Sunday, June 2nd

Tall Mountains

Half past six in the morning at a motel near Denver airport. It is a mighty fine summer day. The sun is out already, beckoning to leave. But I have time. As always on these trips, I have to stop by a book store which is only opening at nine. The other customers at the motel don't seem to have such restrictions and have long since left.

I dilly-dally until half past eight and finally take to the road. I swing around Denver in the north, crossing through affluent suburbs, and arrive at the book store in Westminster two minutes before nine. A successfully accomplished mission—as first customer of the day, no less, I turn west, heading towards the mountains that loom in the distance.

Around here, the landscape is mostly flat. We are already quite far up, though. Denver lies at the westerly end of the High Plains at an altitude of sixteen hundred metres. The ever vigilant marketeers thus coined the nickname Mile-high City.

The Rocky Mountains are not far, though, and soon the road enters into its first valley. It doesn't mess about, either, but quickly starts to climb into a proper mountainscape of towering rocks with small trees clinging to them. The little stream that formed the valley, Coal Creek, innocently splashes about. Being so close to the city, the valley is still very settled. There are cottages and resorts everywhere. One, Westfalenhof, even displays a German flag.

As we climb further, humanity starts to thin out. Instead, snow-covered mountains peak over the horizon. The village of Wondervu at the top of the road is the last outburst of city-dwelling with lodges and cafés and arts-and-craft stores. Beyond the dominion of the pickup truck starts.

The roads winds down again into another valley and into its first canyon. Huge boulders mark the entrance to the valley as well as Boulder County. It turns north and arrives at Nederland. Unlike its namesake, the town isn't flat at all. One has to climb down to a lakeside to reach the centre where there are restaurants and lodges and two historical train cars. One establishment, the Black Forest Restaurant, promises German American food, whatever that may be. Kassler burgers with a side of sauerkraut, perhaps.

Not the sort of road that likes to linger in the lowlands, it immediately climbs up into mountains after town. It looks quite cold outside. The thermometer reads 52F, whatever that may be, and it is rather windy too. Still, the road is littered with bicyclists. Cycling seems to be a rather popular weekend occupation in these woods. One wonders, though, how they get here. We are quite far away from the city, there is no buses or trains. But with there brightly coloured plastic clothes and helmets and the fancy racing bikes, these people are clearly from the city. They seem to appear in groups, so maybe there is some organized tours going on. Given that the road madly climbs and falls, one has to have slight masochistic tendencies, though, to enjoy the whole thing.

At a place called Longs Peak View we reach the outskirts of the Rocky Mountain National Park, Longs Peak being its tallest mountain. The main town for the park, though, is Estes Park towards which the road races by cutting straight through huge yellow rocks. The town, all yellow dirt and spring-green flora, covers a small plateau around Estes Lake.

The entrance to the park is a few miles west. For the non-pedestrian visitor, Rocky Mountain National Park essentially consists of a road crossing over a three-and-a-half thousand metre high ridge. Like any national park, there is enormous amounts of back country, though, with endless miles of trails and ample opportunity to get eaten by a bear.

As I park on a side road, a fox comes strolling along the road, followed by a large pickup, but having no intention of stepping aside to let the pickup pass.

Like with any national park, too, the drive is a bit arduous. There is plenty of traffic with ample of time. It not only is Sunday, the road across the plain also only has opened two weeks ago on Memorial Day, which marks the official beginning of summer. Still, there is plenty of snow up top. While there surely are stunning vistas, I am a bit disappointed. Maybe only because I came to see the desert and not another mountain range.

My wishes are granted as I leave the park going south. The landscape quickly turns more mediterranean. The south entrance is followed by three lakes, the smallest of which is, inevitably called Grand Lake. The largest, Lake Granby, is surprisingly low on water. Its water level is a good three metres down from what seems to be its normal. Small sandy islands peek through the surface everywhere. The lake is artificial, though, built to collect water from the rainy western slopes of the Rocky Mountains and send it to the eastern slopes where all the people live. So, maybe they were just particularly thirsty this spring.

Around the lake, the usual recreational infrastructure has sprung up. There are lodges and trailer parks and a large marina, complete with restaurants and shops.

Beyond, we enter into ranch country. The road is running along a flat-bottomed valley, maybe three-hundred metres wide and with lush hills on either side. There is only few trees, mostly just grassland. This is interrupted by the odd canyon, formed by the still young Colorado River, such as right after the small town of Hot Sulphur Springs, featuring a spa, a huge new county building and a tiny, withered town hall. A sign suggests to buy 1.32 acres of land for not quite a hundred grand.

