Travels with Stella! A Speck in the Rockies

[Dr. Strangelove]

New map in my tank bag, I head out. North up Co 65.



The road quickly ascends Grand Mesa and grand it is. The views from the road are extensive and the aspen are not hiding their colors.












Leaves were falling, just like embers,
In colors red and gold, they set us on fire
Burning just like moonbeams in our eyes.
Somebody said they saw me, swinging the world by the tail
Bouncing over a white cloud, killing the blues.





When I get to the top and start the descent toward Grand Junction the change in the character of the landscape is quite evident. Gone is the lush verdant forest and, so abruptly a finger of the Great American Desert touches my route. Here you can see it in the distance and then closer.




Twists and turns along 65 lead to a short stretch of I 70 into Grand Junction

I liked Grand Junction. This is where the Colorado and Gunnison Rivers meet (Grand “Junction”).

It was bigger than I thought it would be and it bustles, Lots of construction all over and its location for motorcycle rides is pretty good, very good in fact.

In any direction there is something scenic, twisty or sweeping.

When I arrived there was a welcoming committee of sorts. The Blue Angels were practicing over the city doing low sweeps, fast fly by s and tulips. It was just as if they were putting on an airshow, but it was practice. Still it was pretty neat.

The reason to go into Grand Junction was to replace my iPod. I found a Circuit City and I go in in full touring regalia. You know the look. I find the iPod display and talk to a young man about it. I wanted black and as luck would have it the only one they had—4th generation, 16 gig—was black. Cool.

As I am checking out and he is getting my info, he looks up when I give my address. Most people are surprised I have traveled this far by motorcycle, but experienced board readers know this is a trip for novices. Still…
While it is very true that the young man will have many many years before him, he said that he “always wanted to take a trip by motorcycle,” and I got to grin broadly and say, “yeah, I am doing it.” By this time, though, saying it didn’t have the associated anxiety as I did with the Harley people at the Somerville, Texas steak house.

But it still felt very good. It makes you kind of feel “cool.” It makes you feel young. It makes you feel alive.

IPod goes into my topcase to be loaded and charged this evening and I am off again heading to Highline State Park on Co 139 WNW of GJ. I arrive and it is the type of park I have been seeking, Green, shady, quiet, by a lake and way off the beaten path. I set up and plan an afternoon ride on 139 which beckons to the north.

Described on many maps as scenic, 139 twists and turns, rises and falls through badlands up to Rangely. Highline State Park was just about a mile or two from it. It was at this park that I met two life forms, one human, one insect, that would almost, almost leave a bitter taste, though now it is only something to report.
The so-called “host” of the park…backup. At some of the parks, especially the state parks, there would be residents who stayed in an RV, typically retired, but stayed there and collected money for visitors’ stays. They were not officials of the park. It appeared to be a quid pro quo; they are allowed to stay, but the do stuff to keep it running.
This guy, the host, had a golf cart. The park is not that big, definitely walkable, but he has the golf cart. Ok.
I am set up and the officer at the gate said the host would be by to collect the $20 fee and here he is, golf cart, white shorts, white polo, white socks, white shoes, white cap, white skin.

No smile, no how you’re doing, just the facts, Joe Friday in white. When he asks my address I tell him—and I am usually a little proud to say it and it usually gets a bit of a response or questions about Katrina or telling me how they were there when… Anyway this guy manages to get on a pet peeve of mine.

Hearing my address he says, “Oh, Nawlins,” and I always picture that word as “Gnawlins.” I correct him. No it is New Or-Lens or New Or-Lee-Uns or New Orl-Yuns and we even accept New Or-Leens. But it is not Gnawlins. This guy persists and tells me that none other than a “waiter on Bourbon Street” told him that was the way to say it. What a source! I pointed out to him that ONLY tourists say it that way and we—the natives—can tell one a mile away and he persisted, defending the veracity of his source.
I tell him how Gnawlins arose, how a feature reporter, a “local color” guy started a series on TV called “Natchaly Nawlins!” and it was forced at us by tourism types. We say “naturally” as a point of information. Even the news anchors choke on the phrase.
He again counters with his source.
The problem I have with it is we are frequently portrayed as backwater types unable or unwilling to understand the greater concepts, like wearing shoes, using proper syntax, or not talking with our mouths full of etouffee. We don’t need to add Gnawlins to our repertoire. And it is such an ugly sound for such a pretty city.

