Day 80 - Winnemucca to Carson City, Nevada

Will be doing a rap up when we get settled. We arrived in Carson City about 1:00ish, picked up our 600 lbs of mail, did some grocery shopping, crawled under the house to turn the water back on, turned the natural gas back on, lit the water heater, and started sorting through the 600 lbs of mail to see what we'd forgotten to pay on time. Other than that, nothing to report just yet.

Day 79 - Wendover to Winnemucca, Nevada

Today turned out to be a marvelous day, indeed! Though plans called for putting well over 200 miles on the odometer, and no real stops were planned, we managed to spend quite a few happy hours walking the streets of Wells, wandering the Eastern Nevada Museum in Elko, and absolutely devouring the new emigrant trail museum west of Elko. And we still managed to make our mileage, though not until after 5:00 p.m., even after picking up an hour before reaching Wells (due to crossing into the Pacific timezone).

Today we needed to get as far as Winnemucca because it lay about halfway between Wendover and home. Though we normally only drive about 150 miles a day, today we had to do about 235 miles, which is tough when there are so many interesting things to stop and see.

Our first stop this morning was the rather sad little town of Wells, Nevada. Wells looks for all the world like a plant that someone has neglected to water. Bypassed by the Interstate, abandoned by her business community, nothing but boarded shops, weed-covered vacant lots, and decay greet you as you enter town. Still, every hour or so I like to stop the rig, get out, and walk around a bit to get the circulation going. When we saw the exit sign for Wells, it fell just about at the right time for a bit of exercise.

When we reached the center of town, we saw just the sign to entice us to stop a few minutes. The sign was over the visitor center and promised an emigrant trails museum, something that I find absolutely irresistible. Unfortunately, when we reached the door, the visitor center had not yet opened for business. A small sign advised that 11:00 a.m. was their normal opening time. So, still needing a bit of leg stretching, we set off to walk the central part of town.

Even though everything looked pretty depressing in central Wells, I still found a couple of old cars to photograph. But when we reached the supposed historic section, that row of buildings that dated back to the coming of the railroad in 1869 or so, there was nothing but a vast vacant lot strewn with antique bricks. Only one building was still standing, and it looked like a strong wind would finish it (photos top left and right).

We went ahead and took photos of that one remaining red-brick building, and more of some nearby buildings that probably went back to the turn of the last century, including one with a killer neon sign which probably hadn't worked since the Eisenhower administration. The sky was pretty dark and overcast, so the photos are probably just as somber as we felt in seeing all the decay and ruined properties. We decided that Wells was probably headed for ghost town status, as have so many other Nevada towns that depended on the boom and were wiped out by the bust. It wasn't until much later in the day that we found out that Wells had suffered from a devastating earthquake about mid decade, and the historic district had been all but wiped out. Very sad!

Back on the Interstate, our next stop was the absolutely thriving community of Elko. It wasn't all that long ago that Elko was just a sleepy little Nevada town that the Interstate had bypassed, and time was all set to forget. Enter the Barrick and Newmont minning companies and their search for gold. The hunt for the precious yellow metal has supercharged the Elko economy and the place has been growing like a weed ever since.

The Eastern Nevada Museum in Elko has long been a pleasurable stop while you're in transit through the state. I've been there a number of times. But it's been many years since Concetta and I stopped while on a camping trip to Jarbidge one year with our ten-year-old son, Robert. Robert is now well past thirty. So we were very much surprised at all the improvements the museum has undergone. They've more than tripled their floor space. Now, in addition to the displays devoted to antique and vintage items, the museum has installed a complete natural history room devoted to wild animals, and a like-sized floor devoted to art. Today they had on display a huge collection of works by the famous western artist and writer, Will James. The art was stunning, AND they had a large collection of Will's original books, probably first additions. We were just awestruck with the job the museum personnel have accomplished.

When our museum visit was over, we took time for lunch in the RV, then we set out for our final stop for the day in Winnemucca, where we had already made a reservation. The RV park lay somewhat over 100 miles away. But we hadn't gone but eight miles and we saw yet another turnoff promising a museum on the California emigrant trail. I almost drove on by, since we'd only just gotten on the road again. But thankfully, I changed my mind and exited the Interstate and drove over to the rest stop which was festooned with a variety of signs describing the trail.

But as we stood there reading the signs (I was actually taking photos of the clouds), a car rolled by, didn't stop, and made its way along a road that we hadn't yet noticed. As I watched the car, I noticed it approaching a large building off about a quarter of a mile with a parking lot filled with cars. In addition, I could see a school bus in the lot. "Hmm," I said to Concetta. "That looks like it might be the trails museum over there."

Both of us stared at the distant building. "Come on," I said. "We need to check it out."

And it sure is a good thing we did, for the building turned out to be a brand new (as of 2012) museum totally dedicated to the California emigrant trail and the sturdy pioneers who walked its length. Once inside the door, I knew immediately that we had stumbled onto something wonderful; something that you might wait a lifetime to see.

Using dioramas, photographs, appropriately-dressed manikins, real and recreated pioneer gear, personal accounts, videos, and a host of other techniques, the museum curators have totally recreated the 1840s and 1850s for the visitor. Everything from real covered wagons, to trail-side cooking gear are represented, and everything in between. I was especially awestruck by the display that showed just what was packed into one of the prairie schooners when fully loaded. It sure helped answer the question, "did people ride in the wagons?" No, they didn't most times. There was simply no room for people when all the supplies, tools, weapons, and such like were stowed.

Did you think that a speedometer was a modern invention? Think again. One of the displays featured an exact replica of a working speedometer, constructed completely of wooden gears, that had been invented and used on some emigrant wagons.

Here's a statistic that you might find sobering: ten people died each mile all the way across the plains for more than 2,000 miles. That's just about one person every 500 feet. Can you imagine that many unmarked graves along the trail?

Some of the emigrants' story was told via video feed which, fortunately, were separated enough so they didn't interfere with each other. They even had a special theater for watching the Donner Party story, which is something most folks want to know about.

We learned a number of facts that we hadn't known before. For instance, at any given time 1/5 of the women on a wagon train were pregnant. Naturally, when you're racing against the clock and the weather, stopping for any length of time is not practical. So, mere hours after giving birth, the new mother would be expected to be on the move again, though she would probably ride for awhile.

We also learned that small children were expected to walk ahead of the train and clear the route of rocks and brush, as well as fill up holes that might potentially damage a wagon wheel. The biggest killer on a wagon train was most often Cholera, since pollution of the drinking water took place so easily when one train followed another so closely and used the same streams for both human and animal consumption.

So, as we near the last day of our adventure, I think I can say with confidence that the California Trail Museum is perhaps in the top five museums we have visited. If, like us, you didn't even know about it, we encourage you to spend a couple of hours on your next vacation. You'll be really, really glad you did. The web address according to the flyer I picked up is: www.blm.gov/cv5c It's located of I-80 Hunter Exit 292, 8 miles west of Elko, Nevada. The phone is 775-738-1849.

AND, if you're available really, really soon, the Trail Museum is having a 1850s Wagon Encampment between May 31st and June 1st, 2014. There will be a circle of wagons, live music, craft demonstrations, Shoshone Summer Camp, and a Sutter's Fort presentation. They promise a dance on that Saturday night from 7:00 to 9:00 p.m. I would love to go if the timing was a bit different, and I wasn't just getting back from 80 days on the road. But why not see if you can make it. I bet it will be great fun!

Day 78 - Provo, Utah to Wendover, Nevada

The Happy Wanderers are definitely back in the West. The mountains are higher. The deserts are drier. The skies are bluer. And the sun looks brighter across all of it. Yup, we must be getting close to home.

