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I had it in my mind to quote a folk song about Pike’s Peak, but the one I was thinking of is actually about Pike County (“Sweet Betsy from Pike”) (and which could be any number of Pike Countys). I couldn’t remember the name of it, though, and had to google it. And while I was trying to google it, I came up with an interesting tidbit about a folk song that was purportedly taken from a poem written by an American poet after her visit to Pike’s Peak. That song is “America the Beautiful” and the poet was Katharine Lee Bates.

So now I know something new.

The end to my visit came and we had to say good-bye to my son, his beautiful wife and precious little Justin.

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You can imagine how hard it was to leave this guy!

We decided to drive to the top of Pike’s Peak before we left the Colorado Springs area but when we reached the park day pass kiosk, we were informed that you could not drive to the top due to high wind conditions. Oh well, we decided to make the best of it and drive as high as we could (which was between 11,500′ and 11,900′, right at timberline. The high wind danger lay where there were no trees to shelter the road from the wind.

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Whoa! This was the most promising sign for an encounter with Sasquatch that we’d seen yet!

I was on high alert now. (Or as my mother would say, “Look! A Lert!” and we’d all look.)

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For one thing, I perused the little pamphlet they gave us back at the gate, hoping to glean some information on Bigfoot sightings in the area. All I learned was that you need to be worried about lightening. I don’t dye or highlight my hair and Terry doesn’t have enough hair to worry about, so we weren’t too concerned about lightening.

I suppose lightning could be a problem.

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We drove as high as we could, then turned around and started back down. We stopped at the gift shop on Diamond Reservoir to take some photos and go for a Nature Hike.

No, not that kind of Nature Hike. The real kind where you look at flowers and trees and stuff and a little brochure tells you what you are looking at.

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Terry found a Fred Flintstone mobile. sitting at the end of the Nature Hike.

The Nature Hike was supposed to take “fifteen to twenty minutes”, but that must be for people who are using canes and carrying oxygen tanks. An average person can do it in five minutes, and that’s reading every little plaque describing the flora (limber pine, kinnickinnick, aspen, Ponderosa pine, and so on).

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WHOA! Another clue that Bigfoot might be in the area! June of 2009. That was only a few months ago!

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I thought the sign was funny. The sculpture is just weird. It doesn’t look like any Bigfoot I’ve ever heard of. It sort of resembles Terry, though: bald on top, long arms, big feet. Except he doesn’t have hair on his face.

We went into the gift shop where I picked up a magnet for my fridge and Terry shopped for his grand children. I struck up a conversation with the bored-looking cashier that went something like this:

Me, “So, have there been any Bigfoot sightings lately?”

Cashier: “Not here, but last year there were a couple engineers who said they saw one down on Green Ridge.”

Me: “Cool!”

Cashier: “I know. I’d love to see one. But I like things like that, like ghosts and stuff. I’m from Manitou Springs and there are a lot of ghosts there.”

She elaborated with a little help. I could have spent all day talking to her. She told me the history of Manitou Springs as related in my previous post and she assured me that Bigfoot sightings do happen on and around Pike’s Peak.

Terry and I made one more stop on the way down. He wanted a photo of the narrow canyon leading to Colorado Springs. While he was taking his photo, I caught this one of the US Army searching for Bigfoot on Pike’s Peak:

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Yes, that’s a Black Hawk combing the tops of the trees.

colorado 189At the foot of Pike’s Peak we found Santa’s Workshop, but the parking lot was empty. Guess it is too early in the season. But just in case you ever wondered where Santa’s Workshop is, it’s in Colorado, at the base of Pike’s Peak.

It’s a long way from the North Pole.

And still no Bigfoot.

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It was overcast and foggy much of the three days, so we did not go to the Garden of the Gods. There were a number of other places to go, but we really didn’t have the time to ride the cog railway or run around checking out every tourist attraction in the area.

