Day Twenty Three, near Meeker Park, CO: The boring moments

I’m typing this up on Sunday night – I’m back to writing in real-time again.

It’s some time past 10pm, and I’m sitting in front of my fire. There is a calm breeze that directs the smoke away from me and off to my left, but is light enough that the fire still keeps me warm. My tent is off to my right. The last people I saw were riding on horseback perhaps three miles down the rocky dirt road I drove up in. Directly above me are all the stars I have ever seen and many I’ve never been able to. The only sound I hear is the occasional popping of the fire and rustling of tree leaves. This accompanied by less frequent, intermittent sounds of wildlife; some birds, and some small unidentified animals as well.

I am unsure exactly where I am. Rather, I am unsure of where to call that place.  The unpaved road I came in on is not on the GPS road map. I am at least 20 minutes and five miles off the paved road. According to my GPS, I am at about 8,500 feet, my third straight night above 7,600, and tenth above 5,500. And, also for the third straight night, I camp in a place with no cell phone coverage. I am no longer disturbed by this; the only inconvenience is that these posts are not transmitted through the ether – I must find a reliable signal in order to send them in.

Having explained the night, let me go back to the day.

I got a relatively late start, leaving my last campsite at nearly 11am. I headed into town, where my first order of business was to pick up a few things at Safeway, (think Kroger with higher prices). Next is the Laundromat for a shower, (which, around here, appears to be a normal practice, at least for transients such as myself). I head to a local fruit smoothie shop, (naturally, every town of 5,000 should have at least one,) for a delicious and even reasonably priced ham sandwich. Pretzel included. Fortunately all of these stores were located in the same shopping center. By now it was about 1.30pm.

By this time, the weather – which had been steadily worsening throughout the day – had turned to rain. I headed to the library to type up Saturday’s post and check on the world.

I realize that, like a TV show, I sometimes only include the important events of the day or the momentous decisions that ultimately cause those outcomes. But the last three days especially have been far more than a series of dramatic plot twists. Most of the day Saturday was spent reading on a lake. In fact, almost 8 hours were cramped into a few short sentences. I am alone, and thus I can spend my days as I please. It is the otherwise boring moments – those that, at home, beg for action or explanation – that provide me the most pleasure, and are often impossible to transcribe through a keyboard. Or, they are just boring to read about it if you aren’t there yourself. Perhaps I simply need a vacation. I do not think one could continue like this forever. But for now, when I run out of things to do, I can simply move on to the next town. Such was the fate of Estes Park, and thus Rocky Mountain National Park was my next destination.

I make my way to Rocky Mountain National Park – my original goal on Friday night – to decide where I will stay next. By the time I find myself in the Backcountry office, it is nearly 7.00pm. The ranger tells me that I can stay in the park for a $20 entrance fee, and for an additional $20, I can camp 1.2 miles from my car. At an earlier point in the day, this would not be a problem. But now, it would be nearly dark by the time I got to my campsite.

Ranger Dale offered a ready alternative. If I took highway 7 south some number of miles, I would see a sign indicating Forest Access. Drive past the private property and you’ll find yourself a good spot. I do, however, intend to return to the park on Monday. I just cannot justify paying for a campsite with one so close by for free. The backcountry permit at a National Park is fine if you are going backpacking. But if you are backpacking simply to get to your designated campsite, it is a little odd. All I need is a place to spend the night. To pay for the privilege to haul everything there on foot seems strange. If National Forests did not offer the same – or even more – solitude as a National Park, the decision wouldn’t be as easy.

Car camping, I have come to see, is what you make of it. The only difference between car camping and backpacking-camping is that you are hauling your gear through the woods. Some people choose, as their gear, items that are grotesquely out of place in the wilderness. For them, car camping is a way to get halfway there. My gear is substantial because I am camping out for days at a time, but it is backpacking gear.For me, the only difference between a site I drive to and one I walk to is how I got there.

I’m not sure if I’ve talked about National Forests yet. They are a good deal, a “land of many uses,” in Dale’s words. National Forests have almost no rules and no restrictions. They are, essentially, minimally managed public use lands; this country’s best kept secret. Imagine a campground where you are the only camper, there are no fees, and you can pitch your tent wherever it will fit. The one catch is that they are extremely hard to find. In my experience so far, the best way to find access points – essentially dirt roads through the woods – is to ask around or hope you chance upon them.