This morning, before we left the Salt Lake City area and headed west, we made time to visit a very special place called "This Is The Place Heritage Park." According to Wikipedia, "the location of the park is where, on July 24, 1847, Brigham Young first saw the Salt Lake Valley that would soon become the Mormon pioneers' new home."

"Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints believe that Young had a vision shortly after they were exiled from Nauvoo, Illinois. In the vision, he saw the place where the Latter-day Saints would settle and 'make the desert blossom like a rose' and where they would build their State of Deseret."

As the account goes, Brigham Young was very sick with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and was riding in the back of a wagon. After exiting Emigration Canyon and cresting a small hill, he asked to look out of the wagon. Those with him opened the canvas cover and propped him up so he could see the empty desert valley below. He then proclaimed, "It is enough. This is the right place. Drive on." The words, "this is the place," were soon heard throughout the wagon train as the Mormon pioneers descended into the valley, their long journey having come to an end. The statement was first attributed to Young by Wilford Woodruff more than thirty years after the pioneer advent."

"Over the next several years, tens of thousands of Mormon pioneers emerged from Emigration Canyon and first saw their new home from this same location. A Utah state holiday, Pioneer Day, occurs each year on July 24 to commemorate the Mormon pioneers' entry into the valley."

Fortunately, you don't have to be a Mormon to visit their Heritage Park. I had been to the park once before, many years ago, and found it fascinating. I knew that Concetta would just love to wander the rustic streets of the large village they have created out of homes and businesses that were important to the settlement of the Salt Lake Valley, and elsewhere in Mormon country. Many of these historic structures had volunteer docents on hand to explain the significance of the home or business. The buildings most often came complete with period furnishings.

Part of the reason that Heritage Village is important to me, beyond my love of history and special fascination for these outdoor Chautauqua-style recreations of historic settings, is that John Buchanan, the brother of my great great grandmother, was a wagon master for two of the later Mormon trips, and might also have tagged along on the very first wagon train in 1847 as I found his name on the brass plaque today for that early trip. I also discovered while doing a bit of research, that John Buchanan was one of the 500 volunteers sent by the Mormon church to help fight in the Mexican War of 1846, in the so called, Mormon Battalion. Wow! There's just nothing as exciting as tracing your family tree back to some really exciting historic figures.

Today was a lovely day to take photos. The sun was shining like it meant to stay that way, and only infrequently did I have to wait awhile as a fluffy cloud or two drifted by and briefly put the village in shadow. And I had lots of potential subjects in addition to the historic buildings. As with nearly every other historic place we have visited during the last ten weeks, Heritage Village came complete with about ten school bus-loads of youngsters. But since this was an open-air experience, their yells of enthusiasm didn't distract from our experience at all. In fact, on a couple of occasions, I sought to use the kids as subjects. They were learning how to wash clothes on a old-fashioned wash board, beat rugs with a traditional beating tool, and till the soil for the vegetable garden. The trouble with the tilling part, they were stirring up so much dust I finally had to give it up and move on.

One of the most enjoyable parts of the morning was when we happened upon a young girl doing the vegetable gardening in her long gingham dress and white apron. I asked her if she was having any trouble kneeling in the dirt and similar activities dressed in such an outfit. In character, she cocked her head, sounded astonished, and asked, "What should I be wearing? Certainly not men's clothes." What fun!

Concetta spent quite a bit of time chatting with the "farm" girl and learning about gardening techniques in the 19th century. We also learned about barbering, leather working, weaving, and candy selling as we wandered from building to building. Since the tourist season has not yet begun, some of the buildings were not staffed. Notably, the print shop was not open. Since I spent a decade of my life working in a print shop, I was very sorry to miss that bit of interaction. We visited the wood shop and the shoe shop, which were fascinating even though no docent was on hand to further our education. But there were sufficient "self help" signs in those places to explain much of the work done there.

During the course of this vacation we have begun to suspect that our GPS has slowly been losing her mind. I say "her," because the voice that talks to us is decidedly female. Anyway, as the weeks have progress the device has begun to have ever greater problems "finding the satellite," as she puts it. Well today, as we sought to leave Heritage Park and head for Interstate 80 as we continued our trek westward, the GPS lady finally had had enough of doing her job. It was like those old Startrek stories where Kirk decides to give the computer a task beyond its capability, then watches as it self destructs.

Concetta had fed the coordinates for this evening's Wendover, Nevada, KOA stop into the computer's memory bank. But as we rolled out onto the city streets from Heritage Park and waited for her to tell us whether to turn or go straight, she lost her mind and started repeating the steps we had programmed to get to the Park in first place. Then she switched to demanding that we turn onto streets we had passed several minutes before. Over and over again she repeated the same half dozen steps to some mythical destination.

Finally, I had Concetta turn the device off and I navigated by instinct. I knew Heritage Park was in the northeast corner of the city of Salt Lake. Heading due west had to eventually bring us to either Interstate 15 going north and south, or Interstate 80 going west. And that's what happened. We did have to take a turn around the block because when we spotted the sign for Interstate 80 it said turn left NOW! Unfortunately, we were in the far right lane when that happened. So we just rounded the block, got in the appropriate lane, and the rest was a piece of cake.

It's been quite a long time since we had been across the desert between Salt Lake and Wendover and I was intrigued to see that there was far more water present than I remembered as being normal. There was even water built up between the railroad grade and the highway. Evidently, Utah has been getting more rain than Nevada.

Naturally, we had to stop at the Bonneville Salt Flats and take a photo. Once again I noticed that the salt was very wet, if not submerged close to the highway. The vista was so bright white that it caused my camera to under expose my shots, which I should have anticipated. Still, I think you'll get the idea from the shot at upper right.

When we got to Wendover we rolled slowly through town looking for the KOA, but failed to find it. Oh, well, we decided, we'd just go do some grocery shopping and gassing up of the RV. While filling the tank, I asked the guy fueling next to me if he happened to know where our KOA RV park was located.

"Sure," he said. "Just go down the street to the Red Garter casino. There's an alley that runs just to the east of their parking lot. Go down that alley and you'll be right there."

Of course, once we had finished shopping, and were headed back towards the center of town, there was a sign where the guy at the gas station said to turn. Evidently, no sign was thought to be necessary when you're headed west instead of east. Ah, the trials of RVing! Here's our spartan Wendover camp on the left. Nevada sometimes doesn't offer much in the way of vegetation.

Day 77 - Heber City to Provo, Utah

Today, at the suggestion of our younger son, Robert, we decided to visit the old mining town of Park City, Utah. Last night's choice of camps in Heber City came about specifically for its proximity to Park City, it being slightly more than a dozen miles away, but having the potential of our finding much more level ground on which to park the RV then the hillside-hugging town of Park City.

Park City is nothing if not the cutest place you ever saw. Even though many of the 1890s main street structures have been replaced with near lookalike, faux antique buildings, the effect is still basically the same. There's a chapter in the murder mystery I wrote a decade ago where the developer likes to build completely new buildings from the front wall back, but leaves the old brickwork or shiplap of the original buildings facing the street, just for effect. This is precisely what we encountered today in one part of main street. Having said that, I think that at least half of the old buildings are still there. They're probably endangered, but for now, the real 1890s stuff survives.

What worried me about taking our thirty-foot rig to Park City was the potential for a complete lack of parking for our large sized vehicle. I was really holding my breath as we approached, and was pretty resigned to the fact that we would probably have to park quite a distance from the action and walk several blocks to get back.

