Westward
Sept. 13-14, 2012

Fog . . .

A fairly early start to a long driving day, fog-shrouded to begin as I shoot a pic of the sun trying to break through, but gets far worse: the heaviest daytime fog I have ever seen, making a nerve-wracking drive, very slow with flashers going to alert other vehicles of our presence.

Byways, towns? change of plans. . .

Again, we are on smaller highways that are taking us right through centers of small towns - today in South Dakota, a brand-new state for me.  As we proceed westward, we encounter much less cropland, the flat landscape covered with vast expanses of marshland, mostly being utilized as cattle pasture or for cutting grass hay where it is not open water.  Scattered houses marked by treed perimeters are counted as towns, according to the signs: villages of 19 and 20 people with no center or business, just a sign to mark their existence.

Rowdy checks out the landscape on his first glimpse of South Dakota

I will want to read some about the history along this route (we are following State Highway 34); we are informed by signage that the towns were mostly not established until the 1880s, but I’m guessing there was trapping and hunting going on in this area far previous to that.

We cross the Missouri River on Big Bend Dam, where it creates Sharpe Lake, a huge reservoir bordering the Crow Creek and Lower Brule Indian reservations.  In relief of the mono-landscape, we encounter rolling hilly grassland dotted in places by juniper trees and  then away from the river more featureless plain.  Imagine crossing this by horse and wagon or handcart like the Latter Day Saint pioneers - it must have felt as if they were going to pull those puppies for the rest of their born days.  It almost feels like that to me and we are moving at 60 miles per hour.  Walking would take at least four days to do that 60 miles.

We dropped south on 47 to get onto Interstate 90 for a spell.  We have begun seeing fields of sunflowers, fully mature with dark heads drooping heavy with seed, as well as some crops of milo and corn.  How brutal it must be up here in winter blizzards with nothing to break the wind!

We have decided to forego touring the Badlands and Mount Rushmore even though neither of us has been there.  I know we would wish we had more time to explore the region, so prefer to wait and do it when we can spare the time for it instead of further frustration at this hurried trip.

Nebraska, sand hills . . .

Turning south off of I-90 onto Highway 83, we immediately are relieved of the tabletop tedium as we come into grassy hilly country broken by numerous drainages, all filled with cottonwood trees.  It is strongly reminiscent of our very own Chino Valley.  We drive through the small Rosebud Sioux Indian Reservation heading for Nebraska, our third and last state for the day.

Very interesting this drive through the sand hills of Nebraska, a geographic feature I had not heard of (pardon my dangle there).  For many more square miles than imaginable, these dunes stretch on.  Now vegetated primarily by scrubby grasses, the region soaks up rainwater and retains it in low spots as huge marshy sections, providing summer home for sandhill cranes and other wading birds.

Rivers we’ve seen here and many places along our route are so attractive for kayaking, fishing and birding; there are any number of places that beg for a return.  We especially want to check out the Niobrara River and National Wildlife Refuge near Valentine, Nebraska.  We stopped for a closer look-see at the Dismal River and were stumped at the origin of its name: it really looked quite inviting.

Colorado . . .

A short night in North Platte, Nebraska, brought us closer to home.  We follow it up with some Interstate 76 travel, leaving it to turn south on Colorado state highway 71, a long, lonely high plains route that begins with 75 miles of next to nothing: two waypoints only in the whole stretch, each consisting of a couple of houses.  One of them, Last Chance, appears to have succumbed to a prairie fire. 

There is limited dry grain farming along here.  The road surface is great, far better than the bumpy Interstate, with nearly no other vehicles.  We have it to ourselves - super!

 
The Rockies! and snow!
Sept. 15-17, 2012

Gasp!  As we topped the first ridge after pulling out this morning, the view was gasp-worthy and elicited one from me - snow! on the Sangre de Christos and Spanish Peaks (Chris told me the mountain names - credit where it’s due, at least once in a while). 

I had already felt the excitement of returning to my beloved West when we first spotted the distant Rockies yesterday, but never expected to see snow this early.