But – Terry & I decided to do some touristy things, like visit the Manitou Springs Cliff Dwellings. Sounded good, but one we were out of the car and meandering through, something seemed “off.” Maybe it was the mortar or the excellent state of preservation or maybe it was the fact that you could touch and climb and there were no park rangers breathing down your neck… But it was “off” enough that as soon as we were by a computer again, Terry looked them up.

Not so authentic, but interesting anyway.

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Well, that was fascinating, but very disappointing in that we had to find out via the Internet that it wasn’t exactly authentic (there could have been some sort of disclaimer on site).

We decided to go check out historic tourist-trap Manitou Springs

next. Originally known for the mineral water springs, Manitou Springs sported a hospital for terminally ill patients (many tuberculosis cases) and a myriad of different springs that reputedly tasted slightly different from each other. Eventually the springs dried up (some say they were cursed by the local Indians who felt it was wrong to charge for the healing powers) and the hospital closed. Today, several of the springs are capped and walled in in some artsy motif (different for each spring) and the town boasts a number of tourist shops, mountain biking, and a general feeling of having stepped into Middle Earth. I’m certain we saw Gandalf the Grey’s younger cousin walking around town, but I hesitated to ask him if I could snap a photo. I was afraid he’d ask for money.

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I only counted four springs, but I think there were more.

There were a lot of lovely old houses with turrets and gables and stairs (the town is built in a narrow canyon). Manitou Springs was a lot more interesting and fun than the cave dwellings, plus it was free to wander around.

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I dragged Terry into the dulcimer shop. The guy who owns it repairs old musical instruments and builds new ones, too.  Very cool.

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The residents were very friendly, too. Think this guy owns the street?

Terry and I drove around Colorado Springs and looked at historic houses. There’s something about the architecture of the late 1800s that is just inviting. Since I live in a historic little town where many of the homes are on the National Historic Registry, I found it interesting that not so many of Colorado Springs’ homes were so marked. Maybe we just didn’t notice. Or it could be a difference of 50 years: Oregon City was established in 1829 and Colorado Springs was established in 1871.

There are several colleges in Colorado Springs and while it is a larger community than Oregon City by about ten times, it seemed to be a livable area.

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I thought Colorado Springs was every bit as friendly and lovely as Portland and about the same size of city. It was easy to navigate (something Portland is not) around and the streets were (get this!!) wide. Now that’s a real switch from driving in Portland where the streets are often narrow and paved with cobblestone.

I like where I live, but I liked Colorado Springs, too.

I have one more photo to share. My favorite “sculpture”:

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I finally got to hold my newest grandson! Doesn’t he look impressed?

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My son with his son. Look at that wild hair!

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My beautiful daughter-in-law trying to ignore the camera.

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Kissable cheeks, flyaway hair!

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Fat baby and his mom

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Levi bought the street sign in South Korea.

Moments with family are precious. I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time with my son, his wife, and my grandson. We just had too many miles to drive. But the few moments we had will be treasured in my heart forever.

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What a sweet sweet little face!

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We meandered along the old highway instead of taking I-70 west. The plan was to go as far as Vail and head south, but we ended up heading south much earlier.

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Leaving Grand Junction

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This was the first of many such gas stations. I find it wrong on so many levels, but that’s just me.

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Puts a new twist to growing up in dirt. Elevation 5432 (feet). No idea what the population is.

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The park in New Castle. I’m not sure if dogs are allowed or not, but whatever you do, keep them on a leash and clean up after them. Another Sign Fail. New Castle looked like a nice town, too, and certainly more deserving of exploration than we gave it.

It was in Glenwood Springs that we got sidetracked on State Route 82 and found ourselves headed south toward Aspen instead of east to Vail. That was quite all right: Aspen is nestled in a high scenic valley and State Route 82 turns into A Forest Service road on the eastern edge of town. Narrow, sometimes single-lane, and no guard rails, but certainly not a scary road to be on (unless it were to snow. I don’t think I’d want to be on an unmaintained highway when it snows). Besides, as we traveled through the aspen and pine forest, it slowly dawned on me that maybe i was wrong to have focused so much energy on hunting jackalope. Because we were definitely in Bigfoot country now.

