Hikin’ & hangin’
August 8, 2009

If you’ve been with me since the beginning, you’ll know that our trip began twice on the first morning. We topped that today by starting thrice. The plan was to return to Bent’s Fort to hike around the adjacent wetlands along the river. And we did. . . well, we did for about a quarter mile until we realized that there would be nothing left of us but bones if we continued because the deer flies were chawin’ away on us with great vigor.

Discretion being the better part of valor, we hotfooted it back to the truck to apply the dreaded insect repellent. Ah, better equipped, we hit the trail once more, laughing at the hungry hordes.

Beyond our farthest point on the first try, I stopped to snap a picture. Yet another glitch: no card in the camera. Chris had forgotten to replace it after transferring the last set to the computer (what could I say; I should have done it myself). Disappointed and put out with Chris, it didn’t take long to know that I was going to carry along my disgruntlement (I made that one up) through the entire hike, so we retraced our steps once more, drove back to town for the “film”, back to the fort and set off for the third time. We had wanted the exercise, so I suppose all was well except it had heated up right smart by then.

The wetlands was not there at the time of the fort’s occupation. About ten years ago, the Arkansas flooded the area. That and the rising water table due to damming, thus silting the river, reactivated springs in the area. It now encompasses many acres; the trail around it is about 1.5 miles, standing water mostly filled with cattails. The trail meanders along the river through sparse stands of cottonwood trees. We saw two redheaded woodpeckers, really beautiful birds.

A short stop at the fort on the last leg of the loop allowed us to satisfy a few more curiosities about the area with one of the “traders” who lives there. As I walked through the fort, I thought how perfect it would be to have a sound track playing, one that provided the noise of activities that would have been there when the fort was an important trading post: people speaking in various languages (English, French, Spanish, and a myriad of Indian dialects), laughing, horses, a blacksmith swinging his hammer against the anvil, the creaking of wagons, saddles and harnesses, a saw cutting through another cottonwood timber or an axe chopping firewood. That would be just the ticket to transport me back in time.

A primary fact I learned there is that the Arkansas River was the U.S./Mexico border from 1819 to 1847. How did I not know that?

Lieutenant James Abert was the cartographer/illustrator/recorder of much of what we know about Bent’s Fort and many other places, animals and history. If he were alive today, I suppose he would be a blogger like moi. I am so much enjoying having a venue in which to share my journeys and photographs. I have quickly returned to habits acquired during my newspaper years, especially that of always having my camera with me and being alert to opportunities to use it for illustration. I like doing it very much and don’t even have to worry about selling advertisement space.

Speaking of advertisement, I think the blog site has a way to include ads, so I have in mind to include one for our Goat Hill Music. Indeed, I will get that done as soon as we slow down (ha!), also want to add something on our goathillmusic.com website about Chris being available to play house concerts. I will get those done in my copious free time.

Harvest . . .
The route to the fort took us through North La Junta, an agricultural area with a very midwestern appearance to the residential section. We stopped to photograph cantaloupe harvest. I love harvest time - it conjures such a feeling of abundance with its busyiness, ripe odors and beauty. Once a farmer, always a farmer, I suppose. It’s in my blood and I’m glad of it.

The melon harvest was only partially automated, not so different from the watermelon harvests I remember from Phoenix in my childhood. Dad often had the contract to harvest various crops, and I was his trusty sidekick. Then, someone (sometimes me even though I could scarcely see over the windshield) would drive the truck slowly through the watermelon field. The truck was flanked by men lined out horizontally from the truck bed. As they dipped and bent, they would pick up a melon and in the same fluid motion toss it to the fellow next closest to the truck. That catcher would repeat the motion without hesitation, catching it from his one side and sending it along the way as the same motion passed it on to the next in line, similar to how a bucket brigade would work, until it reached one of two men up in the truck, who would carefully but quickly nestle it among the other fruits.

In today’s scenario, the truck bed was covered with some sort of baffle to keep the melons from breaking as they dropped in. The picking was done by the same line of men on each side (I presume they were different people) who walked through the field behind a horizontal conveyer belt. They picked and placed their melons on the belt which conveyed them to another belt that lifted them into the truck. I missed seeing the motion of the pickers catching and tossing the fruit from one side to the other, the motion reminding me of an elephant walking and swinging its trunk back and forth.

We spotted loads of prairie dogs when we ventured beyond the river valley up into the rangeland.

RV parks, planes on trains, tailwinds . . .

Evidently, yesterday’s travelogue was sent out twice, a fluke of this park’s intermittent and very slow internet service.