Our drive down the desert-like high plains of eastern Colorado was without much of note: vast flat low-scrub-vegetated flatlands with occasional stabs at dry farming resulting in pathetic drought-destroyed crops.  For all its impressive mountains, Colorado contains some of the flattest acres of anywhere I’ve seen.

Last night, we stopped at a lovely KOA (we find that most KOAs are excellent camping spots) in Colorado City (not the one in Arizona) and were able to sing for our supper, so to speak.  We chanced into the park’s end-of-season camper appreciation buffet party.  Chris’ offer to provide music was accepted and netted us supper from the delicacy-laden buffet table.

Mountain passes . . .

This morning, we climbed (well, the Toter transported us, actually) 3,300 feet over La Veta Pass at 9,413 and set us off reminiscing about a previous visit to Fort Garland when we rode the scenic Rio Grande train from Alamosa to La Veta - a really memorable time.  There is much more we would like to do in the Alamosa area.

Next was Wolf Creek Pass, 10,850 feet elevation, where I had to put the computer away and be nervous, my job at times such as that.  Wolf Creek is very long and very steep with many tight curves, some so short as to need a reduced speed of 25 mph.  Pulling this grade is interesting with the trailer, even more so on the downhill lest a person burn up their brakes.  Chris is an excellent driver; however, he needs me to hold my breath, push against the floorboard and gesture uncontrollably, or so I continue to tell him.

Lots of the aspen groves are donning their fall foliage, mostly in the upper reaches.  The birds we see flitting are different: we are exchanging loons and bald eagles for red-shafted northern flickers and black-billed magpies.

Riverside, Kip’s, William Henry Walker . . .

This time, we are staying at the Pagosa Riverside Campground, one we utilized before but had not been to for several years.  Our spot is the most primo in the park; we are right on the San Juan River bank and the fishing pond is on our other side.  We are at 7,042 feet, temps 37 degrees at night, 85 by day.











Our initial venture into town included a stop for a real lunch, no rushed gulping, at Kip’s Grill and Cantina, where I consumed the second best fish tacos I ever had.  The first best were at the selfsame place that last time we were in Pagosa - delicious!





















We bought flowers and then were off to find the grave of William Henry Walker, our cousin Jerry’s great, great grandfather.  A Civil War veteran, he lies here alone because his family departed the area after his death, so I like to remember him when we are here. 

As we left, I induced Chris to stop the truck on a blind curve so I could shoot pics of a herd of deer crossing in front of us.

 


Colorado fishing, life of Riley, hot springs . . .

In the interest of full disclosure, I confess that because we are here only for two days and don’t want to buy fishing licenses, our angling was limited to the pond.  Here we are in the midst of some of the best fly fishing in the country and what do we do - picture this: me sitting in my camp chair, chocolate chip cookie in left hand, glass of wine in right hand, two fishing lines out in the pond catching miniscule bluegills and humongous crawdads, relaxation complete.

Sunday morning was truly the very first awakening of the journey that was not immediately followed by scrambling to hook up and leave or rush off to see someone or attend to chores - bliss!  Further bliss filled the day as we dipped and lounged at Pagosa Hot Springs - all day long. 


At one point, Chris wondered aloud if our last name was Riley.  I agreed that it must be because we certainly are living the life of (the younger readers will likely not understand that reference). 

On the way home, I could scarcely move a muscle.  When I whined about being exhausted, Chris' opinion was that I was just relaxed.  Good grief - has it been so long since I was relaxed that I don’t even recognize the condition?!















Birds here so far are trumpeter swan, gadwall, American wigeon, mallard, coot, brewer’s blackbird, western scrub jay, crow, red-winged blackbird, gray-headed dark-eyed junco, common merganser, black-chinned hummingbird, broad-tailed hummingbird, western tanager, Townsend's warbler, Wilson's warbler, belted kingfisher, barn swallow, pine siskin, robin, crow, great blue heron, black-billed magpie, brown-headed cowbird, raven, Eurasian collared dove, pinyon jay and house sparrow.  Amazing what you see when you bother to look.

The swans have three large young, the same as a previous time we saw them.  I was very excited to see the flocks of common mergansers swimming upriver right at our campsite - such distinctive birds!