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We stopped to look at old mining ruins. The mountains jutted up all around us and the air was thin. Beaver worked the streams. You can see we were just below timberline here (about 11,500 feet).

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The last steep push to Independence Pass, looking back west.

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12,095 feet (3686 meters). Every direction you turn, you are surrounded by snow-capped mountains jutting into the timberline. I love mountains.

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The road off the pass got with the program: down-down-down. It was a pleasant enough drive, not too rugged, and a lot of old mining sites dotting the hillside. I kept my eyes peeled for Bigfoot, but saw no trace of him.

Then we were finally off the mountain in in the long north-south vale below, headed to Buena Vista. A large LED highway sign warned us that we were coming into Important Deer Crossing. And guess what? We saw the Important Deer. Lots of them. All grazing in the alfalfa fields around Buena Vista, contentedly chuckling at all the deer hunters scouring the high country for big bucks.

Darkness descended before we completed the passage across the last plateau between Buena Vista and Colorado Springs. We saw a small wolf lope across the highway and a fat porcupine waddle along a bar pit; several bored-looking antelope resting beside lonely fence posts, and not a few bored bovines.

The fog was coming in thick and the temps were hovering right around freezing, so all we really wanted to do was get into a motel and settle in for the night before the roads got slippery.

But I couldn’t wait and I had to call my son to tell him we’d arrived. I just had to get my hands on this little guy.

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Hi Justin! Grandma’s here! (Doesn’t he look impressed?)

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We rested in the motel in Grand Junction and played a little on the Internet. Since it sounded like freezing fog would be on the ground in Colorado Springs the following day, we thought we’d back-track to a dinosaur museum we noticed as we sped along I-70 past Fruita, Colorado.

Terry passed his lap top to me and for the heck of it, I googled Fruita, CO. And there it was: “Home of Mike the Headless Chicken.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “Fruita is where the headless chicken was from!”

I suppose I read about it or watched a PBS special or some episode of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, but I knew about the headless chicken. And here we were, about to go set foot in the town that Mike called home.

Mike lost his head to a kitchen accident in 1945, but typical of a chicken, he refused to die on the spot. Moreover, his wound healed and he continued to refuse to die. His will to live inspired his would-be butcher and kept him out of the stew pot for 18 months. He was fed with an eyedropper and he was a healthy (albeit mindless) rooster until he choked on a grain of corn and succumbed.

And he was from Fruita, Colorado.

Too cool. I think Terry was dubious. He was sure I’d lost my head.

We back-tracked to Fruita on Monday to check out the dinosaur exhibit.

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It’s essentially a kid’s exhibit, with mechanical dinosaurs and hands-on exhibits, but you could also peer into the store rooms and watch archeaologists dust off bones. Nobody said an archeaologist’s life is exciting.

Interestingly, right after we returned home, they revealed a “new” dinosaur, the tiniest North American dino:  Fruitadens haagarorum (it was discovered near Fruita, Colorado). But we didn’t know that.

