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.