But to our shear amazement, when we rolled into the center of the historic district we almost immediately found a parking lot which contained only about half of the cars it was designed to handle. Now this particular parking lot was in no way meant for a motor home. Though the spaces were not particularly narrow, they were Honda-sized short. And, they had been packed into the lot so as not to waste a single square foot of parking potential. After all, Park City makes its bread and butter, and probably caviar, on bringing as many tourists as possible downtown and relieving them of their cash.

Throwing caution to the proverbial wind, I cranked the wheel and climbed the short hill into the lot. There was not a lot of room to maneuver, but there were several spaces on the north side of the blacktop which backed up on a steep revine. This meant that if I could turn the rig around and back it into one of these spaces, the large overhang that exists between the rear wheels and the end of the coach would be extended out over the slope. The rest of the rig would extend into the travel aisle just a couple of extra feet. Since the aisle seemed wide enough to accommodate this idea, we went with it.

When we were finished parking, the RV did not encroach into the spaces alongside us and people would be able to access their cars without trouble. Once that feat of wizardry was performed, we set out with our walking hats, cameras, and money to do the town.

You will remember that the reason for our visit to Park City was on our son, Robert's, suggestion. I might mention that Robert was not so interested in any cultural aspects of the little town we might enjoy, but was hopeful that we might visit the High West Distillery and score a bottle of his favorite libation. Even though this was our underlying motivation, I knew that Concetta would like Park City since I had visited the town a dozen years in the past and knew it was a very flamboyant, "young," place, where all the stops had been pulled out to encourage one to have a great time. Restaurants and art galleries and knickknack shops abounded, as well as just about anything else you might want.

So, when we left the motor home sitting in the tiny parking lot like an elephant in a movie theater, the first thing we did was walk Park City's main street looking for interesting things to photograph. We were also hoping to stumble over the location of the town museum, for which Concetta had the address. These two things we did quite easily. The morning sky was bright and crisp, the gawdy colors of the individual businesses leaped at us as we passed, and there wasn't a lot of vehicle traffic yet to get in the way of our distracted wandering.

Once the museum was located, we next needed to seek out the distillery, as we hoped to have lunch there in the attached restaurant. Early on, we stopped a young local and asked directions, then spent a leisurely thirty minutes or so just strolling the streets, photographing some of the exotic houses, and heading in the general direction that the young man had indicated we should walk.

When we finally arrived at the Distillery/restaurant (photo below), we were about thirty minutes too early for the 11:00 a.m. opening time for lunch. But that was okay. I went off in search of more photo subjects, while Concetta basked in the sunlight on one of the bright red cushions that had been provided on the patio in front of our future lunch spot. Then, when my watch told me that it was nearly 11:00, I drifted back to where Concetta was sitting. Soon, we were ushered into the restaurant by the manager himself, a very personable young man named Ted. Later, after our meal was nearly finished, Ted came back and the three of us got into quite a discussion on the Civil War sites we had visited. As it happens, Ted had just finished a book on U.S. Grant, and appeared to be quite interested in the topic.

Moments after our arrival, our waiter, a bright youngster from Germany named Jan, came over and we found ourselves in just the most spirited conversation with him. We learned that he's studying Business Administration and Hotel Management. Judging from his bright, animated personality, we predict that he's certainly going to meet his goals. He was just a joy to talk to.

I asked Jan to suggest a beer to go with the chicken pot pie that I had ordered. He suggested Franziskaner Weissbier, which I immediately liked. Concetta had buffalo/beef burger and fries, along with an exotic cocktail made with Rendezvous Rye Whiskey, El Jimador Reposado tequilla, simple syrup, lime juice, and Fever Tree ginger beer. The drink went by the name, "Deadman's Boot." I neither know why it's called that, nor just how that went with a burger and fries, but she consumed the better part of each, so it must have been okay.

For dessert we ordered up their special butterscotch budino, with salted Carmel and crystallized walnuts, and a couple of cups of black coffee. The budino was absolutely wonderful, and the coffee was just as good. Thankfully, Concetta let me eat most of the scrumptious dessert.

After lunch, we made our purchases in the distillery gift shop, then made our way back to the motor home to see if it was okay. When we arrived we immediately discovered two things: the space on the passenger side of the rig held a truck parked so close we couldn't get in the side door; and, for the first time, we saw that there was a four-hour limit to parking there. The first problem was circumvented by climbing in the truck cab doors, the second was little more difficult.

I wondered if the parking police had some chap that went around and marked tires. Sure enough, we found a yellow mark on our driver's side tire. I turned and scanned the parking lot. There were a few empty spaces, one even in our same row. But getting the rig moved into any one of them would involve much shucking and jiving and the risk of hitting something important. So, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances, I moved the truck forward just enough to hide the yellow mark, essentially leaving it right where it was.

I was hoping, of course, that the morning chap with the yellow marker would not be the same chap who came by in the afternoon to check on the marks made by the first guy. Now that was a long shot, I know, but Concetta and I both decided that if they ticketed the truck, we'd just pay the fine and call it good. The parking lot was only two blocks from both the distillery and the museum. Finding a new place to park a thirty-foot RV would be difficult, and it would almost certainly be farther away in the process.

With lunch out of the way, as well as the heavy thinking about parking, we set out once more to Park City's main street. Our goal was to visit the town's main street museum, which turned out to be pricey but a very, very nice piece of work. The restored overland stage coach (actually a mud wagon) was simply the very best restoration that I have ever seen anywhere. The museum's displays were all expertly done, not in any way cluttered looking, and did a great job of explaining everything from silver mining, to the advent of the skiing culture that has made Park City a mecca for young people for decades since.

After our tour at the museum, we headed once more to the distillery where we had been promised a personal tour at 2:15 p.m. The distillery tour turned out to be the highlight of the day. There were only ten of us on the tour, and the young man who conducted us through the operation was extremely knowledgeable, both about spirits in general, and about all aspects of production within the High West company itself. High West is the first company in 130 some odd years to get a permit from the state of Utah to make their own spirits. They conduct their operation in two National Register historic buildings, which are retrofitted for their purposes. Originally, these buildings were completely disassembled, tagged, and set aside. Then a modern distilling operation was designed into the property. Finally, the historic buildings were reassembled on top of the distillery with no noticeable alterations to the historic facades of either. Very, very impressive.

In the beginning, the entire distilling operation was carried out onsite. Now that High West has become so popular, they have another, much larger, facility nearby that does the lion's share of the distilling. Ryan, our tour guide, talked us through the entire distilling process, giving us so detailed an explanation, that had I taped him I might be able to open my own operation. He was that thorough.

At the end of our tour, Ryan conducted us to the tasting room where you could purchase as much whiskey, vodka, and other spirits to sip by the 1/2 ounce as your budget allowed. Unlike our tour of the Four Roses distillery in Kentucky, which provided free sips, the High West charged per taste. Still, we bought a 1/2 ounce of the spirit that Robert had requested and found it pretty darn good. You could pretty much go hot wild for $16.00, but we still needed to navigate to a campsite, so copious amounts of sipping was out of the question.

With our tasting and touring coming to a close, and the sun beginning to sink behind the step hillside west of Park City, Concetta and I made our way back to the RV to see just how much trouble we might be in. But wonder of wonders, we saw no ticket under the wiper, not even a nasty message. Maybe my wish for a replacement parking cop had been granted. Or maybe the first guy went home sick or something. Not wanting to push our luck any further, we jumped in the rig and beat it out of town.

A short time later, perhaps an hour, we had made our way to Provo, Utah, to the Lakeside RV campground, which is a delightful place with lots and lots of trees. The price was significantly higher than the $15.00 bucks we paid at the rather tired-looking mobile home park in Heber City last night, but the amenities are certainly in better shape and I didn't have to tie everything together with Bungie cords. So that's it for now. Tomorrow we're going to be visiting the Pioneer Village east of Salt Lake. Should be fun.

