Ever have one of those days when everything you did seemed to segway off the previous thing you did, though none of it was what you planned? Well, that’s precisely what happened today, our second full day in Colorado.
Last night, we landed at the Royal View Campground (named after the Royal Gorge of the Colorado) after wandering northwest out of Colorado Springs on Highway 24, which was the wrong direction, for some fifty miles. Then, as if tracing an inverted “V,” we drove back to the southeast on Route 9 to where it intersected Route 50, our original destination between Salida and Canon City, Colorado. The Royal View Campground occupied the land just south of the Highway junction and proved ideal since we really didn’t want to go any further.
When we started out this morning our intention was to drive east ten miles to Canon City and spend a little time looking for the John Denver CD that we had been wishing for most of yesterday, as well as a couple of books on tape. I figured that our best bet was to find a thrift shop selling used CDs since finding a John Denver CD in a store offering the latest in music might prove impossible. We also stood a decent chance of finding books on tape at such a store.
So, when we reached Canon City (photo above), we drove down the main street of the old part of town scanning left and right for thrift shops. To our surprise, almost immediately we saw one. Stashing the RV one block north under a spreading cottonwood tree, we walked back and found the shop. The clerk behind the counter gave us a cheery “good morning” as we entered and we drifted over to the books, records, and CDs section just inside the door.
Unfortunately, though the thrift shop had a few CDs, both music and books, there were no Denver CDs and their collection of books on tape trended toward evangelical subjects, not really our cup of tea. So, we went back to the sales clerk’s desk and asked if her local library had an area where they sold books and CDs, much as our Carson City library does. She looked at us and wrinkled her nose. “Gee,” she said, “I’ve only been to the local library once. I really don’t know.” Not a reader, we decided, though we personally can’t even imagine such a state of being.
Our original quest thwarted, we decided to check their electronics section for any interesting cameras. They had no cameras, but I did manage to stumble over what I thought might just be the find of the day: a vintage, almost ancient-looking Lionel transformer for electric trains. I had never seen this particular transformer before, for it was capable of supplying not just a fixed current to your trains and accessories, but a widely variable current. I haven’t had time to do any research, but I’d say this transformer is as old as the Lionel company. It cost me all of $7.00.
After leaving the thrift shop we set off down main street looking for anyone who might have the CDs that we desired. At first we had no luck, but soon we stumbled over a used book shop. Thinking perhaps that we had hit pay dirt, we rushed inside. The proprietor, who only reluctantly put down her paperback novel, in response to our inquiry about books on CD, walked us back to the shelf where, I swear, she had more used books on TAPE than I’ve seen in years. She said, “If I have any they’ll be here.” With that she turned abruptly and hurried back to her novel.
Fortunately we did find a few books on CD hidden beneath the dozens of books on tape. Okay, job one accomplished, though I must confess that the price the lady wanted for the three books we chose made us gulp a bit. She probably needed to pay the rent that afternoon.
That left John Denver.
Continuing our walk down main street, we had tried a couple of other stores without success when we came upon another thrift shop, this one, unfortunately closed. But as we stood there contemplating the closed sign in dismay, the sales clerk appeared from inside, unlocked the door, and told us that she really wasn’t ready to open yet but if we’d like to come in we were welcome. “Great,” we said together, and hurried inside.
The clerk had hair dyed the color of Cabernet wine, but was pleasant enough and extremely friendly and helpful. She led us over to a rack full of CDs and Connie spent several minutes browsing through them. Meanwhile, I let my eyes drift around the room to see if the store contained anything I might be interested in buying. “Have any cameras?” I asked.
The purple-haired girl pointed to a shelf behind the register. “We have these,” she said, and reached up and pulled one off the shelf. The camera she brought down was a Kodak Brownie 2A, probably just under a hundred years old, in what I took to be absolutely brand new, unused condition. The camera came with its original instruction booklet AND price tag, both in mint condition. I think you’d have an easier time finding a sabre-toothed tiger in J.C. Pennys during the Christmas rush. A bright orange store tag announced the price: $20.00.
“Will you take $15.00?” I asked, never happy unless I can bargain. She had, just at that moment, picked up the phone to talk to her boss and she asked him. Then to me, “Yes,” she said, and the deal was forthwith struck. I hadn’t found John Denver, but our quest for him was beginning to net me some very nice collectibles. I could do this all day.
However, we actually couldn’t do it all day if we wanted to make any miles before dark. So, we traced our way back to the truck, first stopping at the library which we serendipitously strolled right by, and checked to see if they had a sales shop like our library in Carson City. No luck there with Mr. Denver, either.
Once on the road we made good time and just before lunchtime pulled into Salida. Almost immediately we stumbled over another thrift shop, but our luck there was no better than before – with one big exception. The owner suggested we try the local Walmart. I had my doubts about finding such outdated music at a store that specialized in staying up with all the newest trends, no matter how silly. But we went anyway since we needed a few groceries.