I arrive at my new campsite around 8.30pm after a short drive from the RMNP gate. Being a forest, wood is plentiful, (one of the few NF regulations are that only dead and fallen wood may be used for firewood.) The fire comes easily. The tent is effortlessly pitched in the almost non-existent wind.  With the fire burning and a short stack of wood sawed by hand just to my right, I sit down to try to put the feeling into words.

These are big words for a starry night spent alone by a fire in a forest, and I’m not sure they fit. Their simple meaning alone makes it all sound far more substantial than it is, but it is that very lack of substance that makes it so outstanding.

As I send out this post, it is Monday morning, and I’m at the Visitor’s Center at RMNP.

I have a bunch of good pictures to include here, but I don’t have the time to process and edit them. So look for them in the next couple days at http://picasaweb.google.com/reidksmith.

Day Twenty Two, Estes Park, CO: Way down

It’s Saturday morning. I awake in the forest around 7am. It’s early, but it’s light outside. I hear the flowing creek nearby and a gaggle of woodland critters, mostly birds. I see no bear claw marks in my tent, thankfully.

The best way to handle my situation now, (click here if you haven’t yet read the previous day’s entry,) is to try to get as far down the mountain as possible before I have to stop. The man I met yesterday told me that the town was 4 or 5 miles away; I assume that I have at least a 5 mile trip ahead of me. I am shooting for Doan’s Garage, but with no directory or cell phone signal, I have no idea where that might be. In the condition that my car is in, I do know that every second counts, and it will be a give and take relationship between speed and heat. The farther I can get the car down the mountain before it overheats again, the less distance I have to walk. My goal is two miles; that leaves me with a comfortable hour-long hike downhill.

As I’m packing up the tent, I’m suddenly about 15 feet away from a deer and her fawn. They had just rounded a pile of wood, and had apparently not heard or smelled me beforehand. For a long second we stared at each other before they both turned and bolted. These were smaller, Michigan-style deer, unlike those I encountered the night before.  I finish packing up camp and haul the gear up the trail to my car. The trail is a switchback, cut across a very steep grade. It is a short but grueling climb as the trail rises in elevation at least 150 feet.

I turn on my cell phone radio, hoping to know as soon as I’m back within coverage. With everything thrown somewhat pell-mell into the car, I start her up and quickly back out of the pull out and into the road. It isn’t yet past 8.30am, and the traffic is very light.

For the next mile the road is neither down hill or level, but a slight grade up. However, it is slight, and the engine holds. The temperature quickly rises to normal operating temperature, albeit in an abnormally short amount of time. After about two miles, small homes begin to dot the road. I know, at this point, that I will avoid I worst-case scenario. The phone vibrates, telling me that I have now have messages waiting and that I am back within coverage. I take a short pull off, coasting along the length of it and quickly punching “auto service” into Google Maps on my Blackberry. I select Doan’s Garage and tell it to take me there. The car grumbles back onto the highway. I now have contact with the outside world, a destination, and a way to get there. It feels good.

It’s a mere 2.5 miles to go and it looks as though we’ll make it.

Just then, the descent begins, and I am suddenly looking down a winding mountain road. I’m elated. I can feel the rarefied mountain air coursing through the car – through the windows, the radiator, and around my body – a feeling made only more comforting by the heater thrusting hot air through the car at maximum power, a meek attempt at a substitute radiator.

I round a pass and am suddenly looking down on a quiet little mountain town, with a beautiful lake forming a gateway fence. The causeway over the lake and into the town reminds me of flying into New Orleans. But the town beyond is a different scene. It looks happy and even cozy. I coast down the steep grade, applying breaks sparingly – a break fire is almost as high on the list of things I want to avoid doing as an engine fire  – and stay off the gas. It’s only another mile until Doan’s, and I am now sure that hiking in will be unnecessary.

