Fortunately, Ryan has spent a great deal of time in Colorado, so he's had a chance to see most of his ideal "to do" list. Unfortunately, this was my first time in Colorado, so I already want to go back and do more.
Our first official stop in Colorado was at a brewery. Shocking, no? I had been driving for awhile, and getting hot and grumpy, and there are something like a million breweries in Colorado. We found Buckhorn Brewing in something like two spontaneous right turns.
Buckhorn is my kind of place. It's tucked back from the road, and it's a no-frills room where they serve home made beer at cellar temperature. There are pretzels if you want them. There are games, and wind-up toys, and wacky keychains. The music was Bob Marley. The bartender came out from behind the bar and sat with us for a spell, trading camping and vanning stories with us.
You know what's great about Colorado? No humidity to speak of, and no bugs. We sat there with the door open and a fan blowing us cool for hours.
Eventually, it occurred to us that, if we were going to find camping in the Rocky Mountains, we ought to get a hustle on, as it the sun was setting, and it was a Friday night. We headed upwards into the mountains to find our proverbial tree under which we could park.
National Forests are supposed to be public lands, where you can camp as long as you aren't in the road or on privately-owned property. The problem with this area is that it is ALL private property! We looped around Estes Park, waved at the Stanley Hotel (because we weren't going to cough up $500 to stay there for the night), tried a few camping spots for the mountain climbers (packed), and eventually found a sign that said "Forest Access 2 Miles." After two miles, the next sign said "Private Property - Next Three Miles." After three more miles, we noticed the "No Trespassing" signs went away, and boom- there was a camping village.
Ryan chose the spot above the village- we had to drive slightly uphill to reach a mostly-level area with a fire ring and a clearing for a tent. While Ryan settled things in the van, I did a lengthy search for a spot where I could go to the bathroom without all the campers seeing me. As we were elevated above the other campers, everyone could see me as well as if I were Simba on Pride Rock. I actually had to climb halfway up the mountain to get some privacy.
It was really pretty up there, though. I climbed the rocks and just sat there, admiring the sunset for a bit before climbing down and turning in for the night.
When we formulated our plan the next morning, it was really very simple: hike to Ouzel Falls, get cleaned up, have a drink at The Stanley, then head over to my aunt and uncle's house for the night.
Decked out in our hiking gear, Ryan fired up Vincent, who briefly headed in reverse, then coughed to a stop.
Ok.
Ryan tried again. Wouldn't start. Again. Just coughing. Through Vincent in neutral, and he slid slowly forward until his nose was resting on a large (if not incensed) pine tree.
Ryan's verdict was that, since we had been largely nose-down all night, the fuel system wasn't getting what it needed to gas up everything and ignite. That's all well and good, but we were currently wedged face-down against a large tree.
"Maybe those guys over there with the huge dually could help us with a tow?" I suggested. Ryan went back to fussing with the car, so I climbed back onto a rock and took in the scenery.
After about a half hour of Vincent not starting, the guys over there with the huge dually were more than happy to assist us. They pulled Vincent back a few feet so Ryan could adjust the wheel and coast down to the dirt road.
Now Vincent was more level, but we were also in the middle of the road, and all the quad drivers and dirt bike riders really wanted to use that road to kick up some dust and get wild. This time it was a pair of cowboys from Missouri who helped push us out of the road.
Ryan went to the top of the mountain to see if he could find cell phone service, and possibly to scream at the top of his lungs until he felt better. I'm not sure. I just sat behind the wheel of a van that wouldn't start and contemplated life. It did not escape me that my aunt and uncle live just over an hour from that particular spot, and that my uncle knows a few things about cars. I suggested I walk the several miles to the next town, get a signal, and contact them for help.
Ryan insisted there must be a way to resolve this ourselves. The suggestions ranged from "let's coast it down the hill and see if it starts itself" to "what if we bounce it." We even tried to jump start it, in case it was the battery. Meanwhile, Vincent sat there, saying nothing, but coughing gamely when we tried to start him.