And then, sin of sins, I asked him if he had been up 139 to Rangely. No, he hadn’t. Here he is in one of the most scenic areas on the North American continent and he has not traveled one of the notable roads; a road right in his own backyard!

Ok, rant over.

The other life form encountered was the moths. There were lots of the tan gray air rats. They didn’t fly into my face or dive bomb me or mess with my food. They were more subtle and stupid. They burrowed into areas particularly hostile to them, like behind the alternator cover. I discovered that when I took the cover off after I was home doing some routine maintenance. About 10 moth carcasses fell out. The next morning leaving, I discovered two. One in my helmet, discovered on my way out of the park when it was trying to escape the helmet’s confines, I did set it free. The other was in the little finger of my left glove, discovered when I felt the soft cool now smashed body with the very tip of my little finger. Gross.
And that was not all. When I stopped for the next evening, in Telluride, two moths flew out of my duffel bag. They met their end in Telluride. In a motel room. Quiet agony on the carpeted floor. None of the moths that met me survived to tell the tale. I am the Attila, the scourge of Moths, but only you know.

I digress from the purpose of this narrative: the ride.

I head out to 139 and it is mid afternoon. I look forward to the slanting rays of the sun to illuminate this almost moonscape on my way back to camp.

It starts simple enough with a long straight to forever.




But, soon we are climbing into the dry mountains and having a ball with this very different scenery and the excellent roadway. I get almost to Rangely and stop to take a picture of the northernmost and westernmost extent of my journey. I was in the middle of nowhere when I realized it.





I had read of travelers naming their bikes, but I always thought that was , I don’t know, maybe they needed to get a life. But out here, miles and miles from anywhere. no traffic, the silence of the land telling me to watch my step and a sky, friendly now, but in about 2 hours would be cold and dark, out here, I realized how dependent I was on this beautiful piece of machinery and how flawlessly it had performed thus far and how all I have had to do is ask and it would respond as an eager puppy, ready to play. And suddenly, this bike was more than bolts and hoses and pistons and tires. It was anthropomorphized into a living thing and it was a she; most definitely female. I can’t explain it anymore, but I’ll try. The relationship is intimate. I twist the throttle she jumps forward. I feed her, she purrs, I keep the steering under control and she holds the road. I know many of you are thinking that I need to get out more, but I would differ. It was getting “in” that brought me to the place where man and machine made sublime and subtle, or not so subtle, music together in unbelievable beauty.
She and I were exploring, not just me. I knew when I twisted the throttle she “liked” it and twist I did. Every start from the side of the road became a “jack-rabbit” start. She liked it and so did I. She had a personality that was easily recognizable and I depended on her for her reliability and endurance, just as I depended on myself for the same qualities.
I know that there are many of you that had this epiphany and I had mine. Having it, you ride better, you sense what she can do, and you know when you are asking her to do something she shouldn’t and, in my case, I would back off.

Because she was red, back when I first got her, I thought Rosey was a good name, but it was gimmicky and I knew it sounded contrived and rang hollow. But out there way north of Grand Junction on Co 139 in the late afternoon sun the name came to me as clearly as the nearby hills: STELLA! As in Stella from “Streetcar Named Desire” one of my favorite movies. At once a strong character and a native of my hometown.
So “Stella!” she is. And Stella! she will forever be.