Day 76 - Ferron to Heber, Utah

Today the phrase, "If you're not outside you comfort zone, you're not having an adventure" definitely came into play. I thought we were on track to leave our camp site in Herron, Utah, and drive eight miles into the Utah desert to see a dig site and museum devoted to the excavation of dinosaurs. We've passed this site on a couple of other vacations, always deciding to skip it since it lay at the end of a dirt road that accessed a rather remote location. Today, we had made a special effort to camp nearby the access road. We were ready to give it a try this time.

Here's what the Bureau of Land Management says about the site: "The Cleveland-Lloyd Dinosaur Quarry contains the greatest accumulation of Jurassic dinosaur bones in the world. Since the 1920s, paleontologists have collected more than 12,000 fossil bones at the quarry. At least 70 individual dinosaurs died here about 145 million years ago during the Jurassic Period, and their jumbled skeletons were covered by sediments of the Morrison Formation. The remains of the carnivorous dinosaur Allosaurus are unusually common, and visitor center displays include an Allosaurus skeleton. Visitors can also view part of the quarry that has been enclosed for specimen protection. There are restrooms, picnic tables, and self-guided trails. The Cleveland-Lloyd Dinosaur Quarry was designated BLM’s first National Natural Landmark in 1966."

The BLM site further states: "Closer to the quarry, room-size boulders are strewn across the land. Ridges and steep-sided hills contain evidence that dinosaurs once walked here, and ranger guides lead the hardiest visitors on “track tours” to dinosaur footprints recorded in the rock. Large and small hoodoos dot the landscape along the way to the bones and tracks. Reddish barite roses—barium-rich mineral crystals in the shape of flowers—litter the ground in places, giving scientists clues to what the climate was like when allosaurs prowled ancient flood plains."

If you follow all the way down on the BLM web page you eventually discover that, while it's open every day of the week during the summer, it's only open on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday Labor Day to Memorial Day. If you're at all familiar with the calendar, you know that Memorial Day has NOT occurred yet.

For some reason we did not discover the BLM web page until later today. But anticipating that there might be things we had to know before venturing out into the desert, Concetta and I stopped by the local Forestry office this morning to ask for a map and, hopefully, to learn about anything we needed to know.

When I entered the office I asked the lady behind the counter if she had a map to the dinosaur quarry. She looked at me like I had just asked her who had actually discovered America since Columbus had been disqualified. Yes, one of those looks. Fortunately, a ranger just happened to be entering the office when I asked my question and when the secretary turned to him with a, "What the heck is he talking about" look on her face, the ranger said, yes we have the maps.

But then the ranger scowled at the map rack for many moments. Finally he said, "Guess we're out. But it's easy to find. You just drive north on Route 10 and turn when you see the sign."

You may have noticed that the ranger did NOT mention to me that the Dinosaur site was not open this time of year. That would have been nice. But with a song in my heart, I walked back to the rig and we set off to follow the ranger's directions.

The previous day I had happened to mention to our one-night landlord of the white hair and mustache that we intended to visit the dinosaur site. At the time he had told me to turn east when I saw the sign for the town of Cleveland and from then on the point-of-interest signs would guide us. As Concetta and I rode north, I began to think about the fact that the ranger had not mentioned turning toward Cleveland.

So it was that when we encountered said turnoff to Cleveland, we stopped and considered our next move. So far, motoring north on Utah Route 10, we had not seen any point-of-interest signs for the dinosaur quarry. I thought back to my conversation with the landlord, whose name was actually Jim. He seemed pretty emphatic that he knew how to get there. He even knew that the desert mileage was around 10.

"Okay," I said to Concetta, "let's take the turn to Cleveland and see what happens. It's only four miles out of our way."

As you might guess, the ranger was wrong and Jim was right. The Cleveland Dinosaur Quarry was reached by driving to Cleveland and entering the desert road from there. Maybe we should have been leery at that point. Maybe there was more to know that we hadn't encountered. But the lure of dinosaurs mega millions of years old was just too strong. I mashed the gas pedal and we were off.

At first the road to the Quarry was paved. Wow! We thought. Maybe folks were wrong about the road being dirt. But before we'd gone a mile the nice, paved road turned to washboard dirt. And then we encountered that memorable sign. It read: "Cleveland Dinosaur Quarry, 15 miles." Oh, Lord, we were really in for it.

Since the ride promised to be so lengthy, I decided to push the envelope. I had always heard that if you push the speed up over forty or fifty, you don't feel the washboard as bad. This I decided to do. And I can say that to an extent the belief is correct. You can fly along at forty or fifty -- or even sixty -- and the ruts don't bother you as much. It can get a bit dicey as you fly up and over hills, swerve around hillocks, and drop into deep depressions when you're booming along at that speed.

The good thing is that we got to the site in record time without encountering a speeding vehicle in the opposite direction, banging into one of the many cows that reposed beside the track, or losing control on one of the many blind curves. The bad new is, when we got to within ONE mile of the dinosaur site we encountered a LOCKED gate. Big yellow pipes blocked the road, locked together with a big, brass padlock.

We had come to the end of our pilgrimage and were brought up short just one mile from our goal. We thought of walking, Concetta even started out to see if she could spy the museum building anywhere within range, but only empty road appeared as she crested the next hill.

As for me, I decide that since I couldn't access the official site, I was going out into the bush to find my own damn dinosaur, or at least a some pretty rocks I could carry off since no one was around to prevent me from doing so.

I did spend much time wandering amongst the sandy wash alongside which we had parked. The geology was exciting, to say the least, but I found no solidified raptor tracks or anything of the kind. But I did find some very pretty rocks which went into my pockets. And yes, I did watch out for snakes, scorpions, and the like. But I just found our place of marooning just so very fascinating that I couldn't help but wander into the desert to see what I could see. Because of my rock collecting foray, I decided not to be overly irritated over missing what promised to be a very exciting archeological adventure. We're just going to have to come back someday.

The rest of the day was decidedly anticlimactic. We found our way back out of the desert wasteland, motored north toward Price, Utah, and performed the mundane task of shopping at Wallyworld. We even had lunch in the Wallyworld parking lot, not something we do normally.

From Price we motored north until we reached Route 191, which branched off Utah Route 6 just north of the town of Helper. From there we did a lot of Mountain climbing as we clawed our way to an elevation over 9,000 feet. Along the way we saw some fascinating mountain scenery, though we never found a convenient place to stop and photograph it.

The town of Helper, Utah, got its name in an interesting fashion. Here's what I found on the web: "Helper is located approximately 120 miles southeast of Salt Lake City, Carbon County, Utah. Known as the "Hub of Carbon County," and situated seven miles north of Price, the county seat, Helper has always reflected an ethnically diverse population, with southern and eastern European groups rising to positions of prominence within the community.

After the arrival of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railway in 1881-82, Helper began to develop as a population center. By 1887 the D&RGW had erected some twenty-seven frame residences, with more built later in the year. This was done in anticipation of making Helper a freight terminal upon the changing of the line from narrow to standard gauge, which began in 1889. Here, "helper" locomotives would stand in readiness to aid trains traveling up the steep grade to Soldier Summit, thus the name Helper."

This whole area is interesting to me because my mother's family comes from here. My maternal grandmother was born in Orangeville, Utah, in 1880. Her birthing place was a crude cabin dug out of the side of a hill. Later, when she was married, she ran a boarding house in the town of Colton, just west of Helper. Still later, she and my grandfather, Frank, moved up the canyon from Colton to the mining town of Clear Creek. There my mother was born in 1924 during a spring blizzard.