We are starting to have quite a time finding places to lodge our totee. Last year, we seldom made reservations, just called a place as we neared it. This year has been an entirely different situation with many places being full or nearly so. I can only attribute the change to the economy - are more folks “camping” instead of doing more expensive vacations? Thus, we are having a heck of a time getting close to where we want to research Augustus Sherwood, who we are told died in Udall, Kansas. Finally, we have come up with something that we hope is suitable, farther away than we would prefer, but at least we will get to look for him. We have no idea why he relocated to Kansas from Nebraska. Perhaps we will discover the reason when we are there.

While wandering in La Junta, we spotted unusual railroad freight: airplane fuselages, four of them to be exact. I have never seen airplanes transported by train, but I suppose it makes sense.

The strong winds we encountered on the way over here gave us an idea for a new type of trip. In our fantasy, we will travel where we are blown, determining our direction by always having a tailwind. Might be interesting, but then again, it might take us in circles.

Our neighbor saw me sitting outside working on the laptop (where else?) on my lap, and thought it looked uncomfortable, so brought out a “lap desk” for my use. It is a clever lightweight plastic affair with a beanbag-type cushion beneath. It really is much easier, and cooler, to use, so I think I will check around for one of my very own. I do, after all, have to give hers back. It was so thoughtful of her. They are living in a new fifth-wheel here because her corrections officer husband got a promotion that brought them here from Canon City. Rentals are high, she says, and they have not sold their house in Canon. It seems that a lot of folks in RV parks are local workers. Perhaps that is contributing to the full houses we’ve encountered - people temporarily moving to where they can work.

While we are off and gone, Rowdy enjoys the company of his bunny.

I just let Chris skunk me at a couple of games of pool. Sure, I couldda beat him, but I hate it when he pouts.

Also check out our website: www.goathillmusic.com

Steam train, friends, La Junta, Bent’s Fort
August 7, 2009

A short drive ahead of us today, we will land in the KOA in La Junta, Colorado, around lunchtime.

Yesterday was a one-activity day, but still eventful. We rode my second-ever steam train (the first was the Grand Canyon Railroad; Chris remembers as a child riding commuter trains into downtown Chicago that were pulled by steam engines). Our journey was from Alamosa over La Veta Pass, elevation 9,900, in the Culebra Range on the Rio Grande Scenic Railroad. At the time of the construction of the narrow gauge over that pass in 1877, it was the highest railroad track in the world. The standard gauge, the one we rode, was built in 1899.




As we waited at the station to board, we were chatted casually with another couple, and were very surprised to learn that not only were they staying at the same RV park as us, but were our next-door neighbors. Jim and Linda, residents of Estes Park, Colorado, were wonderful travel companions. By the time, we arrived back at our point of origin, we felt as if we had experienced the start of a great friendship.

We rode in air-conditioned comfort in what is called the dome car, an excellent way to view the sights from up high. A brief stop at the top of the pass reminded me of a special package they offer at times of combining the trip with an open-air concert up top. One we just missed by a week or so was a Michael Martin Murphey show; I would liked to have done that.

Our destination was the town of La Veta on the other side of the mountain. Like the little ditty, evidently the bear really did go over the mountain because a mama bear with three cubs had been scouting around town that morning. I wish that sighting had been part of my package tour.

We were given a map of the dining establishments in La Veta. Our new friends accompanied us to Nanda Ghan’s Mexican food restaurant, where we enjoyed lunch in a charming and pleasant courtyard surrounded by profusions of flowers and mint.

Francisco fort . . .
The lunchtime stop was just over two hours. A short stroll brought us to the historic Francisco Fort Museum, built in 1862 by Col. John Francisco, the 1859 sutler for Fort Garland. The accommodating staff gave us a half-hour tour of the various buildings and exhibits. The place was worth spending several hours perusing; however, the train wouldn’t wait. It would have been good if we had been informed about it on the train and could have allowed additional time.

Reversing direction to return us home, the train was required to stop at the siding atop the pass as we waited for a freight train approaching. That gave us time to disembark and wander a bit. I sent Chris up into the engine for a tour of our locomotive and a photo op in which he looked right at home at the controls.

The Rio Grande River is slow and wide as it flows through Alamosa. We spent almost no time in town, will definitely want to check it out more at another time. There are two colleges here - Adams State and Trinidad, a situation that typically enhances an area’s cultural opportunities.

