Down by the riverside 
 August 24, 2013


Once again we found ourselves ensconced on the bank of the San Juan River in the Riverside RV park just outside of Pagosa Springs, Colorado, an area that scratches lots of itches for me.  There is river (it’s at a higher level than it was last year), mountain streams, waterfalls, high country lakes, birds galore, lots of game, and endless miles of forest, mountain and meadow to explore.

The birdwatching even at our front step is mighty productive.  The hummingbirds discovered us right away - to step outside is to feel a part of the seething winged mass - at once one hears the many tiny chirps, senses the whirring of the broad-tailed band, and feels the air disturbed by the wingbeats as they zip past and around, all vying for a spot at the nectar source.

Various blackbirds were not far behind.  What they lacked in promptness as they showed up for seed they made up in quantity.  As is their habit, they arrived with a multitude of friends - red-winged, Brewer’s and one female yellow-headed (she’s the first one of her ilk we’ve seen on this trip).

The more solitary jays, western scrub and Stellar’s, stop by for a skittish bite, then vamoose to a nearby tree.  As we have in the past at this location, we saw a nearby Lewis’ woodpecker.

We were so inspired by the sight of western birds at La Veta that, like the proverbial kid in a candy store, I had to purchase a thistle seed feeder and a seed log to entice others of the avian variety.  There were large flocks of goldfinches at La Veta feeding on weed seeds and at the neighbors' feeder, but here nary a one. 

Our drive to Pagosa took us over La Veta Pass and Wolf Creek Pass.  I have driven Wolf Creek myself in days gone by and enjoyed it very much; however, the caution that comes with more advanced age seems to clench me up a bit as Chris pulls the trailer up and over that mountain.  He is a careful and confident driver, the only thing that keeps me from curling up on the floorboard with my eyes closed.  Of course there is the magnificent scenery, too, and I’m always on the lookout for whatever might come into my line of vision.

It was shocking to see the incredible number of dead spruce near the summit - I would have to guess between 75 & 90 percent of some huge stands have succumbed, evidently to bark beetle infestation.

Before we crested that part of the San Juans, we traversed lower elevation sites that we have enjoyed a bit but that still remain on our “to explore” list.  Places such as Alamosa, Fort Garland and their environs leave much to be seen; our previous stops have been short for one reason or another.  We fondly recall our time at the Great Sand Dunes, something I had no desire to see because of a preconceived notion of what I would find there, but that turned out to be a memorable day indeed.  The historic Fort Garland was also very interesting, and there is much more in the area to draw us.


Hotshots . . .


I was touched to once again see that others stand with Prescottonians in honoring the fallen 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots as we have seen across the country.  I stopped in the Pagosa ranger station to thank them.

A gnarly road to Shangri-la . . .

My goal-oriented fellow traveler read about a place called Silver Falls, so off in that direction we ventured.  We began on a winding dirt road taking us upward; after all, we are in the Rocky Mountains - everything is either up or down, depending on your destination.

The travel surface left something to be desired, but then, we have been known to drive on what some might call non-roads, so that was not an issue.  Truthfully, though, this particular road got to be exceedingly gnarly and rocky, but it was the sheer spalling rocky cliffs towering hundreds of feet above us on one side and the same sheer spalling rocky cliffs dropping hundreds of feet below us on the other side that got my attention.

There is a reason why there are house-size boulders in the stream bed below and why there are rubble mounds of other fallen stones along the roadside and that reason is that they break loose from the cliff face and tumble downward with great force. 

Faced with the evidence of this happening was plenty to make me wish I were already through that stretch and that I would not have to return that way.  I deferred to my intrepid driver, however, and on we went as storm clouds gathered over the peaks high above us.  I carefully kept watch down below the road as if somehow that action would insure we didn’t end up down there; as I kept my eye on the canyon floor that was becoming less and less distant, I saw a doe looking up at us.  Of course that necessitated a photo stop and as I prepared to take her picture, her cute little spotted fawn bounded out into the open with her.

We saw lots of deer with babies hereabouts, but nary a bear nor an elk, although elk have been plentiful here on past visits.

I was further distracted from the tension (it doesn’t take a lot for me) when a huge osprey came slow-flap-flapping its way down the canyon right over us and carrying its catch in its talons.

There was quite a diversity of geologic strata, some beautiful outcrops, along the way.

At last my white-knuckle traverse was rewarded when the narrow winding canyon opened up into a glorious wide valley with an awesome view up to a saw-tooth range far above.  We had just made it through the only passenger-vehicle-accessible section of East Fork Road, aptly named because the stream below is the east fork of the San Juan.

