We awoke within the boundaries of the San Isabel National Forest, where, as permitted by law, one may legally camp in the wilderness if at least 250 feet from any established roadway or stream or somesuch. We had driven ourselves somewhat against our will uphill against a gravel county road to the limits of private property and into the area that our tax dollars had proven were ours to camp in without dispute. After a quick breakfast of a toaster pastry each, carried from the mini mart at Hot Sulphur Springs and forgotten in my front right pannier, we quickly broke camp against the influx of mosquitoes and coasted downhill to the highway.
After 8 miles of paved riding we encountered the one-man dictatorship of Parlin, CO, an RV resort with a post office attached. The owner was from New Jersey and peppered us with questions about our bicycle adventure, to my taste a tad too long before ringing up our purchases of iced tea and packaged muffins. I opened mine and took a swig while he asked us about our travels. He was good natured enough, but I was ready for breakfast and wasn't entirely prepared to outline out travel plan before eating what little could be found in his shop. As a conciliatory gesture I made grand theatrical thank-you speeches as I returned through his western kitsch shop to fill my water bottles.
Another ten miles or so down the highway was Gunnison, home of Western Colorado University and a fine coffee shop in which we spent a few hours catching up on our communication and enjoying coffee and bagels. Afterward we dropped into a bookstore to gather a new set of novels for our entertainment when each other's company ran short. I also dropped into the local bicycle shop to replace a bolt that had been slowly loosening on my front rack.
From Gunnison, we rode north into the high country of the county and traced the road up to the vacation mecca of Crested Butte, a destination for those with resources form parts spread wide around. The only stipulation seems to be that you need to be able to afford the rent needed to live there in the summer.
We had an early dinner at a burrito shop recommended by the New jersey Man from Parlin that morning, a littel shop on the main drag through town that wrapped delectable ingredients in an enormous tortilla. Ten dollars worth of food weighed in for a satisfying stomach-filling meal.
I should note that in Salida as well as in Crested Butte, there are more citizens rolling around on old cruiser bikes than in almost any city I have been to that I can recall. I love the widespread acceptance of bicycles as a practical method of transportation, and yet the embodiment of my personal ideal has struck me as eerie or creepy, thinking that there must be something sinister just below the surface, even if that reality is the simple economics of wealthy leisure. I keep thinking of the 2009 remake of "The Prisoner," in which James Caviezel is trapped in a desert resort town he knows he doesn't belong in, and yet is assured is normative. Is this realization of an ideal so hard to believe in that I can't accept it when I see it?
Adele dropped into a few thrift stores while I spent an hour at the local brewpub, sampling their Cascadian Dark Ale and finding it to be sufficient for an afternoon's imbibing. We departed for the town park to listen to a military brass band performing for a crowd that seemed to number into the thousands. I dropped into the restrooms to wash the sticky off of my skin, and we found a large tub of peanut butter to coat our insides for the next few days at the local grocery.
As the sun sank into the western horizon, we pedaled into the hills west of town in search of free camping in the national forest. We alit on a hill above the stream along the highway overlooking the valley and the butte the town was named for. Lighting storms illuminated the eastern sky as we prepared to turn in for the night, proud of our accomplishments in mileage and free accommodations. They remind me of the storms I used to watch with my grandma as we pretended they were the forces driving the waves in the paintings on the wall.
No comments:
Post a Comment