spring Break my first year at CU, so when Paul proposed that we ride freight trains out to California, it seemed like a good idea. We went down to the Denver freight yards and met up with Ugly Jim, Margie Kirby and Harry Esteve and started our adventure.

Paul went down into the yard and and learned from one of the switchmen that there was a mixed freight bound for Salt Lake City, all made up on track 19. All we had to do was wait for them to hook up the power, and off we'd go. "Ride the power" was good advice. As soon as the string of engines was attached, we climbed up the fifth engine and settled into the cab. It was March so it was still pretty chilly out: riding in a locomotive was surely a lot more comfortable than riding in an open boxcar.

It was already evening when we got underway, and it was dark as we climbed the grade out of Arvada toward Big Ten Curve. As we started up the four percent, we saw a fireman coming along the catwalk. It was only a matter of time before he reached the fifth engine and found us all there. With five of us there, there wasn't a lot of extra room in the cab. Ugly Jim had his back to the door when the fireman opened it, so he fell out onto the catwalk as the door opened. We didn't know what to expect. But as the fireman shined his light around and took in five new faces, he said, "Welcome aboard!"

He told us not to touch any of the controls, and then showed us where the refrigerator was, and the spigot for fresh water. "How far are you going?" We explained our plans to get to Salt Lake City and then ride the Southern Pacific out to San Francisco. "Well look out for the bull in Salt Lake."

The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful, but there were a few things worth remembering. Air inside the Moffat Tunnel was pretty bad. I could feel myself getting coated with diesel oil as we passed through. There must have been at least one engine that wasn't firing on all cylinders.

I probably dozed at bit, but it was full day when we pulled off on a siding near Bond. We waited there for the longest time. We were sure we would be discovered and kicked off the train out in the middle of nowhere. But after about 4 hours, the train was under way again.

I next remember that we were going up a long grade in the western desert. I thought it was very pretty and wanted to remember the place. Conveniently, there was a sign at the siding announcing that we had reached Soldier Summit -- not too far from Salt Lake City.  We arrived in SLC around 2:30 or 3 in the afternoon. Paul asked around and found out that they were going to be making up a Bay Pig and sending it off about 6pm. We had 3 hours to blow, so we marched into town and took the tour of the Mormon Tabernacle. In spite of our diesel-coated exteriors we were treated to the usual spiel, including hearing a pin drop.

We returned to the freight yards in time to be harrassed by the yard bull. He asked for our IDs and wrote down notes. He said something like, "Don't let me see you hanging around here." being definitely not in our plans. We also clambered aboard the power on an SP freight bound for San Francisco and settled in for the long ride. Then, we climbed over the pass into the Humboldt River Valley. It was day again as we pulled through Reno.

Ugly Jim had brought along his cross-country skis. He planned to go skiing at Truckee. So when the train stopped for a crew change in Truckee, he said goodbye and clambered down. We waved goodbye as the train headed up the grade toward Donner Pass.

Going down the grade on the far side of the pass toward Sacramento was spectacular. I remember watching the afternoon sun glint off the trees as we snaked around curve after curve on the downgrade. It was fully dark when we reached Stockton, but we still had some hours to go to reach Oakland. I remember climbing over a hill with the lights of a large city below. Finally we descended into the Bay Area and headed north toward Oakland. We didn't want to go all the way into Oakland, so as the train slowed in an industrial area, we jumped off the train one by one. I made sure to be running in the direction of the train, and hit the ground running. Somehow, Margie got turned around and hit the ground facing the back of the train -- falling over on her backpack. She wasn't hurt, so we collected ourselves and went off to try to find Harry's aunt Polly's house in Berkeley.

Harry's aunt Polly was a real estate agent there. She let us stay in her condo while we were visiting. I think we may have spent the night hanging out in a park in Berkeley, because it was broad day when we finally were able to get cleaned up. One by one we took baths, and each of us left the bath water the color of used motor oil. Margie came out of the bath singing, "I feel pretty". Indeed.

Paul -- as usual -- had things to do, but made sure that I was well taken care-of. We went together to the top of the hill behind Berkeley on the free shuttle (the Humphrey Go-Bart). Another time, we went on the BART to the Exploratorium. One evening, he wanted to go to a party at the ZAP (Zeta Alpha Pi?) house on the Stanford Campus. I decided I wanted to look up Gary Robson while I was there, so I rode the train down to San Jose and went to his apartment. There was no answer, so I found a payphone and rang him up. He had moved, so he gave me his new address.

I had a distorted view of distances, so I thought I could walk to his new apartment in Sunnyvale in a short while. I walked the whole 8 miles from San Jose to Sunnyvale along El Camino Real. I did find Gary's new apartment, but there was still no answer. It was close to midnight by then, so he might have been asleep. I hiked back down to the main road and continued on to Stanford. I wandered around the campus looking for the ZAP house, but did not find it. It was in the wee hours by then, so there were no students walking around from whom I could ask directions. Finally, I went back to the train station to wait for the train to take me back to Berkeley.

While I was crossing El Camino Real, a cop car pulled up and stopped me. I explained that I was just going to the train station so I could get back up the peninsula and go to bed. But looking at my license, they saw that I was underage. Thinking that I might be running away from home, they asked for the number so they could call my parents and make sure it was OK for me to be wandering around the Stanford campus all by myself at 4 in the morning. I gave them the number for our house in Boulder. Which they tried. A few times. After about half an hour they came back and said that number didn't work. 