Beyond that spot the road becomes a jeep trail that, based on descriptions from those who have done it, I would be completely unwilling to try even in a tank.  Historically, it is significant, being the very first road over the San Juans.  Given the difficulty of the route,  I can’t imagine what the alternatives were like. 

Wagon travel commenced over Elwood Pass in 1874; by 1879, the military was using it, allowing access through the mountains instead of the previous route that went far south via Santa Fe to come up the other side of the mountains.

The lure of mining opportunities were doubtless the impetus to find a way through that seemingly impassable range.  Summitville, a ghost town appropriately named, is high up above where we stopped, amidst the ore tailings on the mountain slopes.

An 1874 San Juan newspaper described the route as a “perilous journey”.  

According to an interpretive sign, “The road never was very good. Even the 1878 Corps of Engineers report recommended not building a military road from Ft. Garland over Elwood Pass to Ft. Lewis, then in Pagosa Springs. 

It was built anyway.  The ‘Old Military Road’ branches south to Alamosa after you cross the Pass.  The Army quit maintaining the road after Ft. Lewis moved farther west in 1881 to Hesperus.  Settlers with their oxen, prospectors, and visitors to the Pagosa hot springs all traveled over Elwood Pass.  You can even see the remains of the 1907 Monte Vista/Pagosa Toll Telephone line.

The trip was difficult: history records a crossing in 1876 that took three weeks to reach Pagosa Springs from Summitville, a distance of only 30 miles!  The San Juan flood of 1911 and the road’s difficulty convinced engineers to locate the new automobile road over Wolf Creek Pass bypassing Elwood.”

Silver Falls . . .

Once we had gotten to the place where our hike to Silver Falls was to begin, the sky was alive with rumbling and the threat of rain had become a reality.  Having once had lightning strike my house with a bolt coming right out of the ceiling near me, I have developed a healthy respect for the deadly phenomenon.

That said, it is clear that when God was passing out caution, I was last in line and did not receive my fair share.  Chris, on the other hand, didn’t even bother with that line; I sometimes think he also bypassed the queue for common sense, the result being that we determined to embark on the short climb to a place to view the waterfall despite foul weather.  I will give us credit for at least doing so with dispatch.

Taking what Chris calls a “calculated risk” and what I deem to be just plumb crazy, we climbed uphill along the rapidly descending water, a fairly short but steep walk until we were at a place to see the waterfall, about 150 feet above us.  Because we were not struck by lightning then or on the hike back to the truck, I can now say it was well worth it all.

What a strikingly beautiful sight it was!  One side was a foamy cascade; the other gave the appearance of strings of silver balls - fully living up to its name.  I regret to say that because of weather conditions, we admired the stream’s chute for the minimum time that seemed appropriate and then hightailed it back to safety.

We are told that during snow melt, Silver Falls is a far larger affair; even at this stage, it was extraordinary.

Piedra River Canyon . . .

What to do when one is surrounded by massive mountains in such an expansive landscape?  It is just too immense to take in without cutting it up into smaller bites.  That is what we did when we chose the Piedra River Canyon for a hike.

Truthfully, at the trailhead, I was more than dubious.  It did not intrigue me at all and I would have chosen a different place to explore.  I am very grateful that I deferred to Chris’ decision to follow that watercourse downstream.

The hike began at a relatively easy pace, actually, it stayed that way throughout, but as we entered the river’s narrow rocky canyon, I found each step to be more spectacular than the last.  “Geez loueeze!” became my mantra - it was gorgeous, eye-popping, fantablous, intriguing, stupendous!

The Piedra flows downward in an everyday-river kind of way along a portion of its course, but inside that particular rock canyon, it has carved out scenes of great beauty.

Four mile creek, produce, grouse . . .

Yet another bite out of this gigantic landscape - we drove up the mountain to embark on the Four Mile Creek trail for however long we could remain upright and putting one foot in front of the other. 

As we began, I was relieved to see that our path was to be uphill at the beginning which would make it downhill on the return, a situation that suits me just fine. 

I was quickly disabused of that notion: throughout its length, the trail was mostly steep, doing a roller coaster imitation, only far, far slower.

There are allegedly waterfalls on that creek we crossed several times: one three miles in and one at four miles; however, the proof of that for us will await another day when we are better conditioned and acclimated.  Chris estimated we were about halfway to the first cascade when we opted to turn back.  We were certain we could have made the distance, but not quite as sure that we would get back out before: 1. We collapsed, or 2. It commenced to rain, or 3. A bear attacked us (there was bear sign along the trail; be assured I kept my pepper spray at hand).