Southeastern Colorado . . .
The helpful tail wind that boosted us up over La Veta Pass today became a troublesome swirling crosswind on the steep downhill grade. I was glad Chris was driving, but it’s difficult to be a passenger with no control in those circumstances. He brought us safely through that fairly short, but intense, experience.

Driving through Walsenburg, I add it to the Alamosa and La Veta list of places I’d like to spend substantially more time. Besides their lovely little historic downtowns, the countryside is rife with fabulous hiking, fishing and backroading opportunities, one of which is the old La Veta Pass road that takes one to UpTop, a three-building remnant of a ghost town.

As we leave the Rockies behind, we see some healthy corn fields before we begin our crossing of the Great Plains. Suddenly, we top out on a vast green grassy plateau from which our line of sight seems unobstructed.

Just about midday, we arrive at the La Junta KOA, nearly deserted, but find by suppertime that we have neighbors aplenty. This, too, is a nice spot, as most KOAs seem to be.

Bent’s Fort . . .
After setting up, we are off to Bent’s Fort. I had been there when Darren was a young’un. At that time (he’s now nearly 40), the site was basically just a site - ruins. How amazing to go there now and find a completely reconstructed complex.

The Bent brothers with their partners constructed the fort to serve as a trading post. The reconstruction, exactly on the foundation of the original, and furnishings are outstanding. Everywhere one looks there are sutler’s shelves neatly lined with yard goods, tinware and everything imaginable that could be wanted by frontier folks. Pressed and baled buffalo hides vie for space with various other animal pelts. The blacksmith and carpenter shops are fully stocked with appropriate tools, as are the kitchen and other quarters.

Because a recuperating military surveyor by the name of Abert drew detailed plans for the facility, the National Park service was able to be very accurate in rebuilding it. While wandering through the courtyard and in and out of the intricacies of the buildings, it was a short step to imagining myself back in time.

The Arkansas River flows muddily (at least right now) near the fort and through La Junta. There is a substantial railroad yard here; however, I have not learned what goods it transports, perhaps agricultural products, livestock? We see quite a lot of agriculture in the area: so far we have noticed mostly alfalfa, corn and melons.

As we drove the countryside today, we saw occasional signs declaring varying sentiments about land and/or southwest Colorado not being for sale to the U.S. Army. Very curious we thought, and looked up a website noted on some of the billboards: pinoncanyon.com. The upshot is that there is widespread opposition to the Army’s intent to expand a training site in Colorado, the Pinon Canyon Maneuver Site (PCMS), which the website states is under utilized.

It was 95 degrees when we arrived, a bit of a shock after our time in the mountains, but a nice wind was blowing and it didn’t seem too bad.

Sand dunes, alligators, neighbors . . .
August 5, 2009

Red-faced I am. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I forgot to proofread yesterday’s travelogue/blog/trog, and sent it out with typos. I corrected the blog, but the email shall forever stand as my shame. Overreacting? Perhaps, but as the most compulsive editor and critic of careless language usage, I oughtta be ashamed, and am.

Ah well, life goes on despite my failings.

On our way to our day’s activities, I spotted an unusual livestock set-up, requiring us to u-turn to determine just what it was. The farm sported three very large silos that turned out to be milk storage facilities. The odd pens I had seen were little calf houses that looked like oversized dog igloos each with an adjoining tiny individual pen, obviously housing for veal calves.

Argh! I was so happy that I had ceased eating veal long ago. Now what possible difference could it make if the beef is butchered young or a bit later? I have no idea and have no need for rationality in this, or any other case. All I know is I don’t eat veal and hold no judgment regarding anyone else’s choices in this matter.

I will digress for a moment to our neighbors: again, grandparents with grandchildren. This Texas (Arlington, to be exact) couple annually take their small travel trailer out for a week with two granddaughters, now about eight and ten, usually including the girls’ uncle, probably in his 40s, so they can all remain close. Sometimes, the other son and/or some wives join them. It’s extremely close quarters, making it even more remarkable that all seem to enjoy this time together. And how impressive that the uncle does this every year to have the time with his parents and nieces.

The Great Sand Dunes National Park was our initial destination this day. I really had little idea what to expect, but could never have conjured this anomaly. Here we have the vast tabletop flatness of the San Luis Valley, ringed gloriously by mountain ranges at every juncture. So far, all is not unexpected; however, up in the northeast corner of this expanse, the wind and topography have joined forces to deposit mountains(!) of undulating sand.

Size becomes relative when the dune range is viewed as a backdrop to the wide reaches of the valley and as the approach to the majestic Sangre de Cristo mountains just beyond. We discovered just how relative when we saw the line of almost indistinguishable ants, no, they’re really people, climbing up onto the 750-foot peak of the dunes. The sand was dwarfed by the peaks behind them, but in reality, was huge, both in height and area - 30 square miles.