In the flat-valley sections, the highway gets all daring and allows 65 miles per hour. A sure sign that we have reached the endless inside of America.

The town of Kremmling starts with a statue of a fighter helicopter outside the local high school. It also features a small wooden church, a Chinese restaurant across the street, and a shop making wood carvings. At the end of town there is grocery store in a large old, preserved market building. Like most towns out here, it seems a bit dusty and withered, but it also seems to make an effort.

After Kremmling, I leave the main highway and turn towards Gore Pass. At a mere 2903 metres it trembles before the big passes in the neighbourhood. But the road, climbing up from 2200 metres still has some bending and curving to do. It uses a gorge-y valley first, then makes a short breathing pause along a wide, very green plateau before entering into forests for the last stretch. The other side is very forests, too. Climbing down, the road has to curve even more wildly before returning into ranch land that seems to be rather dry. There is hardly any trees, only small evil-looking bushes. A bit further on, the ground turns red and some trees return, albeit only small, bushy ones.

This here is cattle country. There are cattle station every once in a while; wooden structures for sorting cattle or whatever happens there. At one ranch lots of semi-trailers are parked and there is horses everywhere plus people with stetsons. Feels a bit like I fell into a movie.

In order to reach the Interstate, the highway has to work its way through yet another canyon. At State Bridge, which indeed has a bridge, the short road from Kremmling arrives. It is marked in the map as scenic and seems to be quite busy. Unfortunately, it is only a dust road. But then, I don't really mind detours.

After joining the Interstate in its not particularly wide valley, the road soon reaches Eagle. Here, the skiing circus of Colorado starts. On various ridges sit posh looking houses, presumably second homes for rich city folk. The valley widens for the town of Gypsum before plunging into Glenwood Canyon. There is not enough space of both a regular highway and the Interstate and only the latter prevails. As always when I am forced to use a motorway, there is construction work going on including a six miles contraflow. The canyon is quite impressive, though. Huge, red rock formation tower over the mad waters of the Eagle river that later, at Dotsero, merges with those of the Colorado river.

The valley also host a railway line. Amtrak's California Zephyr, perhaps the most popular of all of Americas long distance trains, takes very route. Currently, though, only a freight train is battling its way up in a rather impressive display. It has two engines in the front, three in the middle and one at the back for a total of more than twenty-five thousand horse power.

Running along the Interstate, I have to accept the terrible truth: The only reasonable overnight destination for the day is Aspen, America's most beloved skiing resort. Glenwood Springs, where I leave the Interstate, is too close as I will be there around four. I'll reach Apsen, about an hour up into the mountains at a perfect five o'clock. I could go on four another hour or so, but the map doesn't look very promising regarding lodging beyond.

As I ponder this and try to come up with alternative plans, I pass exit 119 "No Name".

Not arriving at any better solution, I leave the motorway at Glenwood Springs, a pretty little mountain resort town with too much traffic and turn south-east. The road runs along the side of a wide valley, bounded by big, extremely red mountains. While the area certainly is mountainous, it doesn't get much more of an alpine feeling associated with skiing even as it pushes on. The mountains to the sides of the valleys are never more then three-, four-hundred metres above the valley floor, which is wide and generous.

In Winter, though, this area sure must be busy. The road is a divided highway and has a morning-rush carpool lane. At this Sunday evening, there is hardly any traffic at all.

I have a quick, halfhearted look at downtown Basalt, about three quarters along the way, in vain hope to find an alternative hotel, but to no avail.

And so I arrive in Aspen. I stop at the visitor centre, but it is shut. Outside they have a map, though, which has a list of available accommodation. Given its, entirely deserved reputation as a fancy resort town, I am a bit hesitant what to pick. But I find a decently priced hotel, sorry, lodge and check in.

I stroll into to town to find some dinner. Downtown, an area of maybe two by five blocks that is not all lodges, has a few pretty old buildings and, unsurprisingly, plenty to offer in the food department. I pick a American restaurant in an old wooden building for a lovely burger. On the way back I stop at the local microbrewery for a pint. After an altogether too long time drinking solely German lagers, their excellent Independence Pass IPA is quite the celebration, even in a pub that has never heard of the word "cozy."