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The museum is right on I-70, along the banks of the Colorado River. It didn’t cost very much and it was worth our time.
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I was still half-way looking for the elusive jackalope.
If that was all I ever saw of Fruita, I would have remained like everyone else who speeds past on I-70. But we decided to go into town and look for a café. And I fell in love with the town.
It’s not a big town and the down-town area has a lot of empty business space. Mountain biking is big business in Fruita. We walked down the main drag (E. Aspen Ave) three blocks east, ending at the court house. That is where they have one of the best Veteran’s Memorials I have had the pleasure of seeing. There’s a 105 Howitzer (circa 1942) displayed, a flag pole and  series of marble plaques listing all the Fruita war dead beginning with the Civil War through Desert Storm (and including the Spanish-American War).
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Um, sure. You ride that bike, Terry!
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A haunted house. Which is another reason to love Fruita. I could live in that house.
Back to Camilla’s Kaffe where we had biscuits and gravy and coffee. Local art was displayed all over the café and everyone was friendly.  Next to Camilla’s is a bike shop, Over the Edge Sports (one of two shops that specialize in mountain bikes – they have a Fat Tire Festival and they don’t just mean beer, even though New Belgium Brewery is the main sponsor. They mean mountain bikes).
And across the street from Over The Edge Sports, in front of a little coffee shop, is this:
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No, it is not an unfinished sculpture or even a vandalized one.
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Yes, that recycled art facsimile of a Wyandote rooster is exactly what I thought it was.
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Yes, I think I could live in Fruita, Colorado. In the couple hours we were there, it just felt like “home.”
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I could just sit down and sip a nice vanilla latté (extra hot) and watch life go by from this bench in Fruita.
Some places just get to you (and not just because they are mindless). Maybe it is Mike’s spirit and his tenacious hold on life for the 18 months that he lived without a head.
In any case, if you ever happen to fly along I-70 in the vicinity of Fruita, CO, take the time to drop into the town and patronize the local businesses. It’s a town worth visiting.

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Cosmic Rays and Onward!

Cutting across the sagebrush flatlands out of Delta, Utah, we saw a couple strange contraptions. There was a solar panel and a long flat bed of what appeared to be rusty metal out in front of the solar panels. While we pondered what they might be, we began to realize there was a pattern to them. Not only a pattern, but a whole lot of solar panels and beds, neatly arranged in a grid across the desert and all aimed the same direction.

Terry suggested they might be searching for aliens.We had no idea how close to the truth he was: they are “Cosmic Ray Collectors” and they cost the taxpayer (that’s you and me) $17,000,000.00. Roughly speaking.

We should have stopped and taken pictures, but since we didn’t, you’ll have to follow a couple links Terry found when he tried to look the contraptions up. I especially encourage you to read The Desert Survivor’s blog on the Cosmic Ray Collectors. I think she’s a lot more lucid than the other link – and a whole lot funnier.

I wish we’d have taken photos.

We should have taken photos of Scipio. There are some pretty cool old buildings in Scipio.  To be fair, Terry offered to stop in Scipio, but I didn’t realize then how much I would regret not getting photos. And we had a long day’s drive ahead of us.

We didn’t stop to take photos until somewhere out beyond Green River, where the country changes abruptly to sandstone, sedimentary and metamorphic rock formations. Breath taking.

There are several scenic pull-outs along I-70 (still Route 50).

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Photos can’t do the country justice. The grades were steep, the hill country layered in green-gray-white-pink with occasional strips of coal embedded in the rock. There were “Frequent Deer and Elk” crossings (no Major Deer, only Frequent ones) (we saw no Frequent deer and only one Frequent elk – and it was quite dead).

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“HALP!”

Seriously, I can’t take him anywhere.

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It was a long day of driving up-up-up and over mountain passes. We made Grand Junction, Colorado after dark. The weather was still holding for us despite some threatening clouds earlier in the day. My son wasn’t so fortunate in Colorado Springs: they had freezing rain and icy roads.  Which is why Terry and I decided to back-track a little on Monday morning, to allow Colorado Springs to thaw out.

Tomorrow: strange chicken tales.

Don’t worry, I’ll get to Bigfoot.

And dinosaurs.

And grandbabies.

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Jackalope Country

I know, I know: I promised I would get me a jackalope to show everyone that they ARE real. I even downloaded a jackalope hunting license before I left for Nevada.

Originally, we planned to hit the southwestern corner of Wyoming, too, so if I didn’t get a jackalope before the return trip, I would very likely have a chance then.