Once we had collected the list of supplies we headed over to the music section. It didn’t take long to see we were in trouble there. I found a “John Denver” divider where his CDs might have been located once upon a time, but in his designated space rested a fist-full of Def Leppard CDs. Evidently someone either couldn’t read, or had a playfull sense of humor.
For awhile we thumbed through the various artists looking to see if John had been misfiled by the same undereducated clerk who filed Def Leppard in Denver’s spot, but no luck. Finally, we sighed and were about to walk on when we spotted a rack full of really OLD names in the music business. Names like Simon and Garfunkle, Bread, America, Gladys Night, Willie Nelson, were all represented among host of other old artists. We started frantically thumbing the oldies but still no John Denver. We were about to give up when Concetta suddenly yelled and thrust her arm skyward in triumph. She had found the one and only John Denver tape, his greatest hits.
When we left Salida it was with the expressed purpose of finding the prettiest spot we could find near the highway and have lunch (photo 2). So it was that just scant minutes later we were parked underneath a canopy of quaking Aspens, just walking distance from a icy-cold Rockie Mountain stream, and were kicking back over a sandwich and a cup of coffee. We looked at each other and, almost without words, we knew it was going to be a very unpredictable day.
My intent for wanting to go south out of Colorado Springs was to visit the tiny town of Saguache that my mother had introduced to me back when I was a child. My mom’s father, James Franklin Jones, grew up in Saguache and his uncles were two of the earliest residents and business owners in the town. I didn’t have a really good reason for wanting to go there, but I just felt that Mom would want me to. The town lies quite a bit south of our eventual intended route west, which will force us to backtrack a bit, but I just felt it would be worth it. I also wanted a chance to photograph the headstone of my great Uncle, Benajah Stubbs, who fought in the Indian wars of 1864 and who was, I knew, buried in the Saguache cemetery (third photo from bottom).
If we had gone for the scenery alone, the road to Saguache would have been worth the drive. We had to surmount a pass of over 9,000 feet, which made for slow going, but the easy coast down on the other side was a dream and afforded us vistas that only the Rockies can provide. Since Saguache is only 45 miles from Salida, we were soon there. I told Concetta that my primary aim was to stroll around the town a bit, take some photographs, and soak up some of the tiny Colorado town’s atmosphere. We parked the RV on a side street in the shade, grabbed the camera, and were off.
Moments later we stumbled into a junk shop on main street and met Rick (seated guy in pink hat). Of course we didn’t learn his name until an hour had gone by. Almost as soon as we entered his shop, Rick said in an unmistakable New York accent, “you guys take your time and look around. I’m going to the post office. You guys are in charge. You can look in any of the cases you want.” And with that he was gone. Concetta and I looked at each other, shrugged, and began our search for treasure.
Before long, more folks appeared in the shop and we gave them the same instructions. Before Rick returned we had pretty much covered every aspect of the antiques and collectibles that the shop had to offer. Truly, I had seen things in there that I had never seen anywhere else. I later told Rick that if I were in my pickup and not the RV I’d just have to take some of his treasures home with me.
As you probably know from reading this blog, I like to try and stump experts on antiques. This time I had seen the perfect object that I knew would stump Rick. Out in his back yard he had a device used by railroad builders to ensure that the track remained a consistent width, rail to rail. They have a special tool for this task and I had spied one in Rick’s side yard. Turned out I was right, he didn’t know what the tool was used for and I scored a big hit with him. Then it was Rick’s turn. He showed me a measuring device that I was not able to identify. “Used by lumbermen for measuring cut timber,” he said, with a big smile.
We went back and forth this way for the next few minutes, forming that special bond between lovers of antiques that only they appreciate. Finally, letting him know we just had to get on with our walking and picture-taking, I asked if I could take his photo. “Sure,” he said. “Most people tell me I look like Peter Falk,” and he proceeded to act out a passable impression of Peter. I have included his photo so you can be the judge. Rick is, in fact, a sort of new age John Denver. He came to the Rockies sixteen years ago and never left. He's living in a tiny town with just five hundred residents. Quite a change from New York.
After leaving the junk shop, Concetta and I walked around town a bit, just photographing some of the older houses and commercial buildings, finally ending up back at the RV. There was just one place I still wanted to see in town – the print shop. As some of you may know, for just under a decade of my life I worked as a printer in an old-time print shop in Carson City. Our equipment back then was a mixture of old and new. The new handled our modern offset printing. The older equipment tended to be castoffs from the local newspaper and harkened back to the days when printers either handset individual letters in a “chase” to print newspaper columns, or set entire lines and paragraphs using "hot type cast from molten lead.”
The Saguache print shop (yellow building), as I well knew from earlier visits going back to 1962, still used the old fashioned hot type and individually-set type just as Mark Twain had done in Hannibal, Missouri in the late 1840s. As I told the owner when I walked in, I just came here to "smell" the place. A vintage print shop has a smell found nowhere else, a mixture of centenarian oak type cases, special inks, acrid solvents, gear oil, and the dust of decades. It can’t be duplicated in modern shops. I loved it thirty-five years ago when I was a printer and I love it still.