And, yes, I may need to get out more…maybe

To be continued

[Dr. Strangelove]

I want to get this out now because I have an eye appt this pm and I know I will be dilated and blurred

But I can post this now before blurred viz and dilated pupils

The ride back on 139

Late afternoon sun is your friend




The perfunctory shadow picture--there will be no pictures of food.





and nearing the campsite with the Colorado National Monument in the distance



to be continued

[Dr. Strangelove]

When I was leaving the Aspen Trails campground in Cedaredge I was chit chatting with the owner and he asked if I was going to the Colorado National Monument.

Thinking this “national monument” was a building surrounded by concrete parking lots with Bill and Marge and their three, and Ken and Sue with their two and Agnes and Jim with their fox terrier, Buster, all yapping and milling about some huge granite edifice, I said Umm Maybe.

He said it was really nice. I said OK and rode on. But, at the tourist office where I picked up that very good free map of Colorado, I spoke with the gentleman there and he, too, mentioned the Colorado National Monument and it was from him that I discovered it was an area of great natural beauty, a drive among red and ochre rock cliffs and a very large area at that.

So, consider me now a little more educated and I planned on the CNM.

It worked out well, because I had received strong urging from a fellow board member to ride 141 and the CNM was on the way. So, on the day when the moth tried to escape from my helmet and the other moth met his end at the tip of my little finger in the supple leather confines of my Held Steve left glove, on that very day I visited the Colorado National Monument.





At the entrance, $4 for cars and motorcycles you get a map, but there is only one place to go and that is a 23 mile road that enters the park at canyon bottom, quickly climbs to the high plateau and then the road edges the rim of the canyons for the next 20 something miles.

A stunning and beautiful area, it is an area of canyonlands west of Grand Junction. Looking around, my license plate won for being the one most foreign. It was the kind of area that people just come up to you to comment on the beauty of the land, a bond is born, a shared experience, not quite religious, but spiritual to be sure. It is magical country that. I was seeing it in the mid morning, but I’ll bet in the late afternoon sun the magic would only increase. One can easily imagine how this place to the ancients would be thought holy. It was just like that.

The park is vast but for the visitor it is a drive with view after vista after indelible image.






There are numerous stopping places for photo ops, but as you know, sometimes the best pictures are not at the scenic overlooks, but from the side of the road and on a motorcycle that is far more easily done than in a car. So Stella! and I stopped often and we snapped quite a few pics, some of which are below.













From here I took 141 to Telluride. I needed a motel to wash, answer emails, have phone service, check in with home and have real food.
141 did not disappoint. Starting green it abruptly turned to red cliffs around Gateway. In Gateway there was a curiously placed resort. Beautiful and new, it was hardly being used, but what a location.




141 pictures coming tomorrow

to be continued

[Dr. Strangelove]

Dirty Secret #4
Campgrounds can become very crowded and noisy on the weekends. This was part of the reason Telluride held appeal


As was typical of the Colorado state roads, 141 was well kept and a lot of fun to ride.





Head turning scenery amidst an empty landscape. Again alone, but not lonely; separate, but not apart.

Where green landscapes turn red


and the resort and its environs





One of the things I loved most about these roads and I miss especially now typing this at 10 pm hearing neighbor’s converstaions from across the street, hearing a nondescript machinery sound coming from somewhere, occasionally hearing the rumble, the steel on steel rumble of the St Charles Streetcar 8 blocks away, hearing cars stoping and going on Oak street something rattling, a distant siren, the thing I miss is just stopping on the road, getting off of Stella! taking a few steps this way then that way, then back and just looking around and listening, looking at the silence and listening to the mountains. I know you Coloradans know what I mean, but this was the first time this city boy experienced it and it is real nice…real nice.


Co 141 afforded ample opportunity for doing just that and I did.














Much of 141 parallels the San Miguel River, I think, so I suppose it was the San Miguel that carved the canyon that gave home to this road.
Red rock cliffs on either side, sometimes crowding the road, sometimes giving it only shoulder room, sometimes breathing room, but always a part of the travel.