But I ran into a glitch right off the bat: the hunting season for jackalopes in Nevada, Colorado, Utah and Wyoming is a very short season: June 31, from midnight until 2AM. And as close as I could tell, last week was in October, which meant I couldn’t hunt jackalope legally. Also, since the hunter may not possess an IQ of over 72, I was going to need a guide with that sort of aptitude.

(If you look closely at any calendar, you’ll see just how short that hunting season is!)

Anyway, after we left Ely, my brother (being a good sort of fellow and wanting to help me at least find a jackalope) offered to take me on a side trip through Osceola, NV. Osceola was one of my mother’s favorite side-trips. There’s an old pioneer cemetery there with granite headstones: she loved to meander through the graves, reading the eulogies and the dates.

The mines are still active: we saw some new tailings and a couple rigs parked beside the trailers. The dirt road takes you right through the mines and up the hill into high sagebrush country. It’s perfect for hunting jackalopes.

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Looking back the way we just came. The trailers and buildings are just out of sight. The ribbon of highway back to Ely is out there in the flat.

I scanned my camera around to get a feel for the country and to show you, the reader, what jackalope country looks like.

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The thing about jackalopes is they blend in so well with their surroundings. You’re never sure if you’ve seen one or not because if you blink: they’re gone. fast little buggers.

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We had to get back on the road. Sadly, I put the camera away and waved farewell to my little antlered friends.

Coming up: Cosmic ray Collectors and Bigfoot Sightings.

Really.

Hey, I didn’t lie to you about jackalopes, why would I lie about Bigfoot or Cosmic ray Collectors?

Next time I road trip to see my son in Colorado, I’m going to make sure I do it over the 31st of June. I’m gonna get me a jackalope one day…

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Home!

The adventure is over now and I am at home recuperating. My ears are not quite unstuffed, but I don’t know if that is the fault of the change in altitude flying out of Reno to San Francisco or the slight cold I caught at 12,095 feet in Colorado, wearing only a windbreaker in the snow.

I made a lot of notes, not the least of which was “why I love Nevada” and “why flying is no longer any fun.” The answer to the latter is TSA and the endless security measures we now subject ourselves to. And the stupid Air Bus that United Airtlines put me on between Portland and San Francisco (and the return leg as well): the seats are made for tall people and the “pillow” gave me a kink in the neck because I am too short for the seats. However, the little planes I rode in between San Francisco and Reno had comfy seats.

From Reno to Colorado Springs and back was all by pick-up truck: thank you to my big brother who drove all the way. More on him, later.

Why I love Nevada.

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Sure, nearly every state in the union now has legalized gambling on Indian reservations, but in Nevada, it is everywhere. This was the sign over the door to the restrooms at a gas station in Fernley. You can’t go anywhere in NV without a one-armed bandit waiting to shake your hand. If they could put cameras on them, they’d be inside the bathrooms, too.

At least most places have gotten rid of the gaudy red velvet wall paper.

Terry & I cruised across US Route 50 (The Loneliest Road in America) from Reno to Ely on Saturday the 11th. We took the old highway which is slightly more scenic than the new (and considerably more winding).

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We stopped in Austin to buy ice cream from a local business and found this sign. Dang! Not only is it slippery when wet or icy, but now it is slipery, too!And that just sounds slimy!

There were signs I did not get photos of. For instance, I did not get a photo of the sign warning “Major Deer Crossing”. No idea where Private Deer cross.

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The first time I saw this particular placard hanging on a fence, I assumed it was a spelling error. But after awhile, I got the distinct impression that the extra “t” in there was on purpose. Without knowing the particulars of the issues, I still have to say that it’s quite the campaign. Got my attention.

We spent the night in Ely, visiting with my dad who is now 81 and my nephew, John. My dad is on oxygen these days and the elevation doesn’t help him breathe. Ely sits just under 6500′ (1962 meters) and funnels the north wind through all winter. Ely is a dusty little town, that vacillates between boom and bust. Usually it is more bust than boom, but the town seems to hang on anyway. There’s a little tourism to keep people coming through and the intersection of highways between Reno, Las Vegas and Salt Lake City. (US Routes 6, 50 and 93 converge in Ely.)

