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.