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DAY
TWENTY-TWO COMMENTARY
Despite having been out late the night before, I awoke fairly early as
the sun brightened my sleeping area out on the lanai. I was poised to
hit the road in reasonably quick fashion, having taken very little out
of the trailer the day before, but then I spent quite a bit of time
chatting with the family reunion gang. We talked about my trip thus
far, discussed sightseeing recommendations that the locals knew of,
checked out this very website on somebody’s laptop, and so on. It was a
worthwhile gab session, and in the end I was still on my way well
before noon.
Now, recall I had said that gas cost $4.29 or something ridiculous here
in town, and there was no way I wanted to pay that. Thing is, it was
going to be a very close call as to whether the amount of gas I had
left -- yes, including the two gallons in the spare can -- would be
enough to get me to my next stop, Glenwood Springs. Especially
considering that the bike would probably be working overtime to get the
rig up and over the peaks inside of Rocky Mountain National Park, and
that actual distances on the trip seemed to be longer than what the map
websites had been predicting. The locals said that prices would remain
high in the next two towns, Grand Lake and Hot Sulfur Springs, but
level off after that. OK, I knew I could make it about 200 miles on
what I had, and I’d definitely hit something else along the way, so The
Great Gas Gamble was on!
Bought ice for the day a mile down the road from the National Park entrance.
Approaching, I was a little bummed that the entrance fee
looked to be $20, but then it turned out to be only $10 for
motorcycles! The road through the park was the real deal, climbing to
some 12,000 feet in elevation, and sometimes closed due to residual
snow well into the month of June.
There was certainly enough
snow up on some of the peaks even now.
The rig seemed to be progressing up into the skies with little undue
fanfare, despite the fact that its carbureted engine couldn't
adjust its intake ratio to compensate for the thinner air at
these altitudes, as could a fuel-injected
mill. Sure, I had to downshift it
here and there when momentum
slowed, or before blowing by people who would slow down -- but somehow
not actually pull over
-- at the scenic views, but it was nothing like the disaster scenarios
that many well-meaning observers had forecast. The elevation on my
handheld GPS
kept rising, and the road was steep and twisty, but below the
timberline (~11,000 ft.?) the trees served to minimize the visual
impact of the drop-off just a foot or two past the edge of the road.
When we climbed above the timberline, the severity of the drop became
far more noticeable because there was nothing to hide it from view.
Suddenly, the prospect of catching the sights while under way turned
rather more frightening, as the consequence of an off-road misstep was
now plain to see -- and it was a long way down.
Up at around 12,000 feet, while both rider and bike may become partly
short of breath, one element that the bike likely does not share is
complete and utter terror on what I’ll refer to as ‘the catwalk’. I had
remembered this section from my brief ride on the road during a past
visit, but it hadn’t yet come to mind today while I was riding. I
imagine that the road curls between two mountaintops, or something like
that, because for about a 100-yard length the extreme drop-off looms on
both sides
of the pavement. One moment you’re sneaking looks at the
mountains in the distance to the left -- mainly to avoid looking at
certain death two feet away to your right -- when suddenly there’s
nothing beyond the edge on that side either, and you realize that the
margin for error here is limited to the width of the two-lane road.
Sure, there’s no reason why the topography itself should make one
deviate from a direct line, but the impression of imminent disaster is
horrifying; I know for a fact I was staring straight ahead and
squeezing those handlebars to within an inch of their lives.
Even more danger lay ahead, this time due to human stupidity. Perhaps a
mile further on, near a hairpin turn with a noticeable change in grade,
there was a herd of elk
grazing right at the edge of the road.
Naturally, this attracted the attention of motorists, some of whom
pulled over to take pictures, and one of whom -- the idiot/sole
occupant of a giant Cadillac SUV directly in front of me -- decided to
stop right there on the road in the middle of the turn. That forced me
to come to a quick stop, on an uphill curve, at a spot offering me
little in the way of balance as the left side of the road was far lower
than the right. Now I was really
ticked off, because if I were to tip over here, it would be even worse
than on level ground (not to mention that it was in the middle of the road).
So when the driver’s window eased down I let loose with a barrage of,
um, criticism that caught the attention of not only the driver, but
also the folks who had done the right thing and pulled over. Before the
guy could even try to explain that it was a scenic opportunity -- with
which I could certainly not argue -- I told him he was endangering me
and the people behind me and that he’d better move that POS or
I was going to move it for him. He certainly got the heck out of there,
and I pulled over to snap a few more pix myself, but
even that wasn’t easy
because the side of the road remained at a severe diagonal slope as
well.
