Arches to Denver: In Which the Author Leaves Utah for the Rocky Mountains

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In Which the Author and his Dog Bag a 14-footer
Friday, August 28, 2009

I could see the summit; no turning back now. All the preparations had been made, but I was a little concerned, as I had just run out of water a very light snow was “spittin.’” I was over 14 thousand feet, and my breath was short…my feet were a bit sore, but I was poised to “bag” one of Colorado’s 54 14,000-ft peaks. I felt a tired sense of satisfaction, as my Timberlands make the final steps, as if on auto-pilot…finally…I was on the summit, wind blasting my coat, chilling the already low 40 degrees. However, the summit is only half the climb…going up, one gets sore; going down, one gets hurt…

But, there’s little chance of the decent, as I only have 200 yards of wide switchbacks to travel back down to the truck, which is conveniently parked at 13, 900 feet at Mount Evens, Colorado, about 30 miles west of Denver. This peak, located in the Arapaho National Forest and administered by the U.S. Forest Service (Dept. of Ag.), is one of the few high points in the Rockies in which the driver may pay $10 and drive the 14 miles to the summit (the entry was free for me, as I just flashed my National Parks Annual Pass, which at $80 has paid for itself.

Let me not discount the road up, which is a white-knuckle, high-altitude, skinny, two-lane blacktop with few guard rails. Sometimes, heading up, one’s vehicle is on the much safer “inside,” meaning that if the “stuff went down,” one could just crash into a wall of large rocks. In the much more hair-raising (and I do have a month’s worth of growth) “outside” travel, if one’s vehicle goes over, you’re basically “f-ed”. Hairpin turns had my involuntarily murmuring “Oh, ‘f’, oh ‘f’” almost all the way up.

At the gate at approx. 12, 000+ feet, I briefly chatted with the National Forest worker. Although there is a campground at the entrance, with approx 5 spaces of 20 open, the cost was $12, and I would have been right on top of my neighbor (mainly due to lack of relatively horizontal space). The “dispersed” camping above the entrance (but not at the summit) is free; however, one must “be ½ mile from the two trailheads or off the main road. All water, stove, tent, etc. must be hiked in. I scouted possible places to park in the shallow turnoffs for a hike in (the opportunity to high-camp was just given to me, as I was not expecting it. I knew that I would be somewhere just west of Denver, as this will be my last night at an above 5,000 foot elevation for the remaining few days of the trip).

After the long, treacherous drive, I chatted with a ranger at the summit about the camping options. I begin by asking him if he is used to the drive after driving up and down “too many times to count,” and he solemnly replied, “No.” I forgot to ask him if they lose any people each year; it’s gotta’ be more than Bryce’s “less than 1 per year.” He told me to expect cold and to “camp out of sight,” thus not ruining any one else’s experience. This more liberal definition led me to camp just below the summit, at approx 13, 800 feet. I parked the truck, quick stuffed my materials into the backpack (sleeping bag, three foam bedrolls—the man gets two, dog one—Sophie’s sleeping bag, this computer and it’s backpack, a fleece, which I’m currently not wearing, although I do have on wool hiking socks and boots, long underwear, cargo pants, a t-shirt, jacket, and a “ ‘do-rag.” I also brought over a coupla’ beers, which are staying nice and cool in the tent, with the thermometer showing 44 degrees (it actually warmed up 5 degrees when I put the rainfly on after sundown). This is the highest I’ve ever camped, but the chill and the unmovable rocks under the foam pads make the inconvenience worth it—when will I have the chance again?

Also on the summit, I met a chatty fellow from Dallas, a few people on motorcycles, who also admit the ride was harrowing—the women passengers on the back of the bikes even more so, as they had had no control of the destiny of the bikes), and a nice couple, bundled up and sitting in camp chairs on the summit watching the sunset. I didn’t catch their names, but they were back up the mountain, having been married up here one year ago this Sunday.