We read and heard about Medano Creek that ran around the base of he dunes, but even that was incomprehensible until experienced. The stream bed is up to about a quarter-mile wide and flat as the proverbial pancake. Spring runoff evidently creates a running creek of sorts, a few inches deep across the entire expanse. As the season progresses, the water recedes into the upper reaches.

Drawn by the lure of water always, we determined to walk up the stream bed until we came to water, and walk we did for nearly two miles. As we began, we were in dark damp sand; eventually, rivulets of clear water greeted us as they randomly wandered around the flatness, dividing and rejoining in endless ropy patterns.

The most fun of it was watching the people. Yes, there were children playing in the sand and water, but a large proportion of the folks enjoying the wetness were adults. It was the cutest ever to see many “grownups” lying in the creek bed, digging bathing pools with their hands, building fantabulous sand cities, damming up the flow to capture it for themselves.

As far up as we walked, the water never deepened, just continued wandering merrily. It doesn’t cut a channel because the groundwater is already right at the surface. When one digs in a toe to make a depression, it immediately fills with water from beneath.

Finally, we determined we must get up into the dunes. It would be ludicrous, after all, to visit Great Sand Dunes and not climb a sand dune now, wouldn’t it. My chosen target was what I might term a foothill. That particular mound appealed to me because I could see that the creek wound around behind it; therefore, I would go up and over, come down the other side back into the creek bed, and stroll back in water, albeit it not enough to cover my feet. By the way, Medano is created from snow melt, but the temperature is barely below body temp, just enough to refresh.

We begin our ascent wearing sandals that we had discarded while in the creek bed. Wow, that was hard work, to put it very mildly. We trudged, we struggled, we worked, we sank and spewed sand as we lifted our feet again and again. Our little foothill began to seem insurmountable, but we persisted. After all, right over the summit, I would see welcome Medano Creek.

“The best laid plans of mice and men” and all that . . . right over the summit was . . . more sand. Ah well, no use to turn back, onward we go sinking, laboring with muscles that are beyond weary until we see the watercourse once again. Oh, too bad, it appears to be accessible only via a very, very steep cliff of sand, an incline that I am not inclined to attempt. No way, say I. If I tried to go down that, I would fall, I would tumble, I would be a roly-poly bug all the way until I landed on my keester at the bottom.

No really, it’s okay, says Chris, we can do it. This coming October we will celebrate(?) 30 years of marriage. Shouldn’t I have figured it out by now? But nooo, despite my misgivings, I give in and agree to make the descent. It’s so steep that I am afraid. Just dig in your heels, he advises, and so I do. Here we go, digging in our heels, not falling, not tumbling. And then: aaaiiiyeee! it’s burning, oh my god, it hurts beyond hurting! Our feet are burning; they’re on fire; we’re screaming like little girls. I would welcome tumbling pell-mell, anything to make it stop hurting. Our careful descent turns into a frantic loping slide. And just when we are sure the skin is gone, we are burned down to our toe bones, we hit the wet sand, run for the water and soothe our nearly blistered appendages.

So now the real question is: will I go along next time or has this been the one event to finally bring me to my senses?

We walk in Medano (they pronounce it Med-a-no, but I think the proper pronunciation in Spanish, at least, would be Me-da-no) Creek all the way back to the visitors’ center. Truthfully, our feet continue to burn most of the way, but we have survived the self-inflicted ordeal.

Later, we drive a rough dirt road further up the canyon, park and walk to a place where we can eat our sandwiches across the creek from the east end of the dunes. Then I see two ants, no people, over on the dunes. Through the binoculars, we barely discern that they are climbing the dunes carrying boards (dune boards? boogie boards? sand boards?) and at long last, stand wide-stanced upon them rocking back and forth until they sail down the slope. Actually, I was dumbfounded that anyone would spend that much time and effort (remember, I know whereof I speak at this point) to get up there in order to slide back down. To each his own . . .

Another adventure, now left behind, we realize that this is an area to which we must return. There is the Medano/Zapata Ranch, now a Nature Conservancy property, to check out. We want to drive/hike into Zapata Waterfall, hike in the alluring Sangre de Cristo Mountains, fish the San Luis Lakes State park and lots more. What a gorgeous area!