At the end of our rainbow today was the mobile home camp of "Country Estates" in Heber, Utah. I knew that there were a couple of RV parks in Heber, but upon closer examination of the guide book, it appeared that the parks were some distance into the mountains. So when we ran across this mobile home park advertising that they took overnighters, it appeared to be a no-brainer. We'd just stay here.

This lasted until we got to the manager's door, whereupon we encountered a sign which said, "We're not home. Park anywhere you like, and put the normal fee in an envelope. We could see, quite close to the manager's mobile, a collection of empty RV sites that seemed to be complete with water, sewer, and electrical. Okay, so we carefully backed the rig up, made a U-turn, and entered one of the sites. While Concetta was checking the level, I scouted to see if everything did, indeed, seem to be present that we would need.

After looking at all the utilities, I decided that perhaps a couple of sites to the south might be better for us. I was just in the process of hooking up when a young hispanic man approached and informed me that unfortunately the electric did not work in the entire central section at which I hoped to park. "Over there," he said, pointing to a site a bit to the northeast. "Over there the electric works."

"Thanks," I told him, and moved the rig to the spot he indicated. Only problem, while the water and electric worked, the sewer was a sort of floppy pipe laying on the ground. Once upon a time it had obviously been hooked to a mobile home, as a ten-foot length of pipe lay nearby. But the point at which the pipe exited the ground did not contain the normal screw connection to which I could hook my rig's sewer line.

Still, it was a nice level-ish site, though I had to run the rear wheels up on blocks, and "most" of the utilities would be easy to access. The water pipe lacked a shutoff handle, but I could accomplish that with my pliers. The electrical looked a little bedraggled, but it seemed to work okay. Only the sewer gave me pause. But after a time I was able to jury-rig a connection with Bungie cords, wooden blocks, a steel tub, and two pieces of plastic gutter material that seemed to work, though Rube Goldberg would be a dandy description for it.

Even though the camp is a little "down at the heels," and many of the resident RVs have been here so long that they're being absorbed into the soil, I've found that people have gone out of their way to be friendly and neighborly. Aside from the two chaps who immediately came over when we arrived, a moment ago, a string bean of a fellow came to the door and wanted to know if he could help me figure out how to pay for the site. I told him I had called the assistant manager, who just at that moment walked up to collect the check. Once the Assistant Manager had left, Everett stayed around to chat. I immediately pegged him for having been born in Alabama, or at least somewhere in the south, as his accent sounded so much like Forest Gump he could have been a voice coach for Tom Hanks.

"Where in the south are you from," I asked.

Everette shook his head. "Born just down the road from here," he said. "But lots a folks tell me I sound like I'm from the south."

Since I had been wondering for a long time about the blue collar workers I'd seen who seemed to be permanently living in the RV parks, I decided to ask Everette. "If you don't mind me asking," I said, "how much does it cost to live here monthly."

"Four hundred dollars," Everette said, nodding his head all the while.

"Does that include the utilities," I asked.

"Nope," he said.

"But how do they charge?" I asked. "Wouldn't you have to have your own meter?"

"Yup," Everette said. "Mine's broke, though. Wires all hanging out."

"So, you don't have any electricity, then?

Everette shook his head side to side now. And then, by way of explanation, he said, "Got hurt awhile back. Couldn't work. Just got a new job this week."

"What do you do? I asked.

"Painter," he said simply.

"House painter?"

Everette nodded.

Ah," I said. "You work in Heber?"

"Park City, mostly," he said. "Cept, work's been slow."

"Probably pick up now that summer's here," I said, hoping to sound positive.

"Yup," He said. "Folks always wanting to paint something in Park City."

About then I had to tell Everette my dinner was ready, we shook hands, and he set off for his twenty-foot, green and white travel trailer. I watched him go until he disappeared inside, knowing that his life was obviously on the bitter edge of existence. Working as a house painter he certainly had no health insurance, no money put aside, no way to ride out the low spots. I wondered how many Everettes there were in this vast country of ours; how many in this very park.

That's when I decided to take a walk after dinner and really check out Everette's environment. He told me before left that the elevation here is about 5,500 feet. After taking my walk, I decided that you could do a lot worse than this wonderfully snug little valley amidst the towering Wasatch Range. Probably gets a little cold in the winter, but Everette told me the snow is not too bad. I bet summers are just downright pleasant. I'll have to come back someday and find out.

Day 75 - Grand Junction, Colorado to Ferron, Utah

Today was an easy, laid-back day. We had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to be there. This is true whenever you venture out into the eastern Utah desert. There's not a lot of towns, virtually no services, and if you happen to find a camp, it will look something like the photo at right, which happens to be in the tiny oasis of Ferron, on Route 10, south of Price, Utah. We ended up here, at the Ferron Creek Mobile Home Park, because we intend to visit the Dinosaur quarry which is reported to be very near here, though at present I'm not exactly sure where. The manager on the premises, Jim of the white hair and mustache, said that you have to drive about eight miles of dirt road, but the turnoff is adjacent to the tiny town of Cleveland, which is just up the road he says.

Alrighty then. You may remember that this morning we were camped in the bustling community of Grand Junction. According to Wikipedia, "Grand Junction is located along the Colorado River, where it receives the Gunnison River from the south. The name "Grand" refers to the historical Grand River, which was renamed the upper Colorado River in 1921, and the word "Junction" is from the joining of the Colorado and Gunnison rivers. Hence, Grand Junction has been given the nickname "River City". The city sits near the midpoint of a 30-mile arcing valley, known as the Grand Valley, a major fruit-growing region."

It was this reference to "fruit growing" that drew our attention this morning as we sought out, and eventually spent much of the morning at, the Cross Orchard Museum facilities in a once agricultural area of Grand Junction. The Cross family, heirs to the one-time Red Cross shoe fortune, began growing apples, pears, and peaches in 1896. The orchard was never completely economically viable, but still managed to stay in business until 1923. In that year, creditors forced the sale of the 243 acres of fruit trees and most of the orchard became housing.

From the web I learned that: "Today’s 24 acre site, once part of a 243 acre fruit ranch, was operated as an agricultural show case by the Massachusetts-based Red Cross Land and Fruit Company, 1896-1923. With more than 22,000 trees, it was one of the largest in the state when most local orchards averaged nine acres. Most of the fruit ranch was planted in apples, but a few acres of pears and peaches were also grown. Primary apple varieties of the day included Black Twig, Gano, Jonathan, Winesap, Rome Beauty, and Ben Davis."

"During peak periods of pruning, picking and packing, the Red Cross Land and Fruit Company often employed more than 50 part-time workers. Most were local citizens who commuted from town or would set up camp for several weeks during the fall harvest. Included in the restored bunkhouse are the kitchen, pantry and cook’s quarters on the west end; the men’s quarters and dining room in the middle; and the carriage room and office on the east end. The large barn/packing shed and bunkhouse are listed on the National Register of Historic Places."

"Since the Museum acquired the original 4.3 acres containing the historic structures in 1980, the site has added many additional acres and several ancillary exhibits. The Swanson display contains household effects, farmyard equipment, and an amazing assortment of horse-drawn implements and tools. It encompasses the Swanson Family’s move from Sweden in 1885 to operation of their 40 acre farm south of Loma."

"Rail fans will delight in the Uintah Railway exhibit and the recreated train depot. The reconstructed Whiskey Creek Trestle is part of a display of cars, an engine and caboose. From 1904-1939, the Uintah ran from Mack, Colorado to Dragon, Utah. It hauled one of the world’s few commercial sources of gilsonite, a black, lustrous asphalt."