By that time, I had realized my error, but also was happy enough that I had delayed them by half an hour. I gave them the number for the house in Greensboro, and so Dad received a call at 7:30 on a Saturday or Sunday morning. "Do you know that your son is in Stanford?" "I do now." "Is it okay for him to be taking the train up to San Francisco?" "I suppose so."

So I was allowed to finish crossing El Camino Real and hang out in the train station for another hour or so, waiting for the first train. I had started out wearing only my green cloth jacket and the night air was below 50F by then. I got pretty cold sitting on the concrete bench waiting for that first train. I did eventually make it back up to Berkeley and Aunt Polly's house. I probably slept most of the day.

To get back to Boulder, Paul thought that sharing a ride would be faster and more reliable than hopping freights. He probably also wanted to get me back to Boulder in time to resume my classes. So, he examined the ride board and found a ride that was going our way. We piled into the Chevy Vega and headed east on I-80. As we neared Donner Pass, it began to snow. The snow was accumulating on the far side of the pass and there is a steep downgrade going into Reno. The Vega was poorly maintained and there was so much play in the steering that the wheel went through a quarter of a turn without influencing that car's trajectory. It was quite an exciting ride.

I don't remember why we abandoned the ride at that point. It was easy to imagine that we just didn't feel safe in that car. Be that as it may, we ended up hitching a ride with a very nice guy who took us to his house in Sparks and fed us breakfast. Then, he took us back out to the highway and let us continue on our way. We caught a ride with someone as far as Lovelock.

About that time, a sandstorm came up. We walked backwards for what seemed like hours, trying to catch a ride. Finally, a couple in a fancy black car stopped and picked us up. They gave us a ride as far as Winnemucca. We'd had about enough hitchhiking by then, and Paul knew that there was a crew change in Winnemucca. The train would slow for the engineer and fireman to board the engines, and then again for the conductor to board the caboose. We could walk out to the north end of the yard and board the engines during this second stop.

To pass the time while waiting for the next train we went into the diner and each bought a hamburger. Being a casino town, we were given our change in silver dollars -- one dollar each. It was once again dark when the train came through. We climbed aboard as planned, and settled in for the long night. But as we were crossing the Great Salt Desert, the engineer kept ringing the overspeed bell (at 70mph) and waking us up.

Paul looked out in the early morning light, and noticed that there was something wrong: there was water on both sides of the train. The other rail lines went around the north and south sides of the Great Salt Lake. Only the Union Pacific went through the middle of it on a causeway. The Union Pacific had a reputation for dealing harshly with hobos, so we did not want to encounter any crew. 

After pulling into Salt Lake City, there were two possibilities: Either it was a through train, or else they would send it to the classification yard to be broken up. In the latter case, they would break off the power and we would most likely be discovered. We hung out in the bathroom for what seemed like 5 hours. Then they let out the air and we were underway again. Every time we stopped or came into a city, we hid out in the bathroom until the train started moving again. But even while the train was in motion, we kept out of sight.

By evening, we had made it as far as Cheyenne. We waited until the train slowed to 20mph approaching the yards and then jumped off. We then walked over to the nearest restaurant. Paul noticed a guy who was by himself and started chatting with him. It turned out he had been hired to drive a rental car down to Denver, so Paul managed to talk his way into a ride all the way there.

Even though it was dark when we reached Cheyenne, it was early enough that we got to the Denver bus station in time to catch the last bus back to Boulder. For the last leg of the journey, we boarded the Denver-Boulder bus, and paid the driver the $1 fare -- each with our one remaining silver dollar.

Long's Peak

Later in the summer of 1976, Sarah asked if I wanted to hike to the top of Long's Peak with Paul Bender. He was looking for a hiking companion, and I'd already been to the top of Mt. Elbert so I seemed like a good candidate. Paul knew Sarah through classes at Boulder High. Also, the Benders were somewhat neighbors, since they lived on Stanford Avenue.

Paul picked me up at 8:30 and we arrived at the trailhead at 9:30. It was later than Paul had hoped to be on the trail. It was common for thunderstorms to develop in the afternoon on summer days, and he did not want to be on the peak much after noon.

We were planning to take the popular Keyhole route. There is a different route that goes up the East Face, but it is more of a technical climb. Early climbers had installed ropes or cables on the East Face, but we chose the longer, easier route. We took the lower trail at a pretty good pace. But by the time we got to the boulder field, I was trailing behind Paul. Paul stayed in sight until he got to the keyhole. Then, he disappeared onto the south face of the mountain.

Green Mountain and Bear Mountain
from Long's Peak

I paused for a bit at the rock shelter. It was constructed entirely of rock, and was big enough for about one person to stand in. A marmot came out from the rocks below to investigate. But I'd learned from another marmot that they don't like people food, so I finished my rest and went on.

Mt. Audubon and Arapahoe Peaks

Forest Canyon and the Never Summer Range

Once past the keyhole, it's only a short distance to the top. I let Paul know I'd arrived and then proceeded to take in the panoramic view from the summit. We spent about 15 minutes there and headed down. It was a glorious day, so we could have stayed longer. But I guess Paul wanted to set some sort of personal record. We had reached the summit around 1:30 and got back to the car around 3:30. I'm guessing that's a pretty good time.

July 4, 1976

Having referred to it in my story about July 3-4, 1977, I guess I owe you the store of July 4, 1976.

Beth Woolley was in the viola section in the junior high and high school orchestra (and a much better violist than I), so I got to know the Woolleys that way. Jane was a year ahead, so even if she hadn't been the better player, she probably deserved first chair due to seniority. I got to turn a lot of pages sitting second chair, and she would occasionally slap the sheet into place with the back of her bow to let me know that I had been a bit tardy. Beth was a serious person.