At Naturita, a distinctly uninhabitable place, home of the famous Ray Motel, Le Chateau du Ray, I switch to Co 145 to Telluride.



I suppose Naturita derived its name from ‘nature,” or maybe “Rita,” it’s hard to tell. But, after the beauty of 141, Naturita stood apart as a place of abandoned tires, dirty work, and heat. The sun was way too bright there and as I took my self portrait in front of The Ray, I noticed Officer Friendly just parked across the street. On a “stakeout,” watching me, having two donuts and a cup o’ joe, who knows, but it was in stark contrast to every other road I had traveled along the way.


I switched over to 145 and took it into Telluride, my stay for the next couple of nights and from where I would take a very memorable day ride.

It rained and became cold on the road in so I didn’t see much beyod the mist on the mountains.

Telluride was ok, it was a trendy little Colorado mountain town, similar to Durango and Ouray though the latter two, in my view had maybe more to offer and more charm, especially Ouray.

People were “cool” there, but I can usually play that. They were also friendly. I walked around town a fair amount and during the day it was busy along main street, but after dark, it was very quiet. The women there tended to be tall, thin and blond, and usually pretty. Places like Telluride probably attracts them. Everybody seemed to be thirty something. It was the kind of place where the fur collars prevailed and boots were over the calf, saddle colored and soft enough that they wrinkled down toward the well-turned ankles. Floral prints on gathered skirts were the norm and vests were commonplace. Cool and trendy.



I went into a local boutique on a side street that offered massages, facials, steam, as well as accessories and gathered skirts and vests—a one stop shop for today’s Telluride woman. A massage did not fit in to my schedule of riding, but I talked to the, I think, the owner of the place. Tall, blond, attractive, early forty-something, she was charming. I asked about restaurants in town and we agreed I didn’t want to go to a place where the music was so loud that it was a rude neighbor.

She suggested Flora-Dora, the most “Telluride-y” place in town. Sounds good and I head over there.

Rustic wooden tables and booths, a long dark wood bar and quite a nice ambience greeted me. A leggy blond at the bar chatted with the bartender below the TV.

I was greeted and seated by a taller leggy blond and a third, with boots and vest brought me the menu.

To my left, at the table for two nestled in the front window, a first date couple conversed loudly enough for me to hear everything. He, early forties, thin, sandy haired wearing a tie-less suit; she, early thirties, thin, brown hair, flowing dark red floral print skirt, white blouse, sitting cross-legged on the wicker seated ladder back chair. They were talking politics. It was the night of the first presidential debate.

This was Flora-Dora, the most Telluride-y of places, and I understood. The fur collars would come later in “the season.”

He is talking about Barack Obama, she hanging on every word, it seemed. I can feel her nodding in agreement. He says something that sums up the political scene, a microcosm for the pros and cons on the now President elect.
“I really don’t know what he stands for or believes in, but he is so smart, I just trust him to figure out what to do.”
He really said that. And she agreed. I knew at that point, no matter what the polls said, the election was over.

Anyway, I turn attention to the menu, and it was really pretty good and not too expensive. I order the roasted brie that was encrusted with walnuts and served with apple slices and then for the entrée the grilled wasabi halibut. A couple of tall frosties of the local beer topped it off. It was all VERY good, except, and I hate when this happens, a mortal sin if there ever was one, the appetizer and the entrée are served at the same time! With an apology.

This was not late, it was 630pm WTF? This is Telluride! Don’t they know?
The halibut was still warm when I got to it. And everything was still very good.

A cold walk up and down main street after dinner walks off some of the food and the beer and I head back to the motel.

Laundry done, time for bed and a fine ride tomorrow.



To Be Continued

[Dr. Strangelove]

The plan for the day ride would be south on Co 145 to US160, across to US 550 up to Co 62 and then back down 145 to Telluride.