A series of storms were purported to be moving in from the coast, so we wanted to get on down the road before they hit (the possibility of a good snow is a good motivator). One night in Ely and breakfast with my dad at the Jailhouse, and we were back on the road Sunday morning.

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Good-bye to Ely and Hello to the next leg of our adventure. (Maybe we’ll find a jackalope!)

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Road Trip

I will be gone for the next ten days.

I’m going to the desert. Not the hot, sultry desert of shifting sand dunes, but the high desert of the Great Basin country. The sagebrush country of icy October winds and sudden snow squalls, black ice and dark purple rain clouds. The high desert country where you can see for miles and miles and miles and all around you are purple mountains jutting sharply into the sky.

Wild horse country. Open range country where cattle roam free. Coyotes scavenge, turkey vultures sit on the telephone lines contemplating road kill, golden eagles sit atop power poles and contemplate turkey vultures, and the jack rabbit plays Kamikaze Bunny.

Oh. You don’t know that game? It’s a game where the jack rabbit tests his skill and speed against oncoming cars. Usually the jack rabbit loses. And the turkey vulture likes that. The jack rabbit doesn’t learn: before cars came, he was the master of speed and agility.

The antelope beg to differ. They race cars, but they have the sense to run parallel to the highway, not try to cross it.

Most of the time.

There are rattlesnakes, bull snakes, Jerusalem crickets, and Mormon crickets. If we see any Mormon crickets, I’ll be sure to take photos, but I think they may have gone into hibernation now.

It is also the country of the elusive jackalope.

You saw that coming, I hope.

I’m going to take my official jackalope hunting license just in case we see one.

I’ve seen mounted jackalopes, so I know they exist. (Unlike Bigfoot, which I have never seen an official head mount of. But I know Bigfoot exists, too. How do I know? It’s just a “knowing”, like a sixth sense or something.)

I have a “knowing” about jackalopes, too.

I’ll be sure to take lots of pictures.

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Canvas Water Bags

I thought I was too brain dead to think of anything to photograph tonight, much less something to write about. But there I was, standing in the laundry room (folding towels), when my eye was caught by what hangs on the wall in there.

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We have five of these. All are well-used. We’ve never quite figured out how you’re supposed to use them. There’s a trick to getting them to hold water. I did a quick search on the Internet and came up with all kinds of hits on where to buy a canvas water bag, but only a couple quick hits on how to get them to hold water.

It is definitely a skill I would like to learn.

So what’s with having five canvas water bags if you don’t know how to use them?

One word: art. Collectible art, artifacts, antiques. We just plain like the art.

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Now that’s a Safari Water Bag. of course, it has a lion on it. It’s very well-worn. You can almost picture this on the front of a Land Rover. Allan Quatermain probably used just such a bag.  (I picture Richard Chamberlain as Allan Quatermain.)

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This one is very faded, but it has sentimental value. My father was a Ranger for the US Forest Service and all things Smokey the Bear permeated my childhood.  (The original Smokey the Bear died in 1976. I cut his obituary out of the newspaper, even. Is that corny?)

I can’t imagine Smokey driving a Land Rover with that canvas bag hanging in front of the radiator.

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We have two of these. I didn’t photograph the other because it is very faded and worn, and this one is in very good condition. The Hirsch-Weis bags are common (at least around here, in the Portland, OR area).

So how do you use them?

One authority I read said that you are suppsoed to soak them in very hot water, then fill them. Apparently the hot water causes the canvas to expand.Then you fill them and hang them. You don’t want the canvas to lean against anything because the touch will compromise the fabric and it will leak where it is touching. That actually makes sense to me.

I think I will have to do some more sleuthing. But even if I never do figure out how to use one, I still like them.

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