She had a younger sister Jane who seemed much more fun-loving. Jane was a grade behind me, and I forget now how we became acquainted. Anyway, she had a friend Cheryl Crone. And toward the end of my sunior year at Boulder High, I figured out that Cheryl had a crush on me. I liked to spend time with Jane, and I suppose Jane (as the good friend) acted as a kind of facilitator. Jane would call me up and suggest a hike or a movie and I would gladly accept. And when I arrived, Cheryl would be there, and we would all have a jolly good time together.

So it happened that after a hike one weekend in late June, I was standing in the Woolley's kitchen with Cheryl and Jane, and I mentioned my intention of climbing to the top of Bear Mountain on the 4th to camp and watch the fireworks. So Jane asked if she and Cheryl could come along and I said, "Sure." And Jane asked her mother if she could climb Bear Mountain and camp out with me on the 4th and her mother said, "Sure." And Cheryl called her mother and asked if she could climb Bear Mountain with Jane and me on the 4th and camp out over night, and her mother said, "Sure." I do not have the slightest idea what those mothers were thinking.

But, mothers handily aside, that was the plan and that's what we did. We assembled our camping gear and lots of caloric if not nutritious snacks. And some time in the late afternoon on the 4th, we headed off toward Bear Mountain. In those days, I could get to the summit of Bear Mountain in about 2 hours, but I allowed 4 hours, since I suspected that not everyone was as athletic as I. 

It was pretty close to dark by the time we reached the summit. We did not have time to cook dinner or pitch our tents, so we ate some snacks and sat down on the rocks to wait for the show to begin. Perhaps it bears mentioning that we were the only ones there, in case Bear Mountain has since become a popular fireworks viewing spot. But on that bicentennial occasion it was just us.

Every city along the front range was putting on it's best show, and we got the best show of all because we could see every one: Lyons, Longmont, Boulder, Brighton, Westminster, Arvada, Denver, Broomfield, Golden, Louisville, Lafayette, Lakewood and Thornton. We counted 13 separate fireworks displays. It was almost too much to take in, visually. And it was fine thing to have the company of two young women at that.

After the fireworks died down, we moved off the summit and had our dinner. I think we had brought along some sausages to roast. As we were approaching the summit, I had noticed a hollow filled with ferns, and that looked like a nice place for a tent. So I helped the girls pitch their tent there and then set up mine a bit higher up the slope. It was a relatively warm and windless night, so it was easy to sleep.

The next morning I clambered down, and we had breakfast together. Then we packed up our gear and hiked back home. And that was that.

The Trail Ridge Loop

On the 3rd of July, 1977, I decided to ride my bike up to Estes Park and see how far I could get. I'd ridden up to Estes Park before, but those were day-trips. I got a rather late start on that day, so it was clear that I intended to sleep out overnight somewhere.

It was evening by the time I reached the entrance to the National Park at Beaver Meadows. I continued on toward Moraine Junction and started up Trail Ridge Road. About the time I reached Many Parks Curve, I was pretty tired, so I just lay down in the ditch and slept. One or two cars went by, but mostly I had the place to myself.

Dawn over Estes Park

At first light the next morning, I got on the bike and continued riding. It was a bit chilly and I had only my green duck jacket, so I wanted to get the blood pumping. Soon enough, I was warmed up. I stopped to take a few pictures of Estes Park at dawn. I climbed another 1000 feet and took pictures back across the valley to show the road I had climbed.

Traffic started to pick up after it got light. There were many cars in the parking lot at the Visitor's Center at Milner Pass when I got there. It was probably about 8 in the morning. I refilled my water bottle there and continued.

It's a long coast down to Grand Lake, I and I was keeping up with the cars until I got to the head of the Kawauneeche Valley. I had to pedal to reach Grand Lake, but it was still quite early as I passed Grand Lake and Shadow Mountain Reservoir. I imagined it would be nice to stop in one of the restaurants along the Lake Granby for breakfast, but I didn't have the money for that so I kept riding.

As I continued south from Lake Granby, I heard a noise behind me that sounded like thunder. Then it resolved into something more like a herd of stampeding elephants. Finally, it turned out the be the unmuffled exhaust pipes of a dozen or so Harley-Davidson motorcycles, catching up with me at a pretty good clip. They zoomed on by and went thundering off into the distance. I was sure to wave as they passed -- a kindred spirit, deliberately overlooking the obvious differences: no engine, no leather, some hearing left....

A few miles up the road, I passed all of the motorcycles. One of them had gotten a flat tire, and the rest had stopped while the tire was fixed. I waved as I passed. Before long, I was passed again. This time, the motorcyclists waved enthusiastically as they passed. And off they thundered into the distance. When I got to Tabernash, I again passed the motorcycles. They had stopped for food and gas there.

Between Tabernash and Fraser, the motorcycles passed again. After that I did not see them again. In early afternoon, I stopped at a campground and ate lunch. Then, I lay down on the picnic table and snoozed for about an hour. I wanted to get back to Boulder the same day if possible, so I did pressed myself to get back on the bike and continue.

It was probably around 3:30 that I reached the top of Berthoud Pass. From there, it's pretty much all downhill to Golden. Well, what should greet my eyes as I headed east on US 6 below the junction with US 40, but a line of traffic moving at a crawl in the Interstate. I imagined that all these people were trying to get back home so they could watch the fireworks that evening. I also imagined that many would not make it. I took great pleasure in riding past at 15 to 18mph and making much better time than they were. 