The views on this hike were as stupendous as any we’ve seen, seems a person can’t go wrong wherever one turns in these mountains.

The bonus was the raspberries that we gathered along the way (that’s the royal “we”; Chris did it).  They went into fruit salad along with the sugar sweet Palisade peaches we bought at the local produce stand, the same place we have been obtaining local peaches and Olathe sweet corn daily - scrumptious!

This was the third time we have encountered blue grouse in the Pagosa area, twice while driving.  They blend perfectly into the underbrush, but seem to have a penchant for crossing the road in front of us - one even recrossed while we watched as if to give me a better photo op.

Why did the blue grouse cross the road? Probably to give me a better photo opportunity.

This stop on our journey added more new birds than any other in the past two months; those we identified here were Hammond flycatcher, cedar waxwing, common merganser, yellow-headed blackbird, trumpeter swan, gray jay, and Chris saw a three-toed woodpecker.  On a jaunt out south of Pagosa, we spotted a flock of evening grosbeaks, bringing our year's count to 199.

Aspen, fishing, rain . . .

Many of the stands of aspen we have seen recently have had a much darker hue to their bark than is typical, although we are clueless as to why; we can only surmise that weather conditions have affected them.  In the Four Mile Creek area, however, the trunks had the whitewash appearance we are more familiar with.

As we climbed higher and higher, it was fun to see their wiggly/giggly leaf dance as the humorless stolid somber spruces stood watch.

We have managed to get in sufficient hiking and adventures despite daily or nightly rain.  In the past 44 days, there have been only two without rain.  Conveniently, much of it has been during the night hours, which interferes with sound sleep, but allows us to go on our way without much interference.

Everywhere are creeks, streams and rivers that my imagination says are teeming with trout, and well they may be.  The next time I come to Colorado, I will be doing some serious fishing, perhaps after finally leaning how to fly fish - hoping Sharon, my fly fishing friend, is still amenable to teaching me the techniques.

The Springs . . .

Pagosa’s major claim to fame is/are the hot springs.  The Springs Resort is a single place but it sounds odd to use “is” with it, so I’m just covering my bases.  These hot mineral sulfur-smelling springs have been utilized surely for as long as man has roamed these mountains; their therapeutic soothing properties are now available through commercial means, the primary one being at The Springs Resort.

Happily, one needs not room at the resort to enjoy the bathing, thus this RVing couple can therapeut to our heart’s content, as long as we pay the admission fee, of course.  Our habit, or should I say our addiction, is to spring (ha, ha, little pun there) for the economical weekly rate and to sally to and fro at the pools as we desire.

Mostly, we hit the trails in the morning and early afternoon before rain threatens and then hope lightning does not preclude our hot baths and socializing.  In case of storms, the staff evaluates the distance that lightning is striking and evacuates the pools if it gets too close for comfort.  We have at times waited in the building with other dripping patrons as a storm passes and conditions are again safe for our watery pastime.

The beautifully landscaped slope just above the San Juan is dotted with various sized and heats of pools, ranging from 96 degrees to the Lobster Pot at 109, hot enough for me to keep a wide berth from it.  Several have waterfalls incorporated into their design.  I am in heaven when I stand under one of those, chin tucked to chest, eyes closed in a zen-like state while the water pummels my head, neck and shoulders. 

People are not allowed into this large pool where goldfish reside. Chris-a-pedia says they are grouped where the water enters because there is more oxygen there, that hotter water has less oxygen. Who knew?

It’s been very handy this trip to utilize the showers at The Springs because the RV park is so packed that we couldn’t get a full-hookup space, precluding using our shower in the Totee.  Of note, too, is that it is also heavenly to have an unlimited-hot-water shower as opposed to the rushed cramped affair that bathing entails in the trailer.

I long for a real house with a real shower.  Speaking of a real house, we will be back in Prescott on Sunday and have already set an appointment with our realtor for Monday.  The search for a home begins then, hopefully to culminate in finding the just-right place for us in a very short span of time.

Rowdy pointed out to us this salamander that took up residence under the trailer.

Another nice mural along the way in Alamosa.

Our neighbor chimed in with his 12-foot Alp horn, not your usual RV park musical instrument.

Pronghorn
August 18, 2013

Spotted a herd of pronghorn this morning on our way out of La Veta, which means that home is not far distant.  In fact, we could make it home today if we made it a very long driving day, but “the plan” says we spend a week in Pagosa Springs and that is what we shall do.  Besides, our reservation at Point of Rocks RV park in Prescott is a week away.

All of us are a little sad to leave La Veta, some more than others.  Chris has about decided he wants to live there; he extols the virtues of such an action  at every opportunity - weather, nearby hiking and fishing, small town atmosphere and on and on.

