We retrieved our panniers from the restroom building this morning safe and sound from bear marauders. I found Brock's declaration of our tent as a "bear wonton" unsettling but apt. Still, I haven't seen a bear on this trip yet and so I still don't believe they exist. I'll sooner run into a chupacabra.
Brock and I emerged from the only store in Cimarron with our breakfasts of choice: he, with a can of Nallee chicken chili, and I with a danish and a banana.
Before the sun grew too hot we started up the winding road to the top of another pass. 5 miles uphill rewarded us with a gorgeous 15 mile descent to Montrose. We passed the entrance to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison State Park, but we decided to forego a visit since we'd already encountered amazing vistas of the Canyon from the North Rim on the previous day.
Boasting a population of 12,000, Montrose was the biggest town we'd been to since Ft. Collins. We found a coffeeshop where we recharged our systems with caffeine and our technological devices with electricity.
The highway led us easily out of Montrose through a broad valley towards the jagged peaks of the San Juan mountains. This range, tucked away in the southwest corner of Colorado and away from major population centers, receives far less visitors than the ranges in the east portion of the state that we've travelled through.
Right on schedule, an afternoon rainstorm breaks over our heads. We can see trails of lightning strike the high peaks, but luckily we're still in the valley and only rain attempts to impede our progress.
I don't bother to don my rainjacket. I know that the shower will pass quickly, chased by sun and wind that will dry me in minutes. In the Pacific Northwest, I would never hazard such a thing. There, the rain can last for hours and it's imperative to put on raingear at once before the wet saps your precious reserves of body heat.
Our leisurely pace brings us to Ouray as the sun sinks below the steep stone walls of the surrounding mountains. If you've been dying to visit the Swiss Alps but can't quite make it, just come to Ouray. It's a mining town turned tourist destination, as all old mining towns must be or fade into oblivion. The few streets are squeezed between the terraced ledges of a canyon. Countless hiking trails leave right from downtown, winding up to waterfalls, alpine lakes, meadows, and 14ers.
We roll up to the only grocery store in town just as the owner turns the sign to "Closed". Unconcerned, we find the Ouray Brewery just up the street; we needed an excuse to sample the local beer anyway.
A friendly server comes to our table and informs as that a wild strain of Belgian yeast has infiltrated all of the seasonal brews. New Belgium brewery whet my taste for Belgian beers, and so I'm delighted to hear of this mishap.
As we settle into our booth, greedily perusing the food menu, a young guy pops his head over the adjacent booth.
"Are you biking the Trans-Am?" he asks. Accustomed to this inquiry, we explain that we're "doing our own thing...circling through Durango."
"Oh, I live there," he responds. "where are you staying?"
"With you!" Brock answers boldly.
The young man introduces himself as Jacob and joins us in our booth with his co-worker Meagan. The two are leading Americorps conservation crews for the summer, corraling youth to build trails in southwest Colorado. Jacob's lived in Portland and even knew of our neighborhood which has historically been referred to as "felony flats". We joke about the "hipster trail" connecting Portland to Colorado to Austin to Asheville.
By the time we stumble out onto Ouray's Main Street, the setting sun is painting the terraced cliffs glowing shades of salmon, violet, and gold. We know we have little light remaining and we have yet to find a place in the surrounding National Forest to camp.
A gravel road south of town leads us up and into Box Canyon, and we follow it into the woods. I'm hazy with 2 beers (the server had given us a free pint "because we were so sweet") but the road rudely jolts me from my happy place as it switchbacks steeply up the mountainside.
"Don't think the worse of me if I walk this" I manage to gasp as I feel my resolve waning with each turn of the cranks. I tumble off the saddle and commence to haul my titan load through the ever-deepening darkness as Brock zigs and zags a little ahead of me, stubbornly still astride his bicycle.
We find a trail going up to a grassy promontory high above the road. We 're not sure if we have reached the National Forest Boundary, but we are too tired to care and quickly pitch the tent.
Brock seems tense but this craziness makes me feel young and reckless in a great way. It transports me back to the time when I was 21 and my sister Annie and I bandit camped for 2 days in the Tiger Mountain Reservation in the Cascade foothills outside of Seattle. That experience was just illegal enough for me to be excited, but it involved little danger of getting caught and penalized.
I drift off to sleep in the immense stillness of the alpine night. The stars wink above and a creek chatters down in Box Canyon. Although we are a mere 1 1/2 miles from town, I feel as if Brock and I are the only 2 people left in the world.
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