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.