I park the car in front of an old shop titled “Doan’s Garage” and am a little dismayed at the “CLOSED” sign. Especially in light of Doan’s open garage door. I walk in the oversized door. I’ve never been so excited to be greeted with a greasy, crooked-toothed, hillbilly smile.

Jeremy and I pop the hood and have a good look inside Old Smokey. Confirming what I’ve known for the last 12 hours, he tells me that she “sure is boilin’” and that this sort of behavior is not normal. He tells me he’ll have a look at the car and give me a call when he finds something. I ask him what he suggests for breakfast, and he points me down the street and across an alley to the homely Mountaineer Diner. I load up my pack with a gallon of water, my laptop, camera, and some books. I head to the Diner, and enjoy the most delicious Cheese Lovers Omelet of all time. I enjoy the coffee, which, happily, does not cause me to tweak out like McDonald’s Coffee does.

As I leave the diner I again consider my situation. It is far more pleasant than when I last did so. I’m in a quiet little mountain town, shades of South Park, and there is a beautiful lake not far away, her surface broken only by kayaks, fishing lines, and the occasional sandbar.

I again turn to my trustworthy Google Maps. I plot a course directly for McDonalds about a mile away. It is truly a scenic town. 

I wash my arms and face at the McDonalds and offload some of the pictures from my memory card to my laptop. I take no food, having just eaten at the diner. I leave McDonalds and see a Visitor’s Center across the road, finalizing what had been a rapidly growing suspicion that I am in a tourist town; I am trapped in a city that people visit voluntarily. I step inside the Center but feel uncomfortable within the large shoulder-to-shoulder mass of people, many speaking English only as rough second language. I quickly turn around and exit, seeing a sign that says “Estes River Trail 1.2 miles, <—.” I head down the trail, along the same river seen above. I leave the concrete trail and head down a dirt path the hugs the river. Suddenly I am in a golf course. I smile at my change of circumstances.

Eventually a find a bench with a wooden shade that rests on the shores of the lake. There are a few fishermen. Having finished 1776 the night before, I settle down with H.G. Well’s The Time Machine, a book I read as a boy many years ago.

Jeremy calls around 2.30pm and tells me that he has found the problem. Luckily, it was a destroyed radiator cap and not a broken water pump, as we had both originally feared. I finish The Time Machine and return to my car. It’s quite a walk back, but I find an interesting surprise along the way.

After I get my car back, I enjoy a homemade meal from Taco Bell.

I begin to consider where I will spend the night. I know the National Forest outside the town – where I spent the last night – is free and secluded, but I’m not quite ready to enjoy those circumstances again. I opt for the Hermit Park Open Space, a(county-run?) campground outside of town. There is a small fee, but that in itself is a small price to pay for the security of people. I meet a fellow at the registration office who happens to be camping with his sons and a couple of their friends in a campsite just down the trail from mine. Between the two of us, we get the last two available campsites in the park. Allen invites me over and I tell him I’ll see him after I pitch my tent.

There is a slight drizzle as I set up my tent. I’m relieved to be in the company of others again. The night before was a truly unnerving experience, one that can’t be explained until you’ve known it. The reality of being alone, unable to reach anyone by phone or by, for the immediate future at least, car, is unsettling enough. To be over 1,500 miles from home, in a bear-populated forest, with little other that topographical knowledge of what lays ahead makes the situation even more unsettling.

Fear is not an accurate description, because I was not scared. I was uniquely suited to spend time outside. Bear attacks, as frightening as they may be, are quite rare. The fact that my car may not run was irrelevant; she still contained a virtual outdoors store within her frame. I had food for weeks, means with which to catch more in the remote possibility that it ever became necessary, clothing with which to weather any weather, and gear to complete almost any task. Was it the mere threat of loneliness? The knowledge that I could not, if I wanted to or needed to, get a hold of anyone, regardless of how hard I tried? Whatever it was, it manifested itself in an unsettling feeling. Fear, no.

Allen and his kids have a warm fire going by the time I arrive at their site. Again, it provides a special warmth, especially after the previous night’s happenings. I laugh at how easy it is to get a fire going when there are virtual cords of dead and dry wood nearby and visible in diminishing daylight. We all talk for awhile and eventually I head back to my own tent. I start on Well’s The Invisible Man. I don’t get far before I drift off into a deep sleep. And I sleep later than I have any other night in the last three weeks.