All of these roads are well regarded for the scenic beauty and for their terrain. I think, looking back on the trip this was one of the top days of the trip—with one exception to be mentioned—and US 550 might have been the prettiest road of them all.

Leaving Telluride I stoped for gas and looking back I could see the hollow where the town is situated. There was some misting in the air and the mountain tops were noticeably whiter than the day before. The seasons were changing.






Going south on 145 I was playing hide and seek with the rain and the rain suit made an early appearance both for the rain and the cold.





During the trip I never used my Gerbing’s heated vest, but I was just one step away from needing it. I purchased the reVit Cayenne pro jacket just before the trip and I have to say it is the best special purpose article of clothing I’ve ever worn. It is so functional and can be worn comfortably between the low 40s and the high 80s by changing the liner or changing your layering underneath and by changing the venting. In the 30s the Gerbings brings some needed warmth.



As I traveled down 145 I came across a sign that was just too perfect.

I told people at work when asked why alone on this journey that I was seeking “clarity.”
Well, on Colorado 145, just north of Cortez I found “clarity.”




Actually, I passed by clarity the first time--isn't that always the case, and realizing my mistake I turned about and grabbed clarity by the horns and rode it for all it was worth.
What I didn’t know was that clarity somehow involved RVs. I was very surprised since, prior to this moment, I firmly believed that RVs were the antithesis of clarity.

Doh!

Ok, so now I can check off “clarity” on my to do list.

With clear purpose and foresight and judgment I rode on and took a left at US 160.

I wasn’t sure whether I would stop at Mesa Verde, but the mesa that was verde appeared pretty awesome and there was big rain back where I came from, so I pulled in.





There have been many positive reports about Mesa Verde on the boards. I cannot add to that. This was without a doubt one of the most negative places I have ever traveled.

A number of years ago we traveled to western Ireland. While there touring we happened on the ruins of a monastery destroyed by Cromwell. I was in one part, my wife was in another. It wasn’t long before we found each other and said we have to leave, that place was creeping us out. In broad daylight, roofless, and we both felt something there that made us feel very uneasy. Ghosts? Death? The evil of Cromwell lingering? We didn’t know, but we left. This was the only place we ever felt even the suggestion of something paranormal, until I visited to Mesa Verde.

to be continued

[Dr. Strangelove]

Native Americans hold certain places holy.

Getting far less press are there areas they consider unholy?

I am not saying Mesa Verde is unholy, but this is what happened to me and it affected me enough that I choose to write of it.


I go in and it is National Park day so entrance fees are waived. Start the loop and I am taking pictures and as I climb on the road right after this tunnel, I find that I start thinking morbid thoughts.





They do not deserve mention, but I remember them making me feel angry and not at peace with myself and they included feelings of worthlessness and bad intentions. Feelings of remorse and regret. I have to add that these feelings are not common to me. I am not an “angry” person. And I certainly have no problems with self esteem. So this was a morbid destructive type feeling and I felt this way for about 1 to 2 miles and it then went away.

I rode on for a number of miles and I forgot about the ill feelings. I wasn’t able to do the whole loop and get back before dark so I decided to turn around, now totally unmindful of the previous dysphoria.

When I got back to the exact same area I had those same feelings again and I thought I have to get out of here. The association with that particular area was clear to me and I felt it very personally. By the time I left the park I didn’t feel the bummed feeling, but I surely remembered it and its taste lingered for a few hours.


Mesa Verde? Thanks but no thanks. I have been there. Once is quite enough.

So, I pushed on to Durango, a neat place. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and there were lots of tourists. I ate (well) at El Patio Bar and Grill-got the combo fajitas.

And then Stella! and I made our way to US 550.


I remember talking with a fellow board member who said, when I said I would take 145 or 550, but not both, they said “Oh, John, you have to ride 550!” And so right they were.

550 is gorgeous. It is the quintessential Colorado highway. It goes up it goes down; it twists it turns, it has scenery out the wazoo.















From 550 I took