Minerals, mountains & megillahs

What a renewal of spirit this trip is being!  The time spent with our friend Diane is encouraging me to evaluate how I spend this later part of my life.  I can’t say that anything earthshaking is occurring, but the relationship with daring women who live their lives boldly on their own terms is rejuvenating.  Over my lifetime, I have had the privilege to associate with many women who have stepped far beyond a life of routine, with accomplishments that deserve to be written.

Society may see each of them as just another elderly woman, but within their hearts lie memories of daring lives, and I am grateful to know them - many over the years who have lived typical lives and been dealt hard blows in their day-to-day existence, still continuing on their way, and others who have chosen a different path stepping out to create, sometimes re-create themselves in ways that many can’t imagine.

Why not, their hearts tell them, and they listen.  Make no mistake: they are all around us, and it behooves us to heed their stories.

Megillah . . .

. . . Here we go - end of first day, I loaded my photos onto the computer and was dismayed to find that my camera has grit in it, with each tiny bit of dust expanded into dots, blurry lines and glips, ruining the photos.  First off, I naively thought I could avoid that happening by not changing camera lenses thus opening it up to dust pollution; however, it has become painfully obvious that the often dusty conditions that seem to be our favorite environment allow particles to invade the camera.

The photos were ruined for any other use, but I did manage to clean them up enough to utilize in the blog, a tedious and unsatisfying task - very discouraged as I anticipated the same for the remainder of the trip, and the loss of a batch of Colorado pictures.

 
Then . . . a brainstorm from the señor!  The same thing had occurred on a previous long trip; that time, he had found a computer program that cleared out the glips & blips.  Yay!  Revisiting that, we expected the second day pics to be cleared up after a run-through of the miraculous, though time-consuming program.  Alas, our hopes were dashed when it was unsuccessful.  To say I was discouraged would be an understatement of the nth degree.

What went wrong?  After much gnashing of teeth, he thought he had the answer; however, by that time, we were busy going to one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and we could not test the theory until the following morning.

As I was writing, the señor was working the program, and the third day photos were saved - great relief!  I figuratively held my breath until it was done.

Minerals . . .

So now for the minerals, mineral water, that is.  How I love a good hot springs soak, and for this journey, Iron Mountain provided just that.  The facility has expanded since last we enjoyed it, in the process retaining its serene sense of rejuvenation and relaxation.

The site overlooking the Colorado River is lovely despite the highways and railroads on the opposite shore.  The varied landscaping and peaceful music enhance the sense of well-being.  And best of all, they’re running a half-price special, which means we will return in a couple of days.

Mountains . . .

. . . That single word does not begin to convey what the remainder of the day held for us.  Had we only known what was to come, we would have allotted the entire day for it.  Indeed, a month-long sojourn on the heights we attained would better serve what we found far up in the Flat Tops.

Our driver (yes, we acquiesced to whatever he had cooked up for the afternoon) informed us we were headed for something called Deep Lake.  Sure, why not - it’s the Rocky Mountains, how could you go wrong, after all.

As we departed from the depths of the river canyon and began our ascent, we discovered just what could possibly be an issue.  The dirt road began climbing and then it began climbing more and climbing more as it clung precariously to the steep mountainside, a narrow ledge carved out of the nearly vertical cliffs, winding and switching back on itself over and over.

When the rough road caused the truck to scitter, that unprotected edge with nothing for a thousand feet below looked alarmingly close.  It went on and on for long enough that I finally asked the question: “How much farther is it?”.  When he said we were about a third of the way there, it took a good deal of restraint to refrain from violence.  I mean we couldn’t even abort the upward climb; there was literally no place to pull over or turn around because of the narrow washboard road.  When we encountered a lone vehicle coming the other direction, he pulled up with two wheels perched on the vertical cliff in order for us to pass.

And all the while, I was thinking that eventually, we had to come back down that way.  

The drive may have been harrowing, but the reward was beyond incredible!  As we topped out, our relief was palpable.  We disembarked and were nearly knocked over by wind blowing easily 40+ mph.  No matter, we were happy to be on terra horizontal instead of terra vertical, and the views were just stupendous!