We make our way to the town of Hooper to see the only alligator farm in Colorado. By dint of a geothermal 87-degree well, that former tilapia farm now houses more than 400 alligators (never again will Chris talk me into kayaking in alligator waters), tortoises everywhere, gigantic pythons and boas in abundance, in addition to numerous reptiles of every shape and description. The place is stinky beyond stinky, but fascinating enough to keep our attention. Those creature all look dead, more or less, but the size and number of those teeth convince me that I am no match for their strength. And I thought I had to go to Louisiana or Florida to view these animals that hold so much fascination for me.

There are many “points of interest” along the roadways here and we stop to read them all. Near the dunes, we see and learn about a place that Zebulon Pike and his party camped before they were captured by Spaniards on whose land they trespassed near here on the Conejos River. The history of this area is surpassed only by its natural beauty. We are intrigued by the canyons we see in the Sangre de Cristos.

Back home, we are surprised that we have almost no hummingbirds here; our feeder remains full. In Pagosa, we could barely keep them fed. New bird for the trip: northern rough-winged swallow.

Best recreational vehicle website name: RV there yet?

Moving east . . . ever so slowly August 4, 2009

The crack of 8:45 a.m.: our hatches are battened, all is packed and we’re off. Once again over Wolf Creek Pass and down the other side. The down part is what gets my attention. It makes me a tad nervous, but as always, all is good. There is a bicycle rally happening here. Scores of cyclists are climbing the pass from the east. It is beyond me that there can be that many people who are not only willing, but capable of pulling that grade. I have no idea how long their course is, but we’re far down from the summit and still they’re coming.

Is this Wolf Creek that our route has followed or is it the south fork of the Rio Grande or something else entirely? At any rate, it reminds me of childhood road trips to northern California. Occasionally (I think before we were seven in number), we would rent a cabin for the night and it would look over one of the multitude of that country’s water courses. I loved falling asleep to the sound of the rushing river, and still love driving or hiking by them.

Down here on the other side of the pass, the vegetation is much changed. Although we are 1,000 feet higher than the Pagosa side, we are in pinion/juniper country much like home (information from E.P., encyclopedic partner).

As we spy the cool old steam train water tower that we remember from the past, I am inclined to stop for a photo. While risking life and limb (only a slight exaggeration) by the side of the road, I also photograph the railroad equipment on an abandoned track. There is a small engine, possibly a switcher, that is identified as belonging to Amalgamated Sugar Co. Chris, aka E.P., says that it’s too cold to grow much here besides potatoes, their historical crop, but opines that perhaps they were also successful with sugar beets. There is a passenger car from the Santa Fe line and others marked as Southern Coastal line.

San Luis Valley, Fort Garland, Kit Carson . . .
As we enter the San Luis Valley, we drive through nice ranchland, and Chris’ observation about potato farming is evident, but it appears that it may no longer be a crop here. The evidence of its previous existence is in the derelict adobe sod-roofed potato cellars, or, more likely, it remains a viable crop but storage methods have evolved.

This is one of the greatest examples of an artesian basin in the U.S. Because the ground is so porous, most of the streams that enter it lose their water, which then percolates to the center of the valley where it is available as artesian water that comes to the surface under its own pressure, requiring no pumping. The Rio Grande is the only water that continues on through and past the valley.

Driving through Monte Vista, we are charmed by the well-kept historical residential and downtown. Seems a nice place to live if only it weren’t so blasted cold.

Our destination is Alamosa, where we will experience the Great Sand Dunes. Chris’ idea, it sounded too bleak for me after the Pagosa area, but he convinced me that it will be fascinating and interesting. Ah, we have now seen potatoes growing, so the Colorado Potato Administrative Committee building in Del Norte begins to fit into the picture.

We are now parked at the KOA just outside Alamosa. Not much of a driving day, we were here by midday, but we made up for it by dropping the Totee and driving out to Fort Garland, traversing the San Luis Valley on a loop route.

Fort Garland was not one that had ever come into my awareness; however, the word “fort” is always a catcher for me and we were not sorry we made the trip. It was the last command of Kit Carson’s. He died the following year. As I perused photographs of him, it was obvious that he became, or was ill at the time he commanded Fort Garland. The portraits of him that year show him as much more gaunt than anything before that time.

The fort and museum were interesting and educational. I learned that he married a Hispanic girl (I must use that particular term; she was 14; he was 33) from an affluent Taos family. They maintained a home in Taos, but he was necessarily away from there a good deal of the time, and she often accompanied him with their children. I will have to do a bit of research, though, to figure out their children. It seemed from what we read that there were eight; however, most blurbs referred to seven, one of which died in infancy. I presume the infant death occurred at the childbirth which brought about Josefa Jaramillo Carson’s demise several days afterward. Carson died a month later.

