I'm out in the sunroom again. It's really my only refuge from my family, whom I adore, but also whom I need a reprieve from at least one time per day. It's got to be 50 degrees out here, but I'm desperate. I should probably pour a small whisk.
Better. Continuing... What's more important than where I went and when I went there, is surely what happened mentally. After all, that's the main purpose of these types of journeys. Well, that and catching a shitload of trout. And oddly, I remember my mental state much, much better than my physical. Physically, I filled up with gas, grabbed some variety of food, and turned west. The instant my four wheels hit 306, it was the farthest west I had ever been, by Colorado standards. It was literally uncharted territory for me. I remember having a couple Colorado Fly Fishing books next to the atlas riding shotgun, as this was well before having everything at a phone's tap, even with probable shoddy service. I knew the Taylor River was worth the drive. And I knew Cottonwood Pass was worth crossing. Mentally, it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. There was a timidness and anxiousness, as I had never explored a place of this magnitude, especially alone. But those feelings would quickly morph into confidence and comfortability with each passing discovery. I recall the weather being of some concern, not having a smart phone, computer, or TV handy. Rocky Mountain Octobers differ from Ozark Mountain Octobers considerably, and the former range can be much harsher than the latter range. I saved plenty of the deep thoughts for windshield time, being that was a big part of this escapade and a time when I tend to chat out loud to myself. I went into every road, river, mountain, and city with blind faith and excitement. Excitement for what was around the next bend and for what might happen in a week or two or three. My soundtrack for this adventure as a whole was spearheaded by the Allman Brothers, specifically "Ain't Wastin' Time No More", which I found fitting. It's the perfect song for what I was doing. Still fuels a sense of adventure, or at least a calm mood while staring at the mountains, which thankfully now reside in my backyard. 93.7 FM, "The River Rat" out of Salida accompanied me throughout the trip as well, and welcomed me to the mountains. It's what the locals listen to, man. Think deep, classic rock cuts from the likes of Little Feat, New Riders of the Purple Sage, and Creedence. On my way up the hill, I stopped a handful of times to take pics of a couple elk, which I'm not sure if I'd seen in Colorado up until this point. Pics of the winding road that somehow complemented the landscape, and the Pass itself, which was the probably the highest I'd been ever been on the ground, according to altitude. My musical choice went from earthy classic rock to punk quickly as I found a fabulous single track that needed me on it. I'm not a serious mountain biker, never was. But riding this easy little nondescript downhill, winding back and forth ever so slightly, then huffing back up the gravel road to the truck gave me life. The Taylor Res on one side of me, Mount Yale on the other. Zero other people in sight. Shit, man. Time for a tailgate and some jerky. I spent the remainder of the day exploring the Reservoir and River, catching some decent fish, but nothing massive like the big girls that lurk below the dam. At one point, I realized where I was, and needed to take an appreciation break. I have to force myself to do these, 'cause I'm a fucking robot when I'm fishing. More so back in those days than now, but the breaks are still needed. If memory serves, I had just caught my biggest, which was maybe an 18" brown, maybe. Satisfaction engulfed me, so I unbuckled my waders, laid my rod and pack on the grassy bank in front of that beautiful riffle holding that beautiful trout, plopped on my back with my hands behind my head and stared at the lodgepole pines and blue sky. Appreciation. Thanking whomever for what's happening, where you're at, what's in front of you, what's in your head, and why you're smiling. I was in a valley In the middle of the Rocky Mountains next to a river in October. This wasn't a mild Midwestern evening approaching. I could feel the chill starting to take lead over the sun, and it was 110% time for a campfire and warm clothes. Luckily, I had passed a tiny campground on the opposite side of the road from the river earlier in the day. Looked perfect. And it was. It was actually serendipity, as I discovered soon after, that the state-owned campgrounds closed October 1st in Colorado (back then, at least). That would certainly add a wrinkle or two to my voyage. But I'm pretty good at making lemonade, so let's drink up. The fire served its purpose well, giving me much needed warmth and a means to boil water for dehydrated chili mac. Maybe not the best choice, seeing as how this tiny campground was sans toilet, but it all worked out in the end. It was a chilly first night in the bed of the truck, but my down jacket had fully dried from my sweat-fest the day prior. So that, plus most of the clothes I packed, layered over me and being inside my down sleeping bag worked out pretty well. I tend to get a lot better night's sleep when I'm inside a truck or camper, as opposed to a tent. Peace of mind from the elements and critters that always seem to be somewhat of a pest. I've had bears and porcupines fuck with me at night before, and I've been flooded out and woken up with 6 inches of snow on my vestibule. So truck was a solid call. For the next day, I dicked around that same area, exploring and fishing and riding my bike. I spent one more night at tiny campground, with no other campers in sight. Now, in hindsight, I'm not sure if this campground was closed or not. Later in my trip--starting the next day on the Blue River, is when I discovered that all the campgrounds shut down. Maybe tiny campground was an exception? Who knows. Who cares. It was perfect. After another chilly night, but one that was more comfortable due to a bit of familiarity, I headed out. Oddly, my guidebooks did not take me further west to Almont and Gunnison--rookie mistake. I instead backtracked to BV, through Leadville, and spilled out onto I-70 en route to Silverthorne and the Blue River. ....tbc
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AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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