The owner, Dean (standing in front of yellow building), and I spent the next half hour talking printing and reminiscing about printing in days gone by. Dean’s shop probably hasn’t been measurably altered in the last 100 years. He has type cases that go back even further than that. I wandered the shop as we talked taking pictures and asking questions about his business. Dean good naturedly put up with me and actually seemed to be enjoying himself. But after thirty minutes Concetta, who had gone back to the RV, called me on the cellphone. “Where the heck are you?” she asked. I knew it was time to go. I'd had a great time, but I was burning daylight. I asked Dean to come out on the porch so I could take his photo. I could tell Dean loved his work, just as I had loved the printing business. He told me that he usually worked alone, most often seven days a week, putting out the local newspaper. I knew he'd never get rich, but I envied him.
When I finally got back to the RV I noticed immediately that for the previous two hours I’d left the lights on. Still, the trusty Ford fired right up and we were off on our next quest – to find the cemetery. As the sun sank toward the mountainous horizon, Concetta and I soon found ourselves on a windswept hillside looking for the headstones of the Stubbs family, three of which I immediately found, as if Mom were guiding me all the while, I thought. Two of the markers had been made simply out of wood and had been sandblasted almost to illegibility by the wind. Benajah’s, made out of stone, had weathered better. Trying to remember what they had looked like when I saw them fifty years ago, I snapped the photos, hoping that something of the writing on the wooden ones would show up.
Then, the photographs captured, we were on our way again. It had been a long, but oh so fruitful day filled with weird and wonderful people, wildly successful treasure hunting, and the beautiful scenery of the high Rockies. We only had one more task to perform: find a place to park for the night. Based on advice we heard in town, we tried two different locations without success. Resigned to driving into the twilight hours, we started north again in the direction of Salida. Incredibly, as if someone was still guiding our steps, we quickly ran across a tiny, almost deserted RV camp just a dozen miles from Saguache. We rolled in with daylight to spare, enough, in fact, for a few photographs of the vistas outside the RV windows (second to last photo). Before the dust had settled, we were hooked up, dinner was cooking, and, once again, everything was right with the world. The final photo is of Concetta, plotting our trek for the morrow.
So, until next time, we wish you good food, good wine, exciting destinations, interesting people in your life, and, when the occasion is right, a John Denver CD to sing along with as you motor through the Colorado Rockies.
Ciao.
This morning Concetta and I arose to a wonderfully bright and clear morning in southwestern Colorado. The air was cool, but not so cool it required a jacket to be outside working on the RV. Of course, last night was a different story. 'Bout froze before we went and retrieved the comforter off the floor where it had fallen from the bed. Even with all the windows closed, we couldn't keep out the Rockie Mountain fall air, which is giving us fair warning of coming winter temperatures. 
But the thing I liked best about the isolated camp was, in fact, its isolation (see photo above right). I don't think I heard so much as a twig snap the whole time we were camped there. We were far enough from the highway to muffle those sounds, and all the permanent residents appeared to be off somewhere, at least I never saw one of them. The grandeur of the view was breathtaking. Only a distant arm of the Rockies, way to the west, and the endless sky full of fluffy white cotton gave you something to focus on. Otherwise, it was just miles and miles of sage and rabbit brush, framed by the pines and aspens of the RV park itself, as far as the eye could see. Like John said, "Almost heaven." Certainly better than our KOA tonight in Grand Junction where the barking of a myriad of yappy dogs is about to make me nutty.
Much of what we covered today seemed to be forests in transition. Little by little the aspens seem to be taking over from the conifer forest, probably due to fires and bark beetle infections. I'm always amused by the talk of protecting the forests in their "natural state" since their natural state has been ever-changing since the beginning of time.
Now that was just not fair. It was so hot in Gunnison today that we were both in t-shirts, but the museum was closed for the winter. Sadder but wiser, we glumly walked back across the highway and, a short time later, motored out of town without trying to scare up any other form of amusement. 
Take the drive-up blocks, the things you use to level the coach fore and aft so the refrigerator will be happy. Taking as my guide some battered hunks of wood I found in one of the "basement" compartments of the Tioga, I crafted a set of drive up blocks using some 2"x8"x8' lumber that had been treated against moisture. To construct a drive-up block I cut the 2"x8"x8' lumber into three pieces. I cut one at 48",one at 32", and the last at 16". Then I beveled one edge of each piece at a 45 degree angle. Once that was done, I stacked the three pieces one on top of the other with the shortest on top and the ninety-degree, unbeveled edges all lined up at one end. This resulted in a stair-step affair. Once all three pieces were screw-nailed together, I added a strong strap handle on the side of the longest piece at the balance point of the finished ramp. The handle allowed me to pick up the ramp with one hand which keeps my hands cleaner. You've probably already figured out that each step left a 16" area on which the tire could rest, which is all the room you need. And each ascension to the next higher level adds 1 1/2". 