Amazingly, he maintained his position as Brigadier General in the U.S. Army even though he was illiterate, but spoke five languages. A fascinating person he must have been. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to meet him and hear about his life!

Evidently, Carson also had two Indian wives with a child by each, but information about them and their possible survival or identification was non-existent in the museum. The more ya know, the more ya don’t know, eh?

Don’t know much about Alamosa; we did drive over to San Luis, allegedly the oldest town in Colorado, 1858 (this would of course refer arrogantly to the oldest Anglo settlement). It is a small depressed array of dwellings with a few businesses.

The San Luis Valley is impressively huge, ringed by Colorado’s ceaseless ranges, on the north and east the Sangre de Cristo mountains with ten 14ers, those peaks that demand climbers to attempt them, and on the west by the San Juans (that we left this morning) with one 14er. We looked up at Culebra (the southernmost 14er) and Blanca peaks, both sporting snow at this late date.

Amazing to think that we are at 7,600 feet elevation, higher than Arizona’s Flagstaff with the largest ponderosa forest in the world, but the valley is filled with sage, rabbit brush and the like because of less rainfall, approximately the same as Phoenix. The difference is the groundwater that one sees surfacing throughout the area, much of the agriculture is sub-irrigated or watered with artesian wells. The crops appear to be almost exclusively hay, grain and potatoes, the cold (down to 51 below zero) winters and short season being the reasons.

Surprisingly (at least to me), there is a burgeoning Amish population in the area, many of whom evidently are known for their building skills, and who have been welcomed into the area as they move west like so many before them to escape crowded conditions.

Once again, rain has found us. For crying out Pete’s sake, if I’ve gotten myself to a place of little precipitation, you’d think we could put out the awning, lay down the rugs (I call them my patio and my lawn) and relax outside with my little token candle alight, but no, the wind got itself up to the point we had to retire inside to escape blowing wet and to take up the awning lest it become tattered. Once was more than enough for that.

Best RVer’s t-shirt: Home is where you hook up.

Pagosa farewell
August 3, 2009

Day six, our last in Pagosa Springs, and it rained. What else - it’s rained every day we’ve been here, although even when it rains, it tends to blow through once or twice a day and then afford some sunshine. Melissa informs me that Pagosa touts itself as having 360 days of sunshine a day, which must be Chamber of Commercese for “We see the sun most days at least a tiny bit if only for the few minutes it drops below the clouds just before it’s swallowed by the mountains.”

We’re finding it difficult to leave here. What a pleasant stay it’s been. Pagosa seems to be a friendly town in a state of flux, with some development completed and more planned, but obviously some economic stumbles, too. The primary attractions are the incredible mountains and San Juan National Forest, fishing, hunting, tubing and rafting, hiking, skiing, and of course the hot springs. There’s quite a plethora of time shares and vacation rentals. When I return, I will do the river walk, check out the National Forest for fishing lakes and tube the San Juan, plus lots more hiking. I plan to confine my visits to summertime, though: Chris says that Wolf Creek Pass averages 40 feet of snow per winter (how does he remember all those things?!), which probably means quite a pile-up here, too.

Interesting that the town of Pagosa Springs provides residential and commercial heating via the hot springs, even heats the sidewalks to melt the snow.

Yesterday, we breakfasted on quiche we had bought at the farmer’s market - roasted red pepper/green chile/cheddar cheese - scrumptious! It was a product of the local bakery, so with their coupon, we decided to lunch there today. A very small place with a very small menu, but quite good. I had a portobello/mozzarella/tomato/basil sandwich and Chris dined on chicken panini. Both were served with a side of quinoa and greens. We’ll finish off my sandwich for supper along with some more great Olathe sweet corn that we’ve been eating every day with a dessert of incredibly inexpensive fresh raspberries and cream. Good grief, you’d never realize that I’m not hungry at all; I just had to memorialize those excellent meals.

Elk Meadows is certainly a nice RV park to which we will return. I love the variety of “lawn furniture” scattered throughout, created artistically from scrap wood and natural logs.