This morning, Sophie and I woke up on the banks of the Colorado River, just southeast of Arches National Park (about 4 miles north of Moab, which it turned out did have some “slight” elements of hippy-dome, but mostly it just seemed like a middle-class mountain town with tourists’ interests). I do have pictures and stories to tell from the past few days, beginning with where I left off in the Fishlake National Forest and descending via Forest Service road to the back entrance of Capital Reef National Park. By the next night, I was at Canyonlands National Park in their campground (possibly my favorite so far). I spent the following day (yesterday—Thursday) all day and evening in Arches National Park. So…more to follow on that, including pictures of the Colorado River canyon in which we stayed, and the wonderful scenic, Hwy. 128, paved, drive that follows the Colorado River, gaining elevation and looping back around after 40 miles to I-70, the major east-west interstate which will guide me back to Chicago.

The camping last night was hot—probably the hottest so far at 82 degrees. The B.L.M. (Bureau of Land Management) campgrounds, 6 or 7 of them, dot the river during the drive. It was already dark as I left Arches, so I wanted to camp as soon as possible, as to not miss the scenery during a late night drive (it would only add 1.5 hours to the trek to Denver, my goal for today). The $12 admission fee was well worth it, as there were only 2 spaces left. After picking my spot, I walked with Sophie to the self-registering booth, where a car was parked. Two younger Australians emerged from the grassy bank, having just taken a swim. The man inquired if there are “any crocodiles in there,” as there was some major splashing. I assured them that it was probably just fish jumping. I do admire their night swimming, particularly since they probably had no idea what the body of water looked like. For me, I like to see the water first, both for safety, and I don’t like a lot of growth in the water. I always wear my great and useful “water shoes,” to keep my feet off slimy lake bottoms). On the way back to the tent, a black dog, off leash, came running out to great Sophie. She actually enjoyed this, as here exposure to canines has been little, except for the week rendezvous with her Chicago dog friends Gandhi G and Lincoln. The dog’s owner, a younger man, probably in his late 20s or early 30s quickly jumped from the metal picnic table to come review the dogs’ sniffing. “He’s a city dog,” he began. “I’m from San Francisco and am moving back to New York. I went out there and spent 5 years, not it’s time to go back,” he said, somewhat wistfully. He also proudly stated, “I’m driving cross-country, and this is day 3; I like to move slow.” I bit my tongue, not wanting to comment on long-term driving and camping; he’ll learn the basics soon enough (like, not keeping a lantern, turned up full-blast outside on the picnic table, along with food and lots of camping equipment. It always amazes me when “amateurs” feel the need to light their campsites up like a movie set. I wanted to say, “Dude, look around…see anyone else doing that?” But, like I said, certainly it’s his right to do whatever he wants to…

Back in the tent, I was so tired that I just fell asleep on my back, naked (sorry—I was—the Arches hike that I had just completed left me with a “special kind of desert stank” that only the removal of the clothes could remedy), and fell asleep, sans sleeping bag (I was using my stuff sack with the bag in it as a pillow). I woke briefly at around 3 and pulled out the bag, as to not give my early morning-leaving neighbors an “unnatural natural” view. The sun was up, although, for an hour at least, behind a huge, sheer, stone-faced wall, so the temperature was very pleasant. Sophie and I scurried down the 10-foot sandy bank and swam au natural in the warm Colorado waters, leaving some good sweat bacteria to “float on” downstream.

Then, the drive…what a pleasure. As mentioned, the road follows just above the Colorado, but is surrounded for many miles by massive stone walls, all carved by the water (which was, even after the snow melt, still moving at a pace that would not allow me to stand upright only 15 feet out). I took a brief turn right once the road left the river, and drove back 5 miles looking for what the brown and white “attraction sign” promised was an old settlement (I love the truly deserted an non-commercialized ghost-towns). I never found it, but did turn off into a canyon to view a huge, solitary and tall rock. Evidentially, there’s a “an access conflict” going on, as a fence with “no trespassing” signs shadowed a mailbox, “access rights for climbers” documents, and a donation box (I gave $5 for the cause). Inside the mailbox was a small notebook serving as a comment log, and I flipped through its pages, which went back 5 years. It was odd—after first flipping open the book, I came across the name “Pyle” from a woman who lives in Oregon.