Deep Creek was 2,300 feet below us at the bottom of an incredible craggy canyon.  I shot a video of the site with great trepidation; I was seriously afraid the wind would snatch the phone right out of my hands.

No photo could begin to convey the sense of that abyss, but of course, I made the attempt.

Three wind-blown individuals:

Astounding to look out from that high vantage at mountain range after mountain range . . .

. . . but most delightful of all was a gorgeous marmot sunning himself on the rocks at cliff’s edge, mostly unconcerned with our presence.

We had seen large snowbanks along the way and on surrounding mountains; my pard decided that he needed to make his way to one below us, and found the endeavor to be a bit more than anticipated.

We were at approximately 10,000 feet from sea level, with distances very deceiving given the gargantuan scale of our surroundings.  He did, indeed, make his way down there - the slope was far steeper and longer than he had thought, especially when he had to climb back up - but he came, he tasted, and he conquered, kind of.  Thoughtlessly though, he didn't leave the truck keys with us, so if he had slipped, Diane & I would have been there for the duration.

Look closely: he's down there risking his life for a taste of that particular snow.

Along the way, we had distracted ourselves with questions about a historic silver-mining town that had, incredibly, perched somewhere up on those Flat Tops, abandoned since 1890.  We remain incredulous at the knowledge that so-named Carbonate had once been the seat of Garfield County!  The remote location and absurd access caused the town to be short-lived; how anyone managed to build that road with hand-work and horse-drawn equipment is a mystery to me, and a testament to will power.

Once we knew about the ghost town, we were on a quest to find its location.  Spoiler alert:  we didn’t find it, and in the interest of not driving down that road in the dark, we eventually abandoned the quest, but not before being gape-mouthed at the incredible beauty of the locale.

Our drives and hikes up there brought us to one incredible view after another, with lakes and streams and lush growth everywhere.  The wind continued unabated, so photos of the plethora of wonderful wildflowers were difficult to impossible, but of course, it didn’t stop me from trying.

The views speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A view of a different kind . . .

Yet another delightful occurrence in our day was the surprise when we drove around a bend and encountered a fairly large herd of sheep being tended by a horseman and his three dogs.  We have often seen lone shepherds with their herds in the mountains for summer pasture.  

We enjoyed watching as the shepherd tightened up his herd . . .

. . . and rode away for a noon-day break.  The three dogs accompanied him, as did a second horse, which I assumed to be the foal of his mount.  I thought perhaps he would stop for a visit with us, but he acknowledged me with a wave as I photographed and was on his way.

A better day in better company could not be imagined.

Parachute, friendship, Doc Holliday

Parachute, Colorado: an odd enough moniker that begs to be explained.  As best as I can determine (actually, I didn’t determine a darned thing; the señor told me), it is a mispronounced version of a Ute word for The Twins Creek, which in itself needs explanation, for which neither he nor I have.  And that’s my run-on sentence for the day, or possibly one of many.

At any rate, Parachute is where we’re lodged, a mere stroll from the Colorado River, so naturally, our first walk of the day was to it, with a lake to skirt around.  A beautiful velvet-antlered deer was disturbed at our approach, and we watched an osprey carry his catch of the morning to a high perch where he enjoyed breakfast.  A nearby tree supported a huge osprey nest occupied by what appeared to be a juvenile.  Perhaps he had already been fed, or perhaps he was on his own.

The large area between the civilization of hotels and the river beckons to be explored with its overgrowth of vegetation.  Despite the plethora of birds, we only managed to identify a few in our haphazard casual way.  There were western kingbirds, mountain bluebirds, western bluebirds, crows a-plenty, and the magpies that I’m always happy to spot because it means we’re back in Colorado.

 We saw lots of milkweed in the area . . .

. . . and plenty of evidence of beavers hard at work.

Up the canyon . . .

Not surprisingly (it is Colorado, after all), we have gargantuan mountains on all sides: massive rocky ranges where the debris from skyscraper escarpments create scars through the trees that somehow find a foothold on those forbidding heights.