Once I got to US6 below Idaho Springs, the traffic on that road was moving. I guess that few people know about the bypass or were willing to trade four lanes for two -- for all the good those lanes were doing them. It was probably about 6:30 when I reached Golden. I had on an earlier occasion ridden from Golden to Boulder in one hour, but not after riding over two mountain passes. It probably took me more like two hours to go those last miles. I remember quite clearly flopping into bed at 8:30 in the evening, only to be awakened by the fireworks an hour later.

That was a 4th of July every bit as memorable as the previous year's.

Golden Gate Canyon State Park

I was invited (by whom I do not now remember) to go camping in the state park. It was car-camping and the children were much younger than me, so there was not much for me to do.

Thorodin Mountain

On my many bike rides up Coal Creek Canyon and along the southern stretches of CO 119, I had admired Thorodin Mountain and Tremont Mountain, and thought I could climb one or both. There used to be a fire lookout on top of Thorodin Mountain, so I chose that one first. The day started with a misty rain that calmed to a heavy fog as I climed higher, so I navigated by following the ridge and using my internal compass. All of my hiking was cross-country. 

Aspen in early summer

On the lower slopes of Thorodin Mountain, I stopped in a stand of aspen and recorded the verdure of early summer.

I continued to climb, and after some time came to a level spot on the top of the ridge. As I continued north toward where I expected the fire tower to be, I came upon an extraordinary sight: In front of me was a piece of a tree -- about the size of a 2x4 and ten feet long. The wood was not greyed with age or faded. It must have come to rest there only recently.

A chunk of wood, blown out
of a tree by lightning.

I glanced around and spotted a tree about 20 feet away with a bright scar on its trunk. I quickly came to the conclusion that the tree had been hit by lightning. The jolt had caused water in the trunk to evaporate, blowing a chunk of wood out of its side. I took a photo to record the scene, with the wood shard in the foreground and the "donor" tree in the background. In a twist on the old conundrum, "If a tree gets struck by lightning in a forest, and no people are around to see it ... they are all pretty lucky." Ruling out the lightning bolt itself, you can put a lower bound on the amount of energy released by the tree as it parted with a 10 lb chunk of itself that landed 20 feet away. You can bet it made some sound!

Meadows in the Park

I walked on until I came to the base of the fire tower. I don't think I bothered climbing it, as there would have been no better view from the top. I turned around and headed southwest toward Tremont Mountain. To get there, I had to cross the road that passes through the middle of the park. The fog had lifted a bit my midday, so I was able to locate the road with ease. Perhaps I stopped in at the campsite for lunch. I remember walking along it for some distance to the west, to more easily reach the lower slopes of Tremont Mountain.

Then, it was cross-country hiking again. I don't remember much from my afternoon hike, not even whether I reached the summit. It would have been remarkable, for example, if I'd gotten caught out in the dark or sprained my ankle or whatnot. Often, boring is just fine.

Berthoud Pass

In the summer of 1974, Jeff Carter, Lise and I concocted a plan (well in truth it was mostly my idea) to ride a bus up to the top of Berthoud Pass and then follow the ridge north to James Peak. Then, we would head east along the ridge and end up at St. Mary's Glacier Lodge where Jeff's mother would pick us up. This plan was a bit sketchy, since I had not selected suitable camping spots, nor had I ever been to St. Mary's Glacier Lodge. However, armed as I was with a topo map, I was pretty sure I could get us from Point A to Point B, especially since our Point A is about 2000 feet higher than our destination.

One of Jeff's parents dropped us off at the bus station in the morning. Berthoud Pass is a flag stop, and according to the schedule, we would be there at 11:15 in the morning -- plenty of time to hike in, find a suitable camping spot, have dinner and bed down for the night. That was the plan.

Almost immediately after we boarded the bus, we were called back off. The bus was full, and being a thru bus to Salt Lake City, it made more sense to have the second bus just go as far as Berthoud Pass and then head back to Denver. This observation is made with the benefit of retrospect. Nothing was explained to us at the time, beyond that fact that another bus was being called up to carry us as far as the pass. 

A Scenicruiser Bus

So we waited. And waited. And waited. About the time we were going to call Jeff's parents to come pick us up, the bus finally arrived. We had spent the entire morning at the bus station, so it was past noon before we were under way. On the bus, it was just the three of us and our gear and the bus driver.

I like to watch where we are going. Since we had our choice of any seats on the bus, I sat in the front-most passenger seat. From there I could, among other things, read the speedometer. I was concerned about the time, and it did not help that climbing the grade out of Golden, the empty bus could not do any better than 15mph. We were being passed by everything on the road. (Probably even the occasional Volkswagen Microbus.)

It was close to 3pm when we alit from the bus, donned our backpacks and started angling north across the slopes toward Mt. Flora, the first peak above the pass. My idea was that we would cross over the first ridge and then drop down on the east side of the ridge, into a bowl that would provide good camping. I had studied the map, but my estimation of distance was not very refined. As the clouds started to gather over the Continental Divide and much of the light of the sun was slowly blocked out, Lise would ask how much further we needed to go. To which I replied, honestly believing that the next change in slope would reveal a bowl below us, "Oh, it's just over the next ridge." This got to be a kind of joke-by-repetition in Lise's rendition of the story.

Then, the inevitable afternoon thunder shower hit. We were completely exposed on that broad slope above timberline. All we could do was hug the ground and hope that we were not hit by lightning. When Jeff stood up to put on a poncho, we both yelled at him to get down. After a very long half an hour, the lightning went off to the east, but the rain continued. We got out the tent and huddled underneath it while the rain passed.