Further ahead there was a pullout which I believe was called Forest Overlook,
providing an expansive view of the mountains in the distance
and of the valley floor below. Whipping out the binoculars, I could see
that the otherwise invisible beige dots some two miles down were
actually about 15-20 more elk, doing their thing far removed from the
presence of people. Here I saw a newer version of the VW Bus with
license plates from Germany. At Milner’s Pass the road technically
crossed the continental divide, and we started to descend down towards
the town of Grand Lake. Exiting the park territory, along a subsequent
five or ten-mile stretch there were two or three interconnected lakes
offering all sorts of water-related recreation, with the park's ten
thousand foot
peaks as the backdrop.
As predicted by my people on the ground back in Estes Park, the gas
prices here remained high, but at a crossroads further on it dipped
down to $3.999, so I concluded that I’d be in good shape as the ride
progressed. I passed through the small town of Kremmling; through
a
neat little chasm called Byers
Canyon; and saw evidence of Pine Beetle
devastation near Gore Pass, which looks rather like the turning of the
leaves in the fall, and is arguably scenic, except that these are pine
trees which do not otherwise change colors and instead are either dying
or already dead. These huge swaths of affected trees, out amongst
healthy ones, increase the danger of the rapid spread of fire. On a
brighter note, Rtes. 134 and 131 offered fantastic, varied scenery, a train coming
through a tunnel, and a series of high-end sports cars
(cheapest model: the $110,000 Audi A12) on a demo run.
I finally had to turn west onto the Interstate at the town of Eagle,
but I was soon to learn that this was no typical superslab; the
thirteen-mile long I-70 Corridor through Glenwood Canyon was
hailed as both an engineering accomplishment and a commitment to
preserve the natural beauty of the area. The road curved its way
between the sheer cliffs looming hundreds of feet high above, along the
path cut by the river below, sometimes running atop the eastbound lanes
in a type of shelf arrangement, sometimes tunneling through the rock
walls. Even in the dim light of this cloudy early evening, the visual
impact of the corridor was undeniable. I would have pulled over to take
pictures, but by now -- having pushed the Great Gas Gambit to its
ultimate limit -- I figured I had, oh, y'know, an ounce or two
of fuel left at most, with
the spare can already having been used (good thinking -- Ed.)
Keeping an eye on the traffic, and the scenery, and the GPS and
odometer as they counted down the distance to my exit, I kept thinking,
“OK, the further I can coast, the less I have to walk to fill up the
spare can…as long as there’s a place to pull over!”
What was I rewarded with when I did, in fact, manage to make it to the
Shell station at the exit? This.
So despite having been way ahead on my
estimate of my possible riding range, like the obstinate dope that I
can occasionally be I blew it by not paying $3.999 way back when! Final
score: The Great Gas Gambit 1,
The Chief (tm) 0!
Passing through the cute little downtown area, I was thrilled to see
that I had made the right call on the Glenwood Springs Hostel
at which
I would stay for the night. Not only was it just a few blocks from all
the action, but the managers Clarisa and John, the layout of the place,
the friendly cat
and kitten in the lobby, and the hundreds of record albums in the
foyer all had me thinking: do I call another audible
here? I felt like I wanted a break from the pack/unpack/travel routine.
They already knew I couldn’t stay in the same private room for the
second night, but the
bunk I could have in the "dorm-style"
room would only cost like $12 or
$16 or something similarly ridiculous. I made the decision on the spot:
I was
staying for a second night!
After freshening up, I ambled down to the Doc Holliday Saloon, where I
met super-nice folks (all weekending up here from Denver) such as Dave
and Carrie (please excuse the possible misspelling!), and Mark (please
excuse the possible misspelling!) and Jane. Dave, originally from
Alaska, assured me that Carrie would soon be dancing up on the bar,
“Coyote Ugly”-style, and despite much imbibing of adult beverages,
cooler heads prevailed and no such event took place (darn -- Ed.). Mark and Jane
had completed a hike up to Hanging Lake earlier in the day, back east a
few miles through the I-70 corridor, and strongly recommended that I do
it while I was in the ‘hood. Seeing as how I wished to take some
photographs of that area anyway, the combination was a clincher for me,
and I decided that this was what I would do with my day tomorrow.
(Somewhere along the line we also chatted about snowboarding, during
which conversation I learned that the term to describe the order in
which one places one’s feet on the board is “’regular’ or ‘goofy’”. How
would I otherwise have ever heard about that?) Later on I spoke to
John, from Maine, who was in the area for training and had rented a
motorcycle to help take in the beautiful scenery. Naturally we
discussed some of the routes that I had recently enjoyed, then went
down the street in search of more drink, ending up at a pretty
happening dance club for a few hours. (Yes, I may have blown it by not
going directly to the bar right next door, tended by a cute girl I
briefly chatted up in Doc Holliday’s, but what can I do about that
now?) I don’t know what time I got back to the hostel, but I do
remember at some point waking up fully clothed on the bed and wishing
to use the restroom, both of which were somehow occupied at 4:15 AM. I
also somehow found myself with two bottles of Advil, not just the one I
remembered having purchased earlier in the trip. Listen, people, after
a night like this, I was gonna need
fast, effective pain relief!
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