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.