We decided to eat our dinner there before moving on, I remember we heated up the can of Dinty Moore beef stew that Jeff had brought along over my trusty grasshopper stove. Having some food inside restored our spirits, and we were able to press on.

Mt. Eva after a thunder shower

About the time we came around the flank of Mt. Flora, the sky cleared to the west and the sun lit up the slopes of Mt. Eva, bathing it in a golden light. The moisture in the air from the passing storm made the mountain appear softer than usual. And after our harrowing experience earlier, it seemed like a vision of the gates of Oz. We had also gained the crest of the ridge and started down into the bowl between Mt. Flora and Witter Peak. At that point, we only needed to descend the first approximately level spot to camp.

Witter Peak at last light

Before we descended further, I snapped a picture of Witter Peak on the far side of the bowl. The last rays of the sun were highlighting its craggy face. We were fortunate that the slope we were on was not so steep. We were able to find a spot and pitch our tent before it became fully dark.

I slept well, but as usual was out of the sack early. I think we had something simple like granola for breakfast, but I made a hot drink to warm us all up. The mosquitos were getting thick even before we finished, so we packed up rapidly and hit the trail.

Witter Peak from our campsite

The next frame on the roll (not shown) gives a view of the high mountains to the north through the gap south of Mt. Eva. I must have climbed back up toward the ridge before breakfast to take the shot. The frame after that (left) shows the face of Witter Peak in the morning sun. It took that as a record of where we camped.

Mt. Bancroft

At this point, I don't remember how we proceeded. The original plan was to follow the crest of the ridge. And studying the map, we would have gone far out of our way if we had followed the roads downhill. It's most likely that we climbed out of the bowl and went over or around Mt. Eva to Parry Peak and then across the face of Mt. Bancroft.  I remember hitting the road below Loch Lomond before actually seeing the lake. Looking at the map suggests that we followed the ridge southeast of Mt. Bancroft and ended up intersecting the forest road just below the lake.

Loch Lomond

However it was that we ended up at Loch Lomond, the map still showed that it was going to be easier to cross the ridge to get to St. Mary's Lake than to follow the road downhill and then double back. So we climbed out of the valley heading north, and  gradually turned east as we gained the top of the ridge. Hiking was very easy on that shoulder of James Peak. James Peak has a distinctive pyramid shape, and is visible from many places near Denver. As it was also the inspiration for the trip, I wanted to catch a good picture of it as we walked toward St. Mary's. I waited until its shape was fully in the frame and then took its portrait.

St. Mary's Glacier and Lake

James Peak

In the high school Art and Architecture course, we watched The American Image (a film) at the beginning of the year. From that time I was very interested in the paintings of Frederick Church, as well as others from the Hudson River School. Some time later, as I was studying his works in the Denver Art Museum, I happened upon a plein-aire study he had done of James Peak. By comparing the two images in my mind, I could see that Frederick Church had set up his easel only a hundred feet or so from where I had captured my image of James Peak.

A short distance from there, we encountered the upper edges of St. Mary's Glacier. To reach the lodge at the bottom, we skiied on our boots until it got too steep. Then, we walked over to the edge and soon reached the road. We followed the road to the lodge and used the payphone there to call Jeff's mother and asked to be picked up. 

I don't remember any of the ride back, but I do remember the long wait for her to arrive. I'm quite sure we did not camp another night, so we had done all of that hiking in one day.

Acknowledgement: Scenicruiser Image by David Wilson, courtesy of Creative Commons [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Continental_Trailways_bus_at_MSI_in_Chicago,_1968.jpg]. The bus shown is somewhat older than the one we rode, 1968 vs. 1974.

Great Sand Dunes National Monument

In April of 1978, I decided that I needed to see the Great Sand Dunes National Monument. It was after Easter, because I remember packing the rest of the lamb roast I had served to Sarah, Paul and Nino into aluminum foil and sticking that into my pack as provisions. And for some reason, I had to leave that evening. Perhaps Paul or Steven was going down to Denver, and I could get a head start.

I remember taking my bike out of a car or truck at an on-ramp to I-25 on the south side of Denver. I went down the on-ramp, and started riding along the shoulder.

I had gone perhaps two exits before I came upon an old green Chevy parked on the shoulder, with 3 boys about my age sitting inside. I asked if they needed help, whereupon the boy in the driver's seat cupped his ear indicating he was deaf. He handed out a pad and pencil and I drew a picture of a wrecker, question mark. The boys were evidently Latino, so perhaps I thought I was dealing with more than one language barrier. Anyway, the driver indicated, "No."

The driver cranked the engine, but it wouldn't start. I look at the gas gauge and the car had fuel, so I indicated I wanted to look under the hood. On many occasions, I had been able to get a stalled car running by scraping the corrosion off the underside of the distributor cap, so I thought I'd try the old-standby fix. The boys had already removed the air cleaner to see if they could figure out the problem, but I ignored that and went to work with my trusty pen knife. There was a Girl Scout knife that had been Sarah's and somehow ended up in my pocket.

Anyway, as soon as I popped the distributor cap back on and gave the thumbs-up, the driver tried again and the car started right up. He let off the gas and blue flame shot up out of the carburetor, which I found a bit alarming. But the car was running just fine, so I bolted the air cleaner back in place and lowered the hood. The boys then offered me a ride which I gladly accepted. The bike went into the trunk and off we went.

Using the pad, I asked the passengers where they were headed. It turned out that they were all attending a school for the deaf in Colorado Springs. That would suit me just fine. We drove south through Castle Rock and over Monument Hill. As we came into Colorado Springs, a State Trooper came alongside and started pacing us. If we were stopped, I was fully prepared to explain the situation and defend my new companions with reasons why they might be driving through Colorado Springs early in the morning. 

