Our tent is an REI Taj 3. It's made to hold three people in a tight spot, and two comfortably. One person can set it up in a pinch, but two is better.
When I purchased it 6 years ago at the summer REI garage sale in Denver, snatching it from the grasp of other gearlusty hounds, I never imagined the places it would house me. I bought this tent because it was the first one I could grab from the cart an REI employee had just wheeled into the salivating crowd; I pressed it close and elbowed my way to the checkout line, rejoicing in my find.
Now, 6 years later, the Taj has acquired new smells and new stains, but the fly still stretches tight as a drum, keeping us dry through terrific downpours. This evening we dove in to escape hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. Pitching the tent is the first order of business once we arrive at the day's final destination. Whether we end up in an aspen grove, RV storage lot, or town park, once we've set up the tent, I call the place home.
Yes, I love my tent. But I need to get on with recent anecdotes. Brock and Adele were last known to be wild camping on a bluff overlooking the rushing Arkansas river, 17 miles north of Buena Vista. From there, the road stretched lazily downhill and eased us into town on Saturday morning, where the Buena Vista Roastery awaited us. The town is a mecca for white water adventurers, rock climbers, and mountain bikers; it seemed as if everywhere I looked, someone was on a mission to go do something adrenaline-inducing.
Leaving Buena Vista, we rolled through the broad Arkansas river valley. To the west, the imposing Collegiate Peaks rose above the grasslands: Mounts Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and Princeton, all over 14,000 ft.
To the east I could see countless hills of reddish rock dotted with dark green pines. The Arkansas river flowed first sedately, then energetically as it tumbled through Brown's Canyon.
As an adventure camp counselor 6 years ago, I rafted down that 10 mile Canyon stretch with dozens of shrieking middle schoolers. Although the monetary pay that summer was negligible, the white water rafting trips helped to recompense me for my efforts.`
Eager to take a dip in the cool water, I eventually steered us down a gravel road that led to a small pebble-strewn piece of shoreline. I recognized the spot as where the rafting guides would pull out years ago. We waded in up to our wastes and lingered in the swirling current until quickening raindrops chased us out of the river and under the shelter of the outhouse.
By 4 pm we reached Salida. It's been the most talked-up town of the trip, and I have to say it lived up to my high expectations. The grid of streets were lined with old brightly painted buildings which housed artists' studios, beer gardens, coffeeshops, and boutiques.
We were pleasantly surprised by the number of folks cruising round on bikes. Brock surmised, however, that Salida was too perfect: "There must be some dark secret here," he declared.
As we leaned our bikes up against a storefront, a woman in bike shorts approached us and asked the predictable questions: where did we come from, where were we going. Although mountain bikers and road cyclists alike flock to Salida, we were somewhat of an anomaly with our hefty bags of gear.
On the woman's recommendation, we went to the Fritz and downed a few beers while taking in the Olympic highlights on the screen. Across the street, performers put on a production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" for onlookers seated on the city park's grass. This is the second time on our trip we've seen ambitious thespians perform Shakespeare in unlikely places; a few weeks ago, we passingly observed "King Lear" in Lander, Wyoming.
Our host in Ft. Collins, Aaron "the Professor", had given us a contact in Salida to stay with. Brock arranged to meet Andy in front of the Safeway, so we waited by the bike racks out front for our host to show up.
Soon enough, a guy with long dreads on a tan cruiser approached us. Our gaze met and he grinned; assuming this was Andy, I stepped forward, introduced myself, and stuck out my hand. "I'm Mark", the man responded, shaking my hand. "Good to meet you...Brock thought your name was Andy" I responded. Mark explained that he was just heading into Safeway, and I realized my mistake.
The real Andy showed up a few minutes later.
Brock and I spent the rest of the evening luxuriating in the apartment that he shares with Aaron's friend Annie, a fellow New Belgium employee. The apartment, on the second floor of what must have been a 100 year old building, was as quirky as they come. The decor was a physical ode to beer and bikes, with timeworn wooden beams, brick walls, and numerous plants adding character.
To enter the guestroom, you had to step up and duck down through a dwarf-sized door. I promptly cracked my head on the lintel and threw myself down on the bed as stars danced before my eyes.
On Sunday morning we roused ourselves from the cave-like guestroom and breakfasted on burritos and coffee at Cafe Dawn around the corner. An hour later, the paved multi-use path led us westward out of Salida. Two miles out of town, I realized that I'd forgotten my tank top drying on a chair back in the courtyard of the apartment building. Brock settled under a tree while I raced back---we've already forgotten numerous articles on this adventure, and I'd hate to lose more! I found my quarry still hanging reproachfully on the chair, as if to say, I'm dry now and I want to go with you.
Monarch Pass was our goal for the day: a daunting climb up to 11,312 ft. We've tackled enough of these high passes by now that I've grown from thinking of them as my daily penance to just something I get to do, whether for better or for worse.
Andy had recommended the quieter and more scenic Cottonwood Pass 25 miles north; if this route hadn't involved backtracking to Buena Vista and climbing an extra 1,000 ft., we would have opted for it. After all, that's what Willy Weir and Clif Bar man would have done; but the Ditti are neither.
Groaning semi trucks and fast flying sporty vehicles shook me from contemplation (should my next tattoo be a fern? does my house need new curtains?) as I pedaled slowly up Monarch Pass.
As we obstinately gained elevation, I grew more and more dizzy and it became increasingly difficult to hold my front wheel to the white line by the almost nonexistent shoulder. More than once I swerved onto the washy gravel. I felt like I was drunk and trying to bike a tightrope. Still, we won the summit and once again crossed the Continental Divide, probably for the last time.
We rested and drank sugary beverages at the gift shop at the top of the pass, then donned extra shirts and rain jackets for the heart-stopping descent. 10 miles of weaving and winding and the wind rushing close and cold.
At the bottom we took refuge from a cloudburst in a gravel barn. I de-numbed my fingers and quelled my snappish sugar-low with a peanut butter and jelly tortilla.
The hope of free camping lured us far off the highway along a gravel road and deep into a narrow valley. My eyes played tricks on me as I didn't notice the ascending grade; only my tired legs told me the truth, and by the time we reached National Forest land six miles from the highway, both Brock and I were ready to collapse into our tent.
And that brings us back full circle to how much I love our little dome of poles and nylon.
Very, very fun stories Adele! Thanks for sharing.
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