Our appearance at the Cross Orchard didn't start off on the right footing, unfortunately. When we drove up and parked, there were so many interesting subjects for my camera that I told Concetta to go buy whatever tickets were required, and I grabbed the camera. I fully intended to "jump the gun" and start shooting before anyone might say I shouldn't. You see, the light was soft, but not bad, and sometimes if you wait until all the ducks are in a row you miss the shot.

So I was busily snapping away around the vintage rail equipment when I looked up and saw Concetta waving me over. I stopped shooting and walked over to where she was standing. When I got within earshot Concetta said, "We can't stay. The woman in the office said that the museum grounds are reserved for a private party."

"But there's no one here," I protested.

"Doesn't matter," Concetta said. "When I asked if we could visit the farm, she said NO! When I asked if we could visit the gift shop, she said NO! Finally she said that she could let you take a few photos, but she didn't appear to be happy about it."

I turned and scanned the grounds. I could see where several women appeared to be doing something over by the gazebo and the lawn, but since we were the only vehicle in the parking lot, I had to doubt that there was really anything official going on. "Tell you what," I said, just go on over to the orchard part of the grounds and act like you belong there. If they kick you out, fine, we'll go, but I bet no one will pay any attention to you."

Realizing that my time on the property was going to be limited, I set out with renewed vigor to photograph as much of the old rail equipment, the rusty old farm trucks, and the vintage tractors and such as I could before the woman came out and escorted me to the property line.

I had nearly finished with the antique trucks when Concetta called my cell phone. "No one seems to care that I'm here," she said. "There's just some folks cleaning up after a wedding. Come on over and see the vintage apple press. It's a real interesting one."

When I rounded the corner of the apple packing shed I saw Concetta in the distance. She was standing next to the most mammoth apple pressing machine I had ever seen. In fact, it was twenty times larger than any normal press. Although the massive handle once used to activate the ratchet mechanism was missing, you could tell that it must have been ten feet long at least. The ratchet mechanism and press was designed to work just like an automotive scissors jack. You would take the large handle through as wide a swing as you could muster, then drag it back again while the ratcheting mechanism reset the gears to go again. I imagine that the apple juice came flooding out of that press like Niagara Falls when it was in full operation.

The rest of the morning we just wandered the entire grounds, oftentimes interacting with the wedding workers who didn't seem to give a brass farthing whether we were around or not. They even stopped their work to suggest things that we might want to read or shoot. It was great!

When we finally got ready to leave, we got ourselves settled in the RV and I started for the exit. But as I drew abreast of the office and gift shop I had an idea. I stopped the truck and threw open the door. "I've got to try and make it easier for the next guy," I told Concetta.

I marched right up the gift shop, burst through the door, and surprised the chubby blond tending the counter. "HELLO!" I boomed. "I just wanted to stop in and thank you very much for allowing me to take some photographs. We had a really terrific time."

The blond's smile was immediate and genuine. "That's okay," she said, "I'm glad you liked it." Gone was the surely, uncommunicative side of her personality. She started to beam.

Then, for the next several minutes, I told her all about our trip, the miles we'd traveled, and all the great things and nice people we had encountered along the way. When I mentioned that we had driven all the way to Florida, she perked right up. "Really," she said. "Where in Florida did you go?"

So I went into the particulars on Florida. When I got to the part of the trip that included St. Augustine, the blond became very animated. "Oh, I would just love St. Augustine," she said.

"Well, it's got one of the oldest and best Forts in North American. Settled by the Spanish you know."

"Oh, I know, I know," she said. I've always wanted to go there."

"And," I said, "if you don't like military stuff, the town of St. Augustine is really cute. It has lots to see, tons of shops, and you'd have a great time."

"Oh, but I LOVE the history," she said, almost bouncing on her stool. I've heard that the Fort is haunted and you can be there at night and see ghosts."

I said, "Well, I don't know about ghosts, but you could be right. You should go visit."

"Oh, I will," she said. "I definitely will."

About then I noticed a donation box on her counter. Removing my wallet, I extracted a five dollar bill and thrust it into her jar. "Here's something for the cause," I said. "And for your letting me do the photography."

"No problem," she said. Her smile had spread to her whole face. "Anytime. Anytime at all."

"Well, I'll be seeing you, then. Have a great day."

"You too," she said.

And that was it. Maybe the next time a lowly photographer wants to wander onto the property, maybe, just maybe, the blond will remember our meeting and give the next guy a chance, too. I hope so. Sometimes people stuck in thankless jobs just need someone to make them feel important, if only for a moment. I hope I was able to do that. Just as important, I think we both took something away from our encounter that brightened the day for each of us.

"What the heck were you doing in here," Concetta asked, when I had climbed back onto my seat.

"Just paying it forward," I said. "Just paying it forward."

Before long we had found our way to Interstate 70 and were headed west in earnest. Our plans for the second half of the day were to head toward a fork in the road known as Fremont Junction where we planned to exit I70 and head north toward Price, Utah.

And I have to tell you that the scenery this afternoon was some of the finest we've seen in the west. There was a soft, defused lighting coming from the thin cloud cover that made the reds and oranges and purples of the surrounding buttes and mesas seem almost surreal; like an oil painting of a desert instead of the desert itself. We stopped constantly to take photos of the incredible sedimentary geology, some of which, the roadside signs told us, was deposited 250 million years ago.

Tomorrow's dinosaurs won't be quite that old, I suspect. According to Jim of the white hair and mustache, our landlord for the evening, the site is well worth visiting and was done quite a bit better than he had expected. Yes, we may have to take on a bit of dirt road. Let's just hope that the BLM is maintaining it better than the National Park Service was doing at the Sand Creek Massacre site. I still think some of my fillings got shaken loose on that off-road jaunt.

So, until tomorrow, keep on traveling.

Day 74 - Gunnison to Grand Junction, Colorado

Our first trip in this 1996 vintage RV took place in the Fall of 2011. If memory serves, we traveled over 7,000 miles, took in many of the most northern states as far east as the Great Lakes, and turned around to come home when we reached Ohio. On October 1st of 2011 we rolled into Gunnison, Colorado, and almost immediately spied one of the most intriguing museums that we had yet seen on that trip. It had a Denver and Rio Grande Western narrow gauge train in the front yard, a bunch of western buildings of all descriptions, and a very large museum building that we hoped would capture our interest for a good part of the morning.

We got to Gunnison around noon, so we parked across the street from the museum property, on the edge of a very nice public park, and had a leisurely lunch. After lunch, we dashed across the busy main street of Gunnison, and up to the front door of the museum. There we encountered a large sign which said, "Closed for the Season." "Open May 20th to September 30th." We had missed catching the museum when it was open by a single day. Just a SINGLE DAY!

Last night when we rolled once more into the town of Gunnison, the museum was the very first thing to grab our attention. It was then that we remembered that we had missed it on the previous trip through Colorado. Unfortunately, we did not remember just exactly when the museum opened for the summer.

As I type this account, it is May 17th, 2014. In exactly three days the museum will open again for the summer. THREE DAYS! Now obviously we can't wait around for the next three days for the darn place to open. We just had to move on. But it sure breaks our hearts to have to miss the museum yet again. Guess we're going to have to plan a trip around the museum's schedule so we don't miss it a third time.

Sad but wiser, we turned around and once again headed west on Interstate 50 toward central Utah and home. Fortunately, we did have a couple of other options in towns down the road, so we wouldn't be driving all day, but would be taking the occasional break.