However after a mile or so, the trooper turned on the PA and said "Dim your brights". To indicate what needed to be done, I put my hands over the back of the seat and made a downward angle motion with my fingers. The driver understood right away and turned off the high beams. The State Trooper peeled off and went up an exit, and we continued on.

The boys took me up their exit, and I asked to be let out near the highway.  They went off to their school, and I went down the ramp to continue my trek. Looking at the map now, very likely we parted ways at the Bijou Street exit. At that point, I was 80 miles from Boulder, and had ridden something like 4-6 miles. Things were looking good.

As far as I can recall, I continued riding the rest of the night (already more than half over), either on the shoulder of I-25 or -- where it was available -- on the frontage road. By daybreak, I was well south of Pueblo and approaching Colorado City. Somewhere north of there, I came upon a collection of State Trooper cruisers around a car that had stopped. All doors were open and there was some tension in the air. The nearest trooper indicated that I could proceed, but I should get as far away as possible and as soon as possible. No further instruction was needed. I went all the way over to the far shoulder of the opposing lane and rode on as fast as I could.

Looking south on I-25 near Colorado City

After climbing out of the small valley of Greenhorn Creek that flows through Colorado City, I was suddenly very tired. So I tossed my bike down in the scrub along the side of the road, took off my knapsack and used it as a pillow to catch a few Zs.

Before I was fully rested, I was awakened by a pair of women who wanted to know if I was okay. (Sure, dozing in ditches is what I do.) But I politely answered that I was fine, just resting a bit. Would I like a ride? Yes.

Their conveyance was a light blue VW squareback, and they had a luggage rack on top with a luggage carrier stuffed full of their belongings. It was easiest to just lash the bicycle onto the top of that. and off we went.

The Spanish Peaks, south of La Veta

The women were heading to some kind of Christian retreat in southwester Colorado, so they were heading over La Veta Pass. That happened to be exactly along my route, so it was the best of luck. I think we stopped at a cafe in Walsenburg, and then I was asked if I wanted to drive. Okay, fine.

The Volkswagen was struggling going up toward the pass. The extra weight and wind resistance of the luggage rack was making it hard to get up to 55. And then suddenly it was a lot easier. A big gust had taken the luggage carrier rack and all off the top of the car, and it was skittering down the road behind us.

I stopped immediately and backed up, and we got the luggage rack off the roadway. I noticed with some disappointment that when the luggage rack had landed, it had done so bike-wheel-first. My rear wheel was bent up into a pretzel. After some struggle, we got the rack, carrier and bicycle back on top of the car -- this time properly clamped down to the gutters. And off we went again at a stately 50mph.

I was dropped off in Alamosa, hoping to find the bike shop open. That being Easter Monday, I was in no such luck. So I sat on the front stoop of the bike shop, and from 4 to 6 pm on that day, I completely disassembled the wheel, straightened the rim and rebuilt the wheel from scratch. I wanted to camp at the sand dunes that night, and I was running out of daylight. So I lit out again, riding north toward the Monument. 

About a quarter hour after sunset, I was still 8 or 10 miles from the entrance to the Monument when I was passed by a fairly new white car with a man and woman inside. The fellow offered me a ride and I gladly accepted. Once inside the car, I learned that he was a well-known photographer and she was his girlfriend. He had been intending to photograph the dunes in the sunset, but that moment had already passed. He hoped he might get some pictures in the moonlight later on, but at that point he was in no hurry.

The Great Sand Dunes at Dusk

It was just about dark when we arrived at the campground. We were the only people there. I thanked the couple for the ride and said I needed to set up my camp since it was getting cold. I rolled out my sleeping bag on the sand, crawled inside and went to sleep promptly.

About 1 in the morning, I was startled awake by the sound of screaming. Or rather, what sounded like screaming. After listening intently for a few seconds, I discerned that it was actually a coyote howling. That left me a bit more relaxed. But since I was awake, I decided to take advantage of the moonlight to try to scale the sand dunes then rather than in the searing heat of day. I refilled my water bottle and hiked across the flats to the nearest dune.

The Dunes, Looking North
My tracks are in the center distance

Dunes are shaped like they are because every grain of sand on the surface is at the critical angle. Every step trying to scale one just drags more sand down on top of your shoe, and very little progress is made. So after an hour of climbing, I was barely a third of the way up a mere 500' dune. I was cold and tired, so I turned around and headed back to my warm sleeping bag.

When I woke again early in the morning, I noticed that I had a neighbor. A young man in an old Volvo sedan had come up and was preparing breakfast, which he shared with me. He introduced to me the concept of car-camping. We exchanged descriptions of our adventures up to that point. Then I hit the road again, riding west toward Mosca.

It seemed to take forever to get there. I was used to riding in the mountains where you climb a hill and then you get to rest while coasting down the other side. In the San Luis Valley it's very flat, so I had to expend continuous effort. I was already pretty tired when I got to Mosca.

Great Sand Dunes N.M., from Hooper

Heading north toward Hooper, I was passed repeatedly by a UPS van that was out delivering along the highway. We were leap-frogging the whole way. After Hooper, I was on my own -- battling a moderate head-wind and expending that continuous effort. By the time I reached Hot Springs at the head of the valley, I was exhausted.

Well, there was just the thing for a tired frame. At that time, the hot springs were what remained of an old wooden mine shed at the top of a mine shaft that had been sunk vertically. The caretaker had built benches along the periphery, so you could sit under water and enjoy the heat. He had a coffee can at the corner of the shed, so you could drop in a couple bucks for his services.