I thought a drive through old town Parachute (meh) ought to be followed by an explore up a canyon.  Expecting somehow to find a piney forest region back up in there, we were surprised that it is mostly taken up by natural gas facilities interspersed with occasional farm fields along a creek.  Deer and turkeys enjoyed the bounty of the pastures.

Reclaiming silt?

The señor chose the next jaunt - through the town of Rifle and to a reservoir, Rifle Gap, located in, of course, Rifle Gap.

It was there that we read an informational sign about a silt reclamation project.  That left me with many questions about why an entity would build a dam and create a reservoir in order to reclaim silt.

It was a bit later when we drove near the town of Silt that it finally dawned: the reclamation project was named for the nearby town and was not actually reclaiming silt - big relief.

Giving up on names of unusual origin for the day, I am clueless why a town might be named Silt; it's a puzzle for another day.

A stop along Rifle Creek (no, I don't know the origin of the so-called town of Rifle or its Gap, Creek or Reservoir) allowed us time to enjoy a lovely chat with an elderly couple (elderly is in the eye of the beholder; they were probably younger that we are) while she fished in Rifle Creek and he kept her company.  They were camping at the reservoir with 18 family members: kids, grands, greats and in-laws.  I was envious at the thought.

Diane . . .

Then it was off to Glenwood Springs for the trip highlight: our reunion with Diane Smith, our friend who has been lost to us for three decades or so.

She has relocated to Colorado recently, now near enough that we can visit, after my search of several years to find her.  We even got our mutual friend, Casey, on the phone to join in the walk down memory lane.  In their 80s both, the pair are among those bold women I so admire.  How fortunate I am to have such to attempt to emulate!

Both Diane & Casey worked with Chris when he administered the largest Elderhostel program in the world through Yavapai College.  Hundreds of week-long adventuring programs with thousands of adventuresome adults makes for a seeming infinite number of stories: of what went wrong, what went right, what got saved, what skirted disaster but barely, how people from New York City came west and found themselves sleeping on the ground, helping at orphanages, escaping canyon flash floods and river rafts with motors that quit operating in the middle of rapids, rounding up, branding and castrating cattle after a Dutch oven breakfast, and of how they (mostly) loved it, and learned a whale of a lot in the process.

We talked about Diane’s multiple Olympics ventures, both as staff and as competitor, as she & Irv carved their niche in that and in so many other ventures.  Diane just seems so completely comfortable tackling huge tasks, both here and abroad, with multiple responsibilities that would cow most people, and with a confidence most could only dream of.  I am honored to have her friendship!

Doc Holliday . . .

 

Diane and her four-legged buddy, Buddy, took us to the historic Glenwood cemetery where the renowned western gunman, Doc Holliday is buried, but is he really.  There seems to be some question of whether he made it to the graveyard, the story being that the road was too muddy to traverse, and so there was a delay, or a burial at the bottom of the hill, or in what may now be someone’s back yard.

I can well believe wet weather would make that burying ground inaccessible.  What began as a wagon road to the top (but why!!!) is now weathered into a foot path, a route that had us huffing and puffing and resting along the way.  Whoever chose that site up that very long steep slope must surely have done it on a bet; I have never seen such a difficult-to-access burial site.

Another notable ne’er-do-well buried there is Kid Curry, born Harvey Logan, an outlaw member of the Wild Bunch of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

 

The cemetery is extensive, many graves unmarked, and with a large Potter’s Field where indigents and undesirables were laid to rest.  Only a few are marked in that section.

Dining at Doc’s . . .

Requiring sustenance after all that exertion, we walked a short way to Doc Holliday’s, a nice Glenwood eatery . . .

That's Doc Holliday and his lady, Big Nose Kate, in the pics behind us (Kate's buried in Prescott, by the way).

. . . and then to see the Glenwood Hot Springs . . .

The Colorado River is just across the street from Diane’s abode, and just on the other shore is the historic and well-visited mineral springs.  

We were able to walk on the bridge over the river (well, barely able to climb the stairs after that crazed steep hike to the cemetery, the one where Diane kept saying “I didn’t remember how far it was”.) to overlook the crowded pools just below the handsome historic Hotel Colorado.

Our exercise done for the day, we bade our friend adieu for now.