Rocky Mountain High

Back in 1962, when I was about 13 years old, my Mom took up the hobby of genealogy. She had inherited a large box of old family photos, most without any identification, and had come to the conclusion that she'd have to make it her life's work to find out who those folks were and where they had lived their lives. Thus began our annual pilgrimage to a whole list of tiny, largely obscure towns in Utah and Colorado; towns with names like Clear Creek, Skofield, Colton, Salida, Canon City, and, most memorably, Saguache.

You might think that a thirteen-year-old would have yawned, crawled onto the nearest horizontal surface, and gone to sleep. Not me. Not hardly. I was immediately enthralled by all the old cemeteries my mother wanted to visit. I watched with eager anticipation as sleepy gold rush towns would hove into view around bends in the narrow, two-lane highway. I scanned the horizon for signs of vintage vehicles I could photograph, ancient head frames that would mark the location of long-dead gold mines, or rusty railroad tracks curving their way along the river bottoms. In short, I was immediately, and, as it would turn out, forever hooked on western history. BIG TIME!

My parents were not wealthy folks in the 1960s. To accomplish these exotic vacations (at least I saw them as such) my dad had to borrow a travel trailer, probably about a sixteen footer. It was white and aqua marine blue and was pretty darn cute as I remember with it's varnished interior woodwork and diminutive cooking area. I think Dad traded use of the trailer for a parking spot in his yard, since the owner had no room to store it on his own property. The biggest problem with the tiny trailer was, as I remember, that it only had sleeping accommodations for Mom and Dad. Cliff and I were banished to the bed of the pickup truck each night. I don't think we really minded, since we had each other. Plus, I suspect that it seemed reckless and adventuresome for two kids 11 and 13, which served to heighten its appeal. Most of the time the weather was mild, though I do remember waking up one morning to find my sleeping bag covered with a light dusting of snow.

Because it would have been pretty uncomfortable for the four of us -- Mom, Dad, brother Cliff, and me -- to ride in the cab of his '56 Chevy truck, Dad hit on the idea of having Cliff and I ride in the back of the pickup as well as sleep there. Naturally riding out in the open would have been pretty hot and uncomfortable, so dad fashioned a camper top out of aluminum to protect us from the sun. The sides only extended down about a foot from the roof which afforded us unsurpassed views of the surrounding scenery. To provide Cliff and me with a place to sit, he purchased on old Studebaker bench seat from a local wrecking yard and affixed it to the bed of the truck with its back against the cab.

From the beginning Cliff and I would ride back there, isolated from any parental influence or control, and watch enthralled as the wild west rolled by. Well, actually my brother would often nod off with the rhythmic rocking mile after mile, but I would sit transfixed, obsessed with soaking up all the western vistas I could.

I'm telling you this story because Concetta and I are now in Colorado, the historic stomping grounds of my mother's father's people and the destination of the aforementioned family vacations nearly a half century ago. Colorado has, since the tender years of my youth, felt like coming home. My family criss-crossed these mountains and valleys in that old white Chevy pickup, towing that borrowed travel trailer, until Mom had mostly fulfilled her research goals and then we quit. Of course by then I had gown "too old" to be going with my parents on vacation, anyway. But I never forgot. Not by a long shot.

Now Concetta and I are camped on route 50, part way between Salida and Canon City, and right in the thick of my mother's favorite ancestral haunts. I can feel her with me as I type this, looking over my shoulder, encouraging me to explore it all again, breath it in as we did together so many years ago. I feel a tremendous need to hold that history in my hands, rub my fingers over those century-old gravestones as I did back then, walk those streets and capture it with my camera. Yes, I'm back and I think the spirits are with me.

As you're probably aware, Concetta and I try each day to not only cover enough miles to get us back to Nevada sometime before the snow flies, but to "accidentally" stumble over some cultural activity that we will find mutually rewarding and, more importantly, educational. Today, since we had chosen the wrong road and headed west when we should have been heading south, we happened upon a site that I have been intrigued with since I was a youngster and would run across images of it on vintage postcards. It's called Manitou Springs and as far back as 1908 it has been a popular tourist destination for motorists, both cross-country and in the Denver/Colorado Springs area.

I sort of knew it would be a tourist trap, but what the heck, we were right there. The gate price was fairly reasonable at $17.00 (senior rate), the achingly blue skies and the vibrant red sandstone cliffs looked inviting, and, just ahead, the promise of ancient cliff dwellings beckoned. We paid our money and drove in.

Just inside the first turn we discovered that the parking lot was NOT built for thirty-foot mobile homes, but had tiny diagonal parking for equally tiny cars as far up the hill as we could see. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I u-turned our beast and parked it back near the entrance where the ground was level and the refrigerator would be the most happy while we were gone.

Incredibly enough, when we had hiked up the parking lot hill for several hundred feet, we arrived at the cliff dwellings to find a sixty-five-foot charter bus parked with its nose headed outbound. I looked around. There didn't seem to be enough room to u-turn a large SUV let alone something as large as a charter bus. I couldn't resist. I walked over and asked the driver if he somehow was able to levitate his coach to make that 180 degree spin. He just smiled.

Concetta and I actually enjoyed the cliff dwellings, though if you're interested in seeing the finest of such ancient dwellings you should visit instead the Mesa Verde plateau in southern Colorado. Though comparatively small, the Manitou folks had a pretty thorough set of explanatory markers as you toured the ruins, which made it very educational and fun. We even found the Museum/Gift shop pretty informative. Naturally, you have to be careful anytime somebody combines the words museum and gift shop, however they really did have some interesting pottery and paleo-Indian skulls to see in between the dozens of racks of trinkets. I wasn't tempted by much of their tourist wares, but we did manage to snag a couple of CDs, one of John Denver instrumentals, and one of Indian flute music.

After our adventure at Manitou Springs, we set off on Highway 24 (we should have been on Highway 115) and enjoyed some magnificent vistas as we crested the Rockies near Pike's Peak and dropped down into the evergreen and Aspen-choked canyons on our way to Canon City. It was so beautiful I could barely keep my eyes on the road, a fact that Concetta insisted on pointing out throughout our drive. The aspens are all golden and the evergreens are as deep green and vibrant-looking as we've ever seen. With John Denver tunes melodically strumming in the background, it was a drive that I hope to replay in my mind for years and years to come.

So, here we are. We didn't make it to Canon City (pronounced the Spanish way as if the n has a tilde above it -- thus, canyon) As we dropped over the summit on first Highway 24, then Highway 9, we came across this nice little campground as we intersected with highway 50. They have full hookups, they have a nice level piece of ground so I don't have to use blocks, and they have WiFi. Pretty much all a person needs in this world. Concetta has just dazzled me with a chicken and rice dish, I've had a nice vodka cocktail, a glass of wine, and if the world ends tomorrow I'll be content.

If it doesn't end, I wish you good food, good wine, and, above all, exiting destinations.

Ciao.