I agree wholeheartedly with all of that and then think of all those same advantages right at home in Prescott, Arizona, with the added benefit of much more variety of topography, climatic zones, and landscape.  Me, I think it’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.

Clearly, La Veta is a charming town situated in the midst of magnificent countryside.  It definitely warrants return visits to enjoy all that is there.  There is an excellent museum that we visited last time we were there and the mountains practically beg to be explored.  In addition, the Circle the Wagons park was very fun to stay at - the kind of place where most people spend their time outside; the camaraderie was so enjoyable.

This formation is called Goemmer's Butte.  The Culebra Range is in the background.

Stormy skies over Groemmer's Butte and Spanish Peaks.

The boy may be in agreement with the señor, though, or possibly it was just the many chances he had to be outside in La Veta as opposed to the often-rain-drenched, mosquito-infested places we have been of late.  At any rate, he has boldly opted to squeeze through the instant the door is opening and to help himself to ample sunspots for some serious cat kickin’ back.

Photo doldrums . . .

I snapped pictures as if there were no tomorrow, but am angst-ridden to discover that they not only do no justice to these stupendous scenes at every turn, but are completely mundane.and unremarkable.  It does not detract from the experience, but I so wanted to share how incredible this all is. 

Oh well, I suppose that anyone who has been in the Rocky Mountains knows it, and anyone who has not will not be able to fathom the grandeur.

High country hiking . . .

While taking it a bit easy on me as I adjusted to the altitude with some queasiness and headachiness, we managed to have some great hikes.  From Cordova Pass, 11,248 feet elevation, we walked off toward the base of West Spanish Peak through boreal forest as only Colorado can do it. 

The trailhead monitor spends the summers there in this mobile shelter he built himself.

There is little underbrush at that altitude, mostly spruce trees, grass and flowers.  I am incredulous at the huge numbers of flower species that are there - every shape and brilliant color imaginable.

I successfully shot my first hand-held self-portrait and discovered why that is done by 20-somethings and should never be attempted by folks in their mid-60s.  This one was done with the help of a tree stump.

An aside . . .

The array of wildflowers put me in mind of cousins Jim Pipkin and Alice Nelson, primarily because of the charming uses Alice makes of flowers she collects and presses and turns into one-of-a-kind jewelry and other creations.  I highly recommend checking out her artistry at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Earwraps-Etcetera/106363299420303?ref=hl or at http://earwrapsetc.com. 

And right after you purchase her creations, I suggest keeping your credit card handy to purchase some mighty fine music from her husband Jim Pipkin, my kinsman and as fine a folk musician as has come down the pike; “sour mash for the soul” he calls his music.  His website is http://www.jimpipkin.com.  I will add them to the blog’s suggested links just as soon as I find the time and remember how to do it.

The West Peak . . .

Through the binoculars, we watched as four tiny ant-sized people made their way down from the peak’s summit.  They were above tree line, allowing us to watch their progress down the steep rubbly slope. 

Chris has a yen to climb it when next we venture here; I will not accompany him.  While sure I could summit, I am equally sure I would have a fit of the terrors when I turned around to descend.

I swore off of very steep rubbly slopes after ascending one very long climb out of the Verde Canyon late in the day.  I have done some scary hikes, but the tension of trying not to fall to my death in an avalanche of rocks was so extreme that I had to sit down halfway to the top to have a good cry.  That over, I was good to go, but determined to find a more circuitous route the next time.

Cuchara . . .

Another little mountain town, Cuchara, is on the way to West Spanish Peak.  It is picturesque as it spreads up the narrow valley, and is anchored by a small touristy “downtown” whose claim to fame seems to be the selling of wild game and buffalo meat at the general store and in the restaurant.

Indian Creek . . .

Another explore was at a slightly lower elevation: out to the Indian Creek trailhead that eventually takes the intrepid hiker to Blue and Bear lakes.  We drove toward it until the road rutted out and then had a good hike farther up the canyon following a trickling stream.

Wild raspberries supplemented our snack of raspberry bars.

This was reminiscent of Arizona.

At this lower altitude, 8,250, there is much more underbrush.  The bear tracks along the road and the steep-sided brushy canyon to each side created a bit of nervousness on my part, but the beauty along the way shifted bear fear to the back of my thoughts.

So . . . the bad news is I never saw a bear in La Veta and the good news is I never saw a bear while hiking.

These bear tracks were right in the RV park.

La Veta business . . .