Each day we were here, we “took the waters”, as it was formerly termed, in various of the 23 individual pools. This afternoon, my last pool overlooked the river. Some of them are arranged to allow folks to lean their elbows on the edge and gaze out over the San Juan, or to sit on the bench with water covering up to your neck. Today was one of those perfectly peaceful sleepy times, waist deep in the hot mineral water enjoying the activities just below. A warm day it was, which brought out lots of people to enjoy the river - a couple sitting on rocks with their feet in the water, children with buckets, loads of tubers floating by, and the ten- to teen-age group laughing and shrieking as they rode the chute of water created by rocks over and over, an occasional rafter or kayaker, people strolling along the river walk and a fisherman here and there. A more idyllic scene I would be hard pressed to imagine.

Much of today was taken up by necessaries: some seriously serious cleaning, laundry, paperwork, bills and the like, then a bit of touring old neighborhoods (one of my favorite pastimes) and the springs.





























































Yesterday, the light bulb went off in my head when I realized we hadn’t returned to photograph the trumpeter swan, so we drove over to that little lake. When I didn’t spot him, I was so disappointed that I hadn’t gotten a picture. Then I saw his head where he was partially obscured by the bank and was ecstatic. As I approached the shoreline, I suddenly saw a second swan - even more exciting - but the best was yet to come. It was a pair, and they had a baby! The three of them posed nicely for me; they are so beautiful! What a wonderful sight!

Church, hiking and more
August 2, 2009

It being Sunday morning and all, we began the day by listening to a talk by Rev. Tom at Unity of Prescott via internet. What a great feature to make the Sunday talks available that way. I only wish it were the whole service; then I’d really feel as if I were back home. The availability is not quite up to date. The only one we hadn’t heard was the one from June 28, the day Dad died, so we listened to that one and enjoyed it very much. Here’s the link to the website: http://www.unityprescott.com/index.html.

Treasure Falls . . .
Chris remembered that there was a waterfall on the way up Wolf Creek Pass that he wanted to see, so we headed up that way. We are camped about 15 miles from the pass. We went through there in a bit of a hurry a few years ago on the way to Vail with Bud & Barbara, so missed it then. Last year, we had a gloriously beautiful drive over Wolf Creek, but were pulling the trailer and it was pouring rain, not a good time for a hike. Today, then, was the perfect time, so Treasure Falls was our destination.

As we gazed up at the cascade far above us, I declared that I wouldn’t be hiking up there. Next thing I knew, I was on my way. The hike was nowhere near as difficult as it appeared it would be and was a delightful walk with several routes out to vantage points. That walk netted (so to speak) us a brown creeper (a life bird for us). I also spotted a small secretive bird flitting through the masses of ground cover. At the exact moment when he showed himself by hopping onto a downed log, a deer fly took a chunk out of my hide. While slapping at my leg to relieve the pain, I missed my bird. Imagine - it might have been a gray-green-with-a-hint-of-yellow-eye-striped fir climber, but then again, maybe not.

I was very surprised to see a large catnip shrub by the trail, just one, something I have never seen out in the boonies before. Chris picked a sprig for Rowdy; I’m sure he misses the fresh catnip we grow at home.

Wolf Creek Pass, Continental Divide . . .
It had rained at the falls before we got there, and as we pulled away to traverse the pass, it rained some more. I was ready to turn around and skip more driving in the rain, but it seemed that Chris was seeking a visitation to his past, so on we went, over the pass and off onto a dirt road. Oh boy, I thought: dirt road plus rain equals something we’ve already done on this trip which I choose not to do again. The rain let up, though, and Mr. Determination continued driving back through the years until he came to the place of a long-ago two-week solo backpack on the Continental Divide Trail from Wolf Creek Pass to Silverton. Raining all around and a bit of lightning, but neither of us can resist a trail stretched out before us. We didn’t hike a great distance because the weather truly was becoming dangerous, but enough to be completely enchanted and for Chris to regale me with memories of that distant adventure.

Across the way, we spied three marmots (one of my totem animals) with one baby and watched them frolicking. And despite my vow not to collect cones and seeds this trip, I was so taken with the lovely delicate cones of the Englemann spruce that I succumbed to the compulsion of collecting souvenirs. We definitely noticed the over-11,000 foot elevation while hiking, not being Nepalese Sherpas. The trail is through the Weminuche Wilderness Area.

In the truck, we drove a ways out to Lobo Overlook, from which one can view the entire world, it seems. These mountains, the San Juans, are magnificent and majestic (it’s okay to reuse adjectives from Utah now that I’m in Colorado; I shall recycle them for each state when needed). These wide grassy valleys are rimmed by peaks of coniferous forest topped by rocky spars, some with snow clinging to the precipitous slopes. One attempts to display the immensity in a photograph, but all sense of proportion is lost.