Now on I-70, it was a back into traffic, with SUVs, tractor-trailers, and locals zooming by. The drive was pleasant enough, with sharp hills continuing to grow along the route. I passed a number of ski resorts, including Vail and Breckenridge. One downer—when I passed near Aspen, it triggered my memory that the late, great “Gonzo” journalist of our time, “Dr.” Hunter S. Thompson, lived in Woody Creek, near Aspen. I quickly flipped to the “town listings” in the road atlas, but found no listing for Woody Creek. It wasn’t until 50 miles later at a rest stop that I found the dot on the actual map, just 15 miles north on route 82. What a shame, as I surely would have committed myself to trying to camp nearby his estate, making sure to pound a few beers and a shot of Jack in the Woody Creek Tavern in his honor. Just to breathe the air, coated with his ashes (he was shot out of a 100 foot gun in a memorial service…I think it was Johnny Depp, who played Thompson in the Terry Gilliam-directed “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” who financed the great send-off).

In any case, another item for the “bucket list.” For now, I am content to toast Thompson from the eastern peak of Mount Evans, gazing down the 1.5 miles of the city lights of Denver (the city lights, which I hadn’t noticed in the daylight, possibly because of clouds, really took me off guard at first; I thought it was either an extreme reflection of sunlight on the rocks, or a forest fire). It’s 10 p.m., and I’m a bit chilly now, as my hands have been out typing for a while…

One more for the Dr., then it’s off to bed, this time with clothes on!

Postscript: I’m currently at the Denver Museum of Art ($10, with student/faculty discount), stealing some electricity and doing a quick run through the museum (it’s a bit overcast today, so Sophie is fine in the car—I gave her some ham from a breakfast place I stopped at here in Denver.
The tent conditions were quite chilly last night, with the temperature standing at 40 degrees all night. I’m not sure why I found it to be so cold, as we’ve had a few nights on our way out west where the temp dropped below freezing. In any case, I threw the fleece over Sophie, wrapped it tightly, and pulled her close. I did not experience any high altitude effects, other than feelings of not being able to breathe—I had strange dreams of choking/smothering, and would wake up to find that my nose was inside my sleeping bag, instead of poking out for the fresh air. I was quite winded this morning packing up, having first woken up early from the sound of kids (the mountain goats, not actual kids, per usual in some campgrounds), then watched a bit of the excellent sunrise from the tent. With the warmth of the sun, we lazily fell back asleep until about 9 a.m., where we quickly packed up and hiked the ¼ mile back to the truck.

I reorganized everything, made some coffee on the tailgate of the truck and started down the mountain. Thankfully, it was a lot easier to come down than to go up! The 14 miles went by quickly. I stopped in the Lodge near the entrance to the park to inquire about the number of deaths, but in this spot, as in others in which I would assume high causality rates, there aren’t even deaths each season. The cashier told me that the last crash was an “alcohol-assisted” crash which looked bad, but only left the driver with a broken ankle.
Being the weekend, Denverites and surrounding outdoor enthusiasts were on their bikes, driving in droves up the mountains in their slick outfits and nice as hell bikes. The trend continued as we completed the 103 loop towards Denver, a nice decent. Hitting I-70, I rolled into town along Business 70 (Colfax Ave.), where I was treated to the same (underserved) areas—run-down motels, tattoo parlors, pawn shops and thrift stores, beggars, etc. Crossing I-25 seems to be “the edge,” and it took me into the nice, modern buildings, including historical structures, the baseball (?) stadium, the courthouse, and this art museum. There not really set up to facilitate energy stealers, so I’m going to stuff this book bag with the computer in a corner and see the museum. Shortly after, Sophie and I will hit I-70, leaving all evidence of solid, tall rocks at our backs.

Thanks for reading the blog; as of today, we’re at over 300 views…Dave and Sophie

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Photos

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Drive from Arches to Rocky Mountains

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Drive from Arches to Rocky Mountains

Mount Evans Rocky Mountains
Mountain goats-- but don't ever forget, they're just goats!