There were already two guys and a woman soaking when I arrived. I disrobed and slipped right in. The water was about 108 degrees (the caretaker had marked on a sign) so I was cooked to a turn in about 5 minutes. I got out of the hot springs and back into my clothes and then found I was good for nothing. I was so tired and relaxed I could hardly stand up, so I went and laid down on a picnic bench and had a little nap.

Some time later, I got back on the bike and started riding again, but I was really dragging. Just a short way further along, a guy in a blue VW bug stopped and offered me a ride. Sure. I put the bike in the back seat and off we went. He was driving back home to Evergreen which was, again, right along the path I wanted to follow. We drove through South Park and he dropped me off in his home town. Then, I rode down the canyon to Morrison, and north through Golden to Boulder. I think I made it back the same day.

It's 375 miles from Boulder to the Sand Dunes and back, but I probably only logged 150 of those on the bike. I was fortunate to have the help of so many strangers, or my 3-day adventure would have taken a whole week. I'm sure I had Easter Monday off, but I don't think I had the whole week to spend. I had certainly underestimated the task and overestimated my endurance for that trip. Even so, it was a great adventure.

Forest Canyon

In July or August of 1977, I decided to hike Forest Canyon. I had seen it from Trail Ridge Road on our many visits to Rocky Mountain National Park, and it seemed to me to be a magical place. There was no way I could see that people could get into it: I knew that no trail led into the mouth of the canyon; it seemed like almost a sheer drop of 3000' to enter the canyon from Trail Ridge; and if anything the cliffs on the east face of the Continental Divide were even more forbidding. I imagined it to be a place of aboriginal natural beauty, almost unknown to man. So naturally, I had to go there.

This was before I had purchased my first car, so the trip began with my riding the Alpenmeister from Boulder up to the park. I had a tent and sleeping bag, so it must have been pretty awkward riding the bike with a frame pack on my back. But by then I had ridden my bike up to the national park many times, so I knew what to expect. It usually took around 4 hours, so I most likely reached the park in the early afternoon.

I dutifully checked in at the ranger station in Big Elk Meadows and obtained a backcountry camping permit. The ranger expressed some skepticism about my camping alone and my plan to hike the entire 10 mile length of Forest Canyon in one day. But I promised her I would check in when I completed my hike the following day. I suspect that skepticism aside, she wasn't allowed to say no, so off I went. I rode to the trailhead Moraine Park, and locked my bicycle to a sturdy aspen tree.

A waterfall on the west wall
of Forest Canyon

It is a short, one mile hike from the trailhead to the Pool, where the Big Thompson River cascades over a cliff into a natural whirlpool basin. The lowest falls are only 20 feet high, but one cannot see what lies above. The chute at the base of Forest Canyon was formed by huge boulders; there was no obvious way to follow the stream past the falls and into the canyon itself.

I solved the problem by scrambling a few hundred feet up the right wall of the canyon. It was pretty rough going. In the trees, I caught a glimpse of a waterfall on the far side of the canyon and took a picture of that. A little later, I crossed an outcropping of rock and was able to take a picture up the canyon -- my first full view of Forest Canyon from its mouth, and a nice graphic for the hike I planned to do the next day.

Forest Canyon, looking N from its mouth
[I think this frame is reversed]

After another hour or so, I was able to drop down into the canyon, well behind the gatekeeper rocks. After that expenditure of effort, I was fairly confident that I had the entire canyon to myself. It was also getting late in the afternoon, so time to find a place to bed down for the night. Sleep anywhere.

I figured that to find a level place to camp, I should move toward the creek at the bottom of the canyon. This was made difficult by deadfall. Even if I wasn't entirely alone, it was pretty clear that noone had entered the canyon by this route, because there were enormous tree trunks lying crisscross everywhere. Travel was limited to climbing up over one trunk, dropping down on the other side, walking a few paces and then repeating the procedure. 

I was initially concerned about the possibility of being visited by a bear during the night. I was probably aware that some people took care to suspend their food from a tree to deny bears access to it. But I had not brought along extra rope for this purpose. I certainly didn't own a bear canister. All that being as it was -- after more than an hour of clambering over tree trunks, it occurred to me it would have to be the craziest bear in the world to work that hard for a snack. Moreover, I figured that the sound of a bear laboriously climbing over trunk after trunk to try to get at my food would surely wake me in time to escape. I set up my tent in cozy quadrangle just large enough to accommodate it, bounded by four of those enormous downed and decaying trees, and slept very soundly.

The next morning, I quickly decided it would take me forever to walk the length of the canyon clambering over tree trunks the whole way. I more or less reversed my hike in the previous day until I was high enough on the canyon wall to make the going a bit easier. Almost immediately, I ran across a game trail. Animals are expert at conserving energy, so this was proof of my strategy. I started following the elk trail, and found it relatively easy going.

Spider web and dew

A short way along the trail, I noticed the morning dew clinging to a spider web across the mouth of a little cavern created by a rock fall. I tried to photograph this, but since I did not own a reflex camera the result is a bit disappointing.

Hayden Spire
from the floor of Forest Canyon

It was still pretty tough going in the lower portion of the canyon. But the trail gradually got lower on the canyon wall, the forest thinned and I was able to start appreciating the canyon's spectacular beauty. There is a rock promontory known as Hayden Spire that is showcased at one of the viewpoints along Trail Ridge Road. The spire looks even more impressive when viewed from below, as was doubtless the case when it was named.