A note on updates: It’s clear that I’m running about a day or two behind on updates sometimes. This may not always be the case, and I’ve started working in days of the weeks to avoid confusion. If you are receiving your updates by email, remember to go to the full site at http://www.reidksmith.com to see a full sidebar with a (semi-live) map of my location and Twitter updates of my activities.

Day Twenty One, 5 miles outside Estes Park, CO: Breakdown

Friday was finally the day that I left my Uncle Ben and Aunt Mary’s house. I had not spent time with them in years, and it was great to get to get caught up with each other. The plan after Denver had always been vague, and it was not until the day before that I decided that I would head North, to Rocky Mountain National Park, for the next leg of the trip.

And thus I left. No longer staying in other people’s homes or passing between them, the umbilical tether of kind hospitality is officially severed. Now, next is a relative term. Everything from the next bed, (which have already been scarce,) to the next wall outlet is an open question. I plan on CouchSurfing where I can, hopefully about once a week, to freshen up and not have to worry about where I’ll be spending the next night.

Of course, sometimes, you don’t choose where you’ll spend the night. The choice is made for you.

The drive from Denver to RMNP is a pleasant one. After the road passes through Boulder, it winds up and down, left and right, quite literally cutting its way through the mountain. But the numerous twists and turns, slopes and downgrades are an obvious reminder that, as much as we humans shape our environment, we are still granted only limited freedom and creativity over what remains, ostensibly, Nature’s possession.

The road continues to wind along the somewhat natural paths, the path of least resistance. The road is one of the most scenic I have been on, with nothing but canyons and forest, especially in the final stretch before Estes Park, the town that calls itself the “Gateway to Rocky National Mountain Park.” Other than the cars and the road, there is only the mountains and forest. Big Smokey and I continued to ascend, descend, rise, and fall. And eventually, with only the slightest warning, Smokey’s temperature gauge ascends, and ascends, and does not fall. With one final push from the overheated engine, we make it to a pull off to cool down. No sooner do the front tires leave the road than the car dies, power steering failing, and making for one dramatic moment where the car is headed towards the cliff, force then bringing the wheel back to the pull off. 

The  grade had not been that steep, and the drive not that long. It is apparent that something is very wrong with the car, something which cannot be fixed, and it is shortly thereafter that four other facts enter the mind. 1) I am in bear country, where, due to the close proximity of the national park, bears have become adept at finding and taking human food. When they detect humans and cannot immediately avail themselves of the human’s food, they begin to look harder for that food. Sometimes they search the human directly. 2) No one is expecting me at any place at any time, Ben knowing only that I will be at RMNP by nightfall, and will try to let him know where I am at that point. 3) I have no way to contact anyone, because I have no cell phone reception. 4) There is no shoulder on the road. The only way to get down the mountain is to drive down the mountain.

Had just three of those four things occurred, there would be no problem. With no bears, I could camp out for weeks without concern. Had someone missed me, their first path would be the only road leading to RMNP, where they would have quickly discovered the car. Had I a cell phone signal, I could have called for a tow. With a shoulder on the road, I could hike into town within a few hours in the light of the next day. None of these outs were possible, and as if to remind me that I was, indeed, in odd circumstances, I soon had visitors.

Some kind of large deer, to be sure, and much unlike the smaller deer in Michigan, who know humans well enough to stay away, (but indeed, these deer would appear eventually). Slowly these large animals sauntered up to the disabled car, having quietly snuck up from my blind spot, catching me with the window down. If there is a world record for grabbing your keys, thrusting them into the accessory position, and rolling up the windows, it belongs to me.

What I really had, at this point, were three options. It had been about 20 minutes since the car at died at 6.20pm. Perhaps the car can idle its way back into lower climes. Or, the car can continue driving. Or, I can stay with the car until something else happens. Option A clearly being the only choice, I let the car sit for a while longer, start her up, and allow her to idle with the hood popped. She is soon down to just above her normal operating temperature. Maybe it really was the grade, and the engine just needed a quick cool down? I slam the hood shut to see if the change keeps. It does not, and the car is dead before I can make it back inside.