Eventually, the nice guy who towed us earlier asked if he could try something. Ryan was distracted, and I figure a broke thing is going to stay broke until it's fixed, so what harm could he do?
His name is Larry, by the way, this nice guy. I have a long history of Good Sams by the name of Larry. Larry hopped behind the wheel, cranked the ignition, stomped on the gas as hard as he could, and the engine turned over. Just like that. We gratefully handed over a six pack of various beers from across the country for his troubles.
So, at this point, it's about noon. Ryan and I were kind of hungry, but we had a potentially 6 mile hike ahead of us, and I really hate eating when I'm hiking. Gives me gut cramps. When we pulled in to Rocky Mountain National Park some minutes later, the ranger on duty advised that our trailhead was at the end of the road, but parking was at a premium, so grab it when we could.
We parked a mile from our trailhead. I know that because my app cheerfully chirped out "One Mile!" as we were getting on the trail.
As I have mentioned before, altitude is not my friend. I knew we were at a higher altitude when I got out of the van, but I had no idea how high we were, since there was still no cell phone signal. It wasn't until well after the hike that I discovered we started at about 8000 feet, and climbed about 800 more. I have not hiked above 7000 feet, and yes, I could tell a difference.
The first problem was the head pressure and weakness. I felt drunk. My legs didn't want to move the way I wanted them to move. I wobbled instead of walked, and I tripped over the tiniest things. But the trail was gorgeous.
Then came the wooziness. I felt blurry. I had to keep stopping to regroup and pull my mind together. The trail, though it was lined with beautiful trees, was exposed to the sun, and groups of people were rushing up and down the trail at seemingly breakneck speed, and it was clouding my mind.
Last was the nausea. I pushed to the point where I thought I was going to puke, and then I kept going. I wanted to see the Ouzel Falls.
We finally got to a point where we could see the falls, and they were stunning. Unfortunately, that's about all I had in me for this hike. It was a real fail-hike. We took a few pictures, then headed back down the trail. I would like to point out that several of our fellow hikers were still resting on rocks alongside the trail as we came back down, so clearly I wasn't the only person affected by altitude!
After moping/hiking back to where Vincent was parked, my hiking app informed me we had gone nearly five and a half miles, so it wasn't a total waste of time. I'm just still bummed that I didn't make the full trip.
I didn't want to go to the Stanley, either. I didn't want to clean up, find decent clothes, put on make up, and deal with people. As much as I love horror lore, I was better company for ghosts than actual humans.
This meant we could head directly to my aunt and uncle's house, which was perfectly fine with me. Family is different- family gives you beer and lets you tell the story of why you're in a bad mood!
They were waiting in the driveway when we got there, and we immediately grabbed beers and headed to the back yard to gab for hours and hours. Eventually, we realized it was dark, and Ryan and I hadn't eaten. My aunt and I typically cobble together really great beer-fueled meals, but I had to sit this one out- I was running out of steam after a long day.
After some amazing seafood tacos with calamari and tuna filet and shrimp, we gassed around for awhile, then turned in for the night. It was very, very nice being in a real bed, in a real house, with people I know, steps from a toilet, and an actual glass of water by my bed.
The next morning, though, I was feeling every one of the beers I drank the night before. I know we go to breweries all the time, but we typically have one or two over the course of a couple hours. It's a different experience. Thankfully, by the time we got up and showered, my aunt and uncle were ready for brunch, so we headed to downtown Morrison, where we lubed up the guts with some delicious food at The Cow.
Afterwards, we wandered the town for a bit, checking out the shops, then headed to Red Rock Ampitheatre because it's absolutely awesome.
That's it. I got one picture. We toured the whole place, including the museum and the art exhibit, and I took one picture. I can tell you, though, that a ticket to see The Beatles at Red Rock in 1964 cost $6.60.
After a bit of futzing back at the house and the giving of gifts all around, Ryan and I reorganized Vincent and headed out. Since our experience with the tree, we had zero issues getting him fired up and hauling down the road. Ryan even sang "On the Road Again" for awhile, until he realized he doesn't know the words.
And that's the state of things as they were when we entered Kansas.
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