The Floor of Forest Canyon
looking Southeast

Around mid-morning, I made my way toward the creek to refill my water bottle. The forest had thinned to little copses of fir trees here and there. The undergrowth -- especially near the creek -- was a dense layer of scrub oak. I had to press my way through the knee-high scrub, and almost stepped into the creek when I reached the water's edge.

The Floor of Forest Canyon
looking Northwest

From there, the going got much easier. I was walking through an alpine meadow decked with thick grasses. I could of walked barefoot and it would have been comfortable.

I continued to enjoy the views of the canyon walls -- taking great pleasure from the notion that few people had experienced the same. 

I also took some ironic pleasure in noting as I climbed that the Big Thompson River was dwindling from a creek to a brook -- something I could easily hop across. I took care to fill my water bottle before I started to climb out at the head of the canyon, since it was already becoming a challenge to choose the main fork of the flow.

The Big Thompson River
as a brook

Once I had emerged from the forest and scrub and was walking in a broad meadow, it became clear that I could choose any route I wanted, to reach the rim of the canyon. I resolved to follow the main branch of the Big Thompson River and find its ultimate headwaters. The punch line is that there are a number of shallow pools in the top of the saddle between Trail Ridge and the Continental Divide near Milner Pass. The pools are formed as the last of the snow melts at the very top of the ridge. The snow melt seeps down through the rocks, collects with other water and emerges as a spring a short distance below the top of the ridge.

Headwaters of the
Big Thompson River

I knew that once I reached the head of the canyon, my hike would be nearly done. From wherever I reached the rim, it would be a short hike east to where Trail Ridge Road descends to Milner Pass. It is also nearly level. So after a short, easy hike I came up to the roadway.

The main branch of the Big Thompson River rises toward the west side of the canyon. So as I hiked toward the roadway, I passed a spot where I could see down the length of the canyon. I should have taken a photo to record my journey, but forgot to do so. Since it's only a short hike from the road, I returned to the spot the following year and took the record shot.

Forest Canyon

As I started hiking down Trail Ridge Road, I stuck out my thumb and was quickly picked up by a couple that was touring around in their new Volkswagen Diesel Rabbit. I related to them my adventures as we went back toward Moraine Park.

At some point as we were descending, the husband noticed that white smoke was coming out of the exhaust pipe. They had an earnest discussion on what it could mean, since the car was brand new. But the engine appeared to be running well in spite of this, so on we went. It occurred to me much later that the long downgrade at high altitude meant that the engine was running cool and rich. Such white smoke often comes from a diesel that has just been started.

The couple went out of their way to carry me back to the trailhead, and dropped me right next to my bike. It was mid-afternoon and I still had to ride back to Boulder. Which I did -- not forgetting to check in at the ranger station along the way. After the short climb out of Estes Park on Highway 36, it is mostly downhill as far as Lyons. I reached there about 6 in the evening. 

For some of the ride down the canyon, I remember resting my head on the handlebars for a few seconds because -- as you might imagine -- I was a bit tired. The ride from Lyons to Boulder was the perfection of that technique: I would raise my head to scout the next 100 yard of the road ahead, then rest my head on my hands on the handlebars and continue to peddle. Periodically, I raised my head and adjusted my course to keep from veering off the roadway. I did manage to make it safely back to my apartment, and I have never again been quite so tired while biking.

Full Moon Saturday Night

 A short time after starting classes at CU, I found myself restless at about 8:00 on a Saturday evening.The moon was out, the air was warm: It seemed a perfect time for a 3-hour stroll.

I left my apartment east of campus and hiked to the base of Flagstaff Mountain. By that time, I'd at least formed the plan of hiking to the summit and viewing the lights of the town below. Up the trail I went. Unfortunately, I lost my way in the dark and strayed off the trail. I figured I would just hike up the ridge to the roadway and then trot along the road until I found the trail again. Nothing wrong with that.

Just below the road, I encountered a pile of boulders. As I clambered over them, I could see the edge of the roadway above me. I climbed up and found myself standing right in front of a blue Mustang II with a young couple sitting in the front seats. I can imagine the surprise they got as they were looking out over the lights of the city, when all of a sudden a guy climbed up over the edge of the mountain right in front of them. I chuckled to myself and walked past them out to the roadway. 

The rest of the climb was uneventful, and I reached the summit a short time later. After admiring the view for a while, my follow-on plan involved climbing down the steep northern slope of Flagstaff into Boulder Canyon. I had never done this even in daylight, but I was in the mood for adventure.

I did not encounter any difficulty on the way down, and before long I was standing in one of the pullouts along the lower part of the canyon. I started walking back toward town, and almost immediately a car pulled off and the couple inside offered me a ride back into town. I climbed into the back seat and we set off. I was a bit wary at first, but then I could tell that the driver had not been drinking. I told them about my adventure so far, and they offered to carry me as far as Crossroads.

When we got to the mouth of the canyon, we passed a tow truck that was pulling a car onto the roadway. It was a serious accident: the car was bent into an A shape, and either it was a convertible or at least it no longer had a roof. I remember looking at the upholstery inside the car and wondering if the occupants had survived. 

We had scarcely travelled another 4 blocks before we saw another wrecked car. This one was a cream-colored Cadillac or Oldsmobile that had hit a huge cottonwood sideways with enough force that the front and rear bumpers were almost kissing. It was hard for me to imagine that anyone had survived that wreck either.

I could tell that both accidents had happened withing an hour or two of my seeing them. Two serious wrecks so close together in both time and space seemed to be beyond coincidence. Up to that point, I hadn't really believed that the moon affected other people's behavior, but that evening gave me considerable evidence to the contrary.