Three options are reduced to two. The car is now stuck on the mountain for the foreseeable future; that much is certain. Unless I can find a path into the forest below, I am stick with the car. In the choice between inaction and action, however, it is always action which will carry the day. There are pull offs every few thousand feet or so on this road. I read David McCullough's 1776 for another hour or so, and then I make my move, kicking the car into drive and coaxing what power I can from the beleaguered engine. At best, I hope to find a cell signal up the road as far as I can get.

Smokey gets all of 600 feet before she begins to smoke again, but this time I’m lucky. Just ahead is the trailhead at Lion’s Gulch, a switchback trail that leads down the steep cliff into the valley below. As part of the US Forest Service, it is one of the many such unpatrolled and virtually unregulated sites in the country. The luck holds; there is a man getting into his car in this, what is essentially a small parking lot of a pull off. From him, I get some valuable and helpful information: The next 5 miles to Estes Park are relatively flat or downhill. Estes Park means I continue the way I had been going, and the knowledge of the terrain means I can make a run for a substantial portion of the distance the next day in the car. Even with a shot radiator, I can hope for at least a couple miles. Once in town, I should go to Doan’s Garage.

By now it is approaching 8.00pm. I throw what I need into my pack and grab my tent, sleeping pad, and bag and top off my water supply from the tank in my car. I leave a small, discrete note on my dash, saying simply, “Ben – overheated. Down the trail.” In the event that something does happen, eventually someone – hopefully Ben – would find the note. I head down the switchback trail and into the valley, the “Lion’s Gulch.” After a few hundred yards I cross a river, and here the trail splits two ways; to the right continues the trail, for another several miles at least. To the left, there is a path clearly less frequented and barely visible through the high grass. As night gathers, it is here that I search for a place to spend the night.

Having started as a path through tall grasses near the creek, both grasses and path quickly degenerate to a mere tunnel through a large forest of evergreens. The tent goes in the first spot large enough to fit it. The night continues to close in, and by the time the tent is set up, a proper gathering of firewood is out of the question, having only the aid of a headlamp to seek it out. Pine boughs make great kindling; however, I have yet to start a substantive fire with evergreen branches.

I have a camping stove for just this occasion. I quickly boil some water and cook some noodles for dinner. I laugh at not stopping at a Little Caesar’s on the way out of Boulder, having the urge to grab a hometown pizza but deciding against it for reasons unknown. Instead, I’m stuck cooking a noodle dinner. It is past 9pm and completely dark.

It is then that I realize, and not for the first time, the stark precariousness of my situation. I am completely alone, with no way to contact the outside world, and no method to reach it other than my own two feet and a crippled car. The issue is not so much with finding a way out; I am near a trailhead and thus can expect to find my way to people in a reasonable amount of time. Rather, the main concern is whether or not anyone will find me if I’m unable to find them. With the bugs swarming, I light a mosquito coil and decide that a fire would be nice after all. I gather what I can from fallen branches and use the pine boughs for kindling, (I would later discover abundant birch trees, which would have been far more ideal.)

I light the fire and haul a large log over to sit on while I let it burn. It is amazing what sort of primordial comfort a fire can induce. It can provide company where there otherwise is none. Even if not a physical necessity, the psychological value of fire can never be underestimated.  As the fire dwindles down – the wood that I had gathered would offer only about 30 minutes of flame, still enough to put me in a cheerful mood for the night – I gather all the food items – mostly Clif Bars and other carbohydrates – as well as utensils, and place them in the bear canister I had acquired from REI just that day. To a bear, the canister is unopenable, unhaulable, and unbreakable. To a human, they are much the same, being difficult to open, rather large, and made of some indestructible amalgam of plastics. I place the canister a few hundred feet from the campsite, slightly off the trail where I can find it in the morning. As bears can smell food some five miles away, I hope that the canister is decently airtight as well.

I settle into the tent and finish off 1776. The night cools down rapidly, as I am learning is the custom in the mountains, (I’m currently at around 7,600ft). I crawl into the sleeping bag and slowly nod off.

Adventure is what I wanted, and an adventure is what I got.