The next major town after Gunnison was Montrose, Colorado, which promised to have not only a sort of frontier museum, but a Ute Indian museum as well. Most of the morning we just motored through the magnificent Rocky Mountains enjoying the snow capped peaks, the wild flower-strewn meadows, and the cold rushing streams beside the highway. Naturally, we had John Denver to keep us company as he belted out his Rocky Mountain songs on the disk player. It was almost heaven!

Dropping out of the Rockies into the lower elevations we came upon Montrose about mid morning. Before long, we had ferreted out the Pioneer Museum and had stowed the rig for a little R&R among the stuff that I love best, things with lots and lots of rust on them. Concetta is not so thrilled with rusty things, but we managed to keep busy trying to identify all the remnants of the past, both inside and outside the museum building. There was farm machinery, printing machinery, ancient laundry day accoutrements, and a whole host of things that on my best day I couldn't identify.

Though not even the museum docent could identify one piece of equipment they had tucked in next to the cowboy cabin, I knew as soon as I walked over to it that I had finally found an antique for which I have been searching for years and years: it was a mule-drawn, ice-cutting plow. What in the heck is that, you say? Well, in the old days when refrigeration was only a pipe dream, nearly everyone in the country needed ice to keep things cool in their "ice boxes." Even today we sometimes call the modern refer an ice box. Most folks don't really know where the ice came from that was delivered to their grandparents' door.

Well, I'll tell you. Most often it came from frozen lakes where ice was cut and stored during the winter for delivery to customers during the summer months. But this ice was far from easy to obtain. If the ice on the local lake was a foot thick during the winter, how in the world did that ice get cut into manageable chunks and eventually get delivered to the hundreds of town ice boxes?

This is where the mule-drawn, ice cutting plow comes into the picture. The plow has a series of sharp blades, mounted all in a row, that can cut down through the ice, going a little deeper with each pass of the mule as he draws it across the frozen lake surface. Mounted about two feet away from, and alongside of, the cutting blades was a similar set of non-cutting blades that could be dropped into the slot just cut in order for the next cut to be equidistant from the first cut. As the mule walked back and forth across the lake, he would finish with a large series of parallel cuts. The cuts did not go all the way through the ice. About a quarter of the ice thickness would remain to support the weight of the mule, plow and other workers.

Once the first set of cuts were finished, then the mule would draw the plow back and forth making cuts at right angles to the first set of cuts. When this was finished, the whole lake had been neatly cut into rectangular or square blocks of ice ready for the men with special hand ice saws to finish cutting each individual block loose from the rest, and floating the blocks over to where the ice house had a conveyer set up. At the conveyer intake, the ice blocks would be moved from lake level, up the conveyer, and finally into the ice house at whatever elevation was required. The conveyer could change it's end-point altitude as the ice house was completely filled at any given level. As each block hit the ice house floor it had to be kept moving until it reached it's individual storage spot. If the ice were to stop moving, even momentarily, it would freeze to the blocks underneath. As you might guess, ice harvesting was not for the faint of heart as the blocks weighed hundreds of pounds each.

Later on the large blocks of ice would be further cut down into manageable pieces for your local ice delivery man to handle. He'd load them in his wagon using a set of ice tongs, carry them to your door using a special leather shoulder pad, and you'd be set for the next few days. In many towns, you would put a special card in your window which told the ice man how much of the frozen stuff you wanted. The card had four triangles printed on the front, each with a different weight of ice desired. Whichever weight was uppermost in your window would signify the amount you wanted delivered.

And there you have it. Up to now, I had never seen an ice plow except in vintage photographs. It was well worth the few bucks entrance fee we paid to visit the museum. Most of the rest of the museum's exhibits and displays were bit dusty and tired, as is the case for many museum facilities nowadays that suffer from lack of funding, lack of interest, or both.

Now that I had MY gem of the day, it was time to go find Concetta's. Concetta had set her sights on the Ute Indian museum on Route 550 on the south side of Montrose. There we hoped to learn a little bit more about the local Native American culture, and hopefully see some of their handiwork. In both these endeavors we were not disappointed. Unlike the Pioneer Museum, the Ute Indian Museum was fresh and modern and extremely well cared for. As we pulled up and parked, We were immediately excited to see that museum was not only an indoor experience, but an outdoor one as well. Flanking the museum building, the tribe had set up a series of teepees that appeared to be period correct in every way.

Naturally, the combination of the white teepees, and the even whiter fluffy clouds against an achingly blue sky made photographing the scene a no-brainer. Even before we set foot in the museum facility itself, we made a bee-line over to the teepees so I could capture the wonderful scene for the blog.

Now, when it comes to the history of the westward expansion, I must admit I've always found the stories of the covered wagons and the settlers far more interesting than the native culture, probably because I actually have an ancestor who was a wagon master on a couple of Mormon trips. But thanks to Concetta, I am gaining a much greater appreciation of the Native American culture.

We spent the first twenty minutes or so in the museum watching a film on the Ute Indian Bear Dance ritual which we both found very interesting. After the film we found our way to the tribal crafts area of the facility. My goodness, some of the leather work and bead work and other art was just way beyond outstanding. I just couldn't get enough of it, and took as many photos as I could.

All too soon our visit to the town of Montrose, Colorado was finished and we had to move on down the road. Just over 65 miles to the west lay the town of Grand Junction, where we are presently encamped at the local KOA. As it turned out, it was well that we motored west when we did. When we arrived in Grand Junction, where unbeknownst to us, several different entertainment venues were in progress, we snagged the very last full-hookup spot in the camp that hadn't already been reserved. Good thing. I would have hated to have my cocktail hour delayed while I searched, probably outside of town, for another suitable campsite.

And that's our day. No plans for tomorrow as yet, but I'm sure there must be something out there in western Colorado or eastern Utah to capture our fancy. Stay tuned. And, if you happen to have one of those mule-drawn, ice-cutting plows languishing in your garage, do give me a call and I'll be happy to take it off your hands.

Ciao for now, and Keep on Traveling!

Day 73 - Pueblo to Gunnison, Colorado

When I checked in at the KOA (Kampgrounds of America) office just now the attendant asked me how I was doing. As I usually respond to such questions, I said, "Absolutely wonderful!" Then I went on to say, "but I could use a lot more sun and a lot less wind." And that was the truth. Though the morning hours were basically sunny as we headed into the Rocky Mountains from Pueblo, Colorado, as the day progressed the sky grew progressively more gray and overcast, which always hampers my photography. As for the wind, well, it just blew all day long. But the KOA clerk must have taken pity on me because, as I type this account, the wind has died off and the sun has come out. It's suddenly so warm in the coach that we had to open the windows. But hey, it's that ol' "box of chocolates" thing. When you're an RVer, you never know what you're gonna get.

Yesterday, when we arrived at the KOA in Pueblo (photo top left), they gave us a front row seat on the interstate as well as the Burlington Northern/Santa Fe Railroad line. Consequently, we had no lack of ambient noise to drown out all the annoying desert environment quiet that can just drive you bats. Of course, I'm a train-lover from way back and the long-haul freights going by every fifteen minutes didn't bother me at all. Still, before long, my brain had decided to replay some of the Mary Chapin Carpenter tunes we had been listening to that day, so I can't even tell you how many freight cars full of coal went by before we went to bed.

Our route today involved just staying on Interstate 50 all the way over the Rockies. We did, at one point, wander a bit off track but were alerted to the fact when the road sign said we'd be in Fairplay by nightfall. Well the map told us that Fairplay was north and we were headed west, so a few miles of backtracking was in order. We got deviated in Salida, Colorado, when the highway sign said, "turn here for the historic section of Salida." Little did we know that when you took them up on that offer, you ended up on Route 285 to Fairplay once you came to the far end of the historic district. No mention of the road not returning you to your original route was ever made. I imagine that Fairplay has not been getting its share of the tourism dollar, so the town fathers came and stole the signs that directed you back to Interstate 50.