While up in the high(er) country, we added more birds to the trip list, including a gray jay (Rocky Mountain variant) - another life bird, black-capped chickadee, white-crowned sparrow and black-eyed junco.

Hot springs, night visitor, mail, southern food . . .
We polished off the day with afternoon dips in the hot springs pools and supper out at the Dogwood Cafe. Its southern name and menu were irresistible. I even got sweet tea to go with my four-veggie plate. Chris opted for crawfish cakes. We dined outside on the deck with a view of the mountains and reveled in our fried okra, excellent cornbread and an entire meal to get us in the mood for warmer climes.

We had another wildlife visitor last night, 4 a.m. to be exact. Rowdy woke me up by frantically bouncing off the walls until I dutifully arose, groped for my flashlight in the dark and peered out the windows with him. About all I could see was the reflection of the light in the window, but he seemed placated enough by my actions and reassurance that we were able to retire once again.

A couple of days ago, we got our first mail since the trip’s commencement. We have our mail forwarded to the Good Sam Club forwarding service in Pensacola, Florida. At such time as we know where we will be long enough for it to reach us, we call and ask them to send it along, thus we end up with well-traveled mail. This particular batch was very fun because I got lots of birthday cards, reminders that I have not been forgotten. I have decided that this birthday shall continue for months and months; it will be my excuse for every indulgence I have a hankering for.

I just remembered something that we saw in the museum the other day - black angora goat chaps. It made me think about all the times I tried to come up with items of interest to tell Dad about from our travels. He and his family raised Angora goats in Texas and Arizona. He would have gotten a big kick out of hearing about these chaps. I can hear him again, “No kidding?” he would say.

Finding William Henry Walker, farmers’ market, quilts
August 1, 2009

Gasp, can it really be August?! It appears so, but I scarcely fathom how quickly the time rolls away. Yet, time stands still now, it seems, as we sit outside the trailer in the most perfect evening ever. The sun has just disappeared below the nearest mountain peak. The temperature is an ideal . . . well, I don’t know what it is but it is definitely perfect. I’m writing; Chris is playing the keyboard and Rowdy watches through the screen door. Neighbors are visiting in quiet, laughing groups and enjoying the music. Glorious indeed!

We went to this morning’s Saturday farmers’ market, a small affair with a nice variety of locally grown and handmade items, leaving with a beautiful bunch of pungent sweet basil, tomatoes, squash and a jalapeno. We have to be frugal with the quantity of fresh things we buy; our refrigerator space is quite limited. The basil is to be used to make a syrup required for the gin gimlet I have grown fond of. Back in Prescott a while back, I chanced to sit next to Peg Rhodes at a Learning Institute meeting, signed up for her cooking newsletter, and now am hooked (on the basil gimlet and the newsletter). Actually, I loved Peg’s cooking columns for years when she published in the Prescott Sun.

Before we returned to the hot springs, we went by Pagosa’s small museum, one of those things I seldom resist. They were having an incredible quilt show - one woman’s extensive collection dating back to 1847. Wow, they were some of the most intricate and inventive designs I have ever seen!

Of course the real reason for stopping was genealogy - no surprise there. Turns out the museum is a project of the local historical society and the woman manning (womaning?) the desk was a genealogist in her own right, very helpful. She has surveyed the burying ground here and was able to give us military affiliation for cousin Jerry’s g.g. grandfather, William Henry Walker, information she found on his tombstone, which derived from his Civil War service with the Iowa Infantry. Off we went to the Hilltop Cemetery, a huge rambling graveyard disappearing into the mountaintop pines. We found and photographed the stone in question, one among two rows of military markers, and gave William Walker flowers and a flag. I can’t help but wonder how long it has been since anyone has visited him or remembered his sacrifices in service or wondered about his life in the pioneering days of Pagosa Springs.

In between those stops, we enjoyed the first really clear day since we got here, soaking and relaxing in the various pools. They range in temperature from about 97 to 112 degrees. We typically choose those in the neighborhood of 100-104.

A bit away from the small individual pools, there is a large swimming pool where most of the children congregate. With eyes closed, I enjoy one of my most favorite ever things: to dozily listen to the sounds of water (waterfalls, river, even still water has its own resonance) and people. To me, it’s magical to hear children laughing and shrieking in the distance and conversations near and far, none of which are really discernible, just the sound of people being together talking and laughing. There’s something different from the busy hum of groups indoors when the sun is warming the sound as it dissipates into the atmosphere.

A perfect end to a perfect day . . .

More birds today: Lewis’ woodpecker and lark sparrow.



Best business name: Ears 2 U, a hearing aid shop.