We enjoyed a nice chat with Karen, the sole proprietor for 20 years of a nice shop on Main Street, Casa de Pajaros, which she translates appropriately enough as “bird house”; in addition to Guatemalan imports and more, it is home to two parrots.  The fascination of watching the antics of one colorful, very athletic bird kept me in one spot for quite a spell. 

Obviously a woman of exemplary taste, she purchased one of Chris’ CDs for herself and agreed to offer them for sale in her store.  I reciprocated by buying a reasonably priced string of camel bells and beads which are now hanging out on the awning.  If a bear comes to visit, he will surely ring the doorbell.

Karen recommended the local bakery, an endeavor by two women who’ve been at it for 23 years in the same location, and who prepare everything from scratch.  We took her at her word and were not disappointed.  They serve meals, too, but we bought only bread and the most incredible raspberry bars in the universe.  Thank goodness I do not live there - I could easily convince myself of the healthful benefits of said bars and thus grown to gargantuan size as a result.

Connections . . .

Much to my delight, past and recent blog posts have ferreted out additional connections with readers.  I have discovered that a good friend’s father-in-law summers in La Veta and owns a business there.  From other posts, I learned that a cousin attended Cottey College, the Nevada, Missouri, institution I wrote about previously, and another family connection in Garden City, Kansas.  That is the best part of doing this blog - discovering the commonalities in attitudes, likes & dislikes, and places: things in common that very possibly would never come to light otherwise.

Home tour . . .

A home tour was in the offing during our La Veta sojourn, so we hopped on that bandwagon.  Our tickets bought us access to six homes, houses that we assumed would be in La Veta; however, as it turns out, only one was in town - the remainder were either east or west of the wall. 

Things out of town here are one of those two designations that refers to the miles-long volcanic dike extruding from Spanish Peaks.  There is no passage through the wall; one must backtrack to get around it.

If they were choosing the tour stops for their ecleticity(!), they reached their goal well.  The in-town house was lovely, but nothing to write home about.  Another was a modest mountain cabin of a big-game hunter, tastefully decorated with his trophies exotic animal statuary.  Despite it being filled with dead animals, I was quite taken with this gentleman’s design sensibilities.

One house situated out in a meadow with wonderful wall and peak views seemed a bit overfurnished for its size, although it had some very nice touches, like the three-sided beehive fireplace.

Undoubtedly the most unique was a restored homestead house.  It had been transformed from four roofless stone walls with a tree growing in the center into a rustic home by using the original cabin as the living room and adding on a section with a kitchen and two bedrooms, etc.  They carried the rustic motif throughout beautifully, utilizing old cabin doors, cast iron pots for sinks and even a chandelier sporting a passel of dangling branding irons.

The highlight was saved for last.  Sited on its own 94 forested acres, it is gargantuan in size - the garage holds 18 cars and has a 2,100 sq. foot guest quarters above it.  Despite being completely overblown, the 7,000+ sq. ft. interior is quite comfortable while being luxurious at the same time.  The owner is a commercial builder and obviously employed his knowledge to good advantage.

We all wandered throughout gaping open-mouthed at once at the scope and the attention to the smallest detail.  From the master suite that would be adequate as a house if a kitchen were included to the wine cellar to the kitchen/sitting/dining amenities, it was a masterpiece of workmanship.

The door to the wine cellar.

The place just happens to be for sale, so if one of my blog readers opts to make it his own for $3.5 million, I fully expect to receive a hefty finder's fee.

It was a little jarring to return to our little 25-foot travel trailer after experiencing those showplaces; however, I dare them to compare maintenance costs and taxes.

Stone . . .

Perhaps because of the predominant rock dikes marking the countryside, La Veta seems to be inordinately proud of their historic stone buildings.  The lovely old wooden residential structures get short shrift, but the visitors’ guide proclaims the addresses and ages of those of stone.  We photographed some of them, mostly from the turn of the century, and I don’t mean Y2000.

Okay, I threw in some not of stone material; I like them better.

A rude awakening . . .

I have just become aware that my writing has deteriorated into a drone-like recitation of events without any of the flair that I think previously snuck itself in at times.  Now one has to wonder just why that should be? 

Is there Mid-oil-land dust still clogging my brain cells?  Is stress lurking undercover resulting from having one’s home of 37 years sold and the only place to call home a 25-foot-long piece of wheeled tin with a decal on the side?  Is our recent pace so frenetic that the fingers cannot linger on the keyboard?  Whatever the seeming distraction, I have determined to continue daily writing when we return to Prescott, not as a blog to publish, but as a release and exercise for expression and introspection. 

The only way to have a garden in La Veta is to build a high fence around it, and there are some wonderful gardens there.