Speaking of weird fellow humans, I ran across a really strange lady today. We had decided to take the turnoff to the Royal Gorge and had driven as close to the gorge as possible, parked, and then hiked around the rim getting photographs to show y'all. At that time of the morning, the sunlight was magnificent, and our view of the river and the railroad tracks at the bottom of the gorge was unsurpassed. It was a little tight getting the rig up along those tiny dirt roads and around the tight bends meant mostly for passenger cars. In case you've ever been to the Royal Gorge you know that in years past you could drive over the bridge up there and REALLY get a good view, but last June somebody set fire to the forest up there and burned over 100 structures in the park. Now the paved road is closed while the National Park Service reconstructs everything and tourists must use a dirt road that takes you to an temporary overlook. Not quite as awesome, but the best they can do at the moment.

But I was going to tell you about the weird lady I met. We were coming back down off the mountain, after visiting the Royal Gorge overlook, and I happened to notice just the cutest little camp spot beside the road that I had missed on the drive in. The motif of the camp was vintage travel trailers. But not just trailers. You could rent a 1950s-era trailer which came with a 1950s-era car. The first one I saw, and was ultimately able to photograph, was a blue and white 1958 Chevy four-door attached to a tiny trailer of the same age.

Believe me, I couldn't get the rig stopped fast enough. Then, camera in hand, I marched up the drive to do some serious photo shooting. Since the '58 Chevy was nearest the road I grabbed a framed shot of that car and trailer. Then I continued up the drive. Next I encountered a Nash Rambler and it's accompanying trailer. Standing beside the car and trailer were three people, two men and a woman. Catching site of me, the woman said, "May I help you?"

Realizing that the woman was probably a manager of some sort, I said, "Is it okay if I shoot photos of your camp?"

At first she didn't answer me, but walked over to where I was standing. "If you'd like to rent," she said, when she was standing next to me.

Figuring that she just misunderstood, I said, "Oh, no, I just thought the camp idea was cool and wanted to photograph it."

"No," she said. She had a big grin on her face and I still wasn't absolutely sure I was getting the gist of what she was trying to tell me.

So I said, "You're saying no?"

"That's right," she said. "Unless you'd like to pay to stay here."

"How much to stay," I said.

She quoted a price that sounded like Seventy-eight per night, One hundred fourteen for two nights." She was looking right into my eyes when she said that, and she'd never lost her grin. I thought perhaps I had encountered a certified nut case, but I decided to continue to try and persuade her to let me shoot. What did I have to loose?

Taking a new tack, I said, "You know, I'm doing a travel blog and the photographs will be seen by lots of people. Wouldn't you like free advertising?"

"Nope," she said, evidently a little too quickly, as she hastened to add, "Unless you're from Channel 2 or something."

"No, I'm not from Channel 2," I said, "but you still don't want free advertising?" I'm sure sounding as incredulous as I felt.

"No thanks," she said, "I have to respect my guests privacy." The grin was still in place, or perhaps had gotten even broader. I looked around the nearly deserted camp, noting the dilapidated picnic tables, the tired and faded miniature golf course, and the dusty, untended foliage. Not another soul appeared to be anywhere. No workers. No customers. Nobody! The whole place needed about a million gallons of paint just to cover the weathered wood of the various tired buildings. Most of the cars and trailers desperately needed attention as well, or at least have the weeds removed from around them.

"Okay," I said, "No free advertising."

She grinned.

I said, "Thanks for your time." I turned and walked back down the rutted drive, wondering as I walked, just how one could afford to have a negative review of your business hit the air waves that stretch to every corner of the earth. But there it is, I have posted the sign so you can avoid the place, should you choose, well, unless your gig is smiling contests. Then maybe you might want to look this lady up.

It was at this time that we began to see the promise of the Rocky Mountains (photo above left). Snow-capped peaks could be seen way in the distance, beckoning us to come visit. We had a lot of climbing to do on Interstate 50, but we knew having traveled this route in the past, we were in for some mighty fine scenery.

Noon found us wending our way beside the Arkansas River, which begins life in Colorado and meanders its way through three other states. According to Wikipedia, "The Arkansas River is a major tributary of the Mississippi River. The Arkansas generally flows to the east and southeast as it traverses the US states of Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. The river's initial basin starts in the Western United States in Colorado, specifically the Arkansas River Valley, where the headwaters derive from the snowpack in the Collegiate Peaks. Then it flows east into the Midwest via Kansas, and finally into the South through Oklahoma and Arkansas. At 1,469 miles (2,364 km), it is the sixth-longest river in the United States."

Now what do you think about that? I had never paid the slightest attention to the Arkansas, but I can tell you now that it's a very pretty river to spend your day with. You certainly have to keep your eye on the road, because the two-lane twists and turns just like the river. But sometimes it's hard to ignore the beauty beside you has you roll along.

One aspect of the Arkansas River that we encountered right away is the plethora of white-water rafters paddling down its length. In fact, I was so enthralled with the rafters, that I chose a lunch spot beside the river with ample space to set up and photograph the participants as they floated past. Perhaps "floated" is a misnomer, in that a lot of the time the folks in the rafts are paddling for dear life as the rapids fling them this way and that, mostly toward rocks.

As Concetta and I ate our lunch betwixt highway and waterway, I kept a steely eye out for the rafter's appearance. Unfortunately, we had consumed our lunch and had started on our last cup of coffee and no rafters had appeared. I was beginning to worried that I was not destined to get any photos this trip.

Suddenly, I peered out the window, and just in the distance I could make out a trio of rafts approaching. Grabbing the camera, I raced out the door, down the rocky bank, and got as close as I dared to the rushing water. My timing turned out to be perfect, and seconds later the three rafts skillfully navigated the rapids in front of me and floated away on the current. I had gotten a dozen shots, though nothing special I decided since no one had actually been "fighting for their lives" as they approached the huge rock on which I had situated myself. Still, it was better than nothing. I scrambled back up the bank to the RV and settled in to drink the rest of my coffee.

At least that's what I intended. But seconds later, a glance out the window confirmed that yet another trio of rafts was approaching. Once again I grabbed the camera and raced for my spot. This time I crawled further out on the edge of the boulder so the rafters would have to pass right beneath me. And this time I thought that the photos had to be better, closer, more real.

So the lunch stop turned out to be the highlight of the day. After reviewing the photos I saw that they're not National Geographic quality, but I sure had fun. And the memory of sitting on that huge rock as the rafters paddled by will long be with me. And, just to further solidify that memory, I had Concetta shoot me shooting the rafters with the other camera. Who knows, my senior citizen memory may need the extra clues.

When we finally finished the 35-mile-per-hour climb to the top of Monarch Pass, elevation 11312 feet, we decided to do something special. Since I had already entered through the outbound drive at the summit rest stop, I decided to back the rig around into a nearby snow field, and set up a photograph for this year's Christmas cards with the snow-capped Rockies in the background. The shot came off well, and we hope it will work for the card next December.

Leaving Monarch Pass, all we had to do was drift downhill for the rest of the day to reach our afternoon goal of Gunnison, Colorado, elevation around 7,700 feet or so. The KOA here in Gunnison is very nice, very quiet, and we would probably come here again if fate brings us this direction. I'd very much like to come back to Colorado soon and do a more thorough job of exploration. My maternal grandfather grew up in Colorado and lived in several mining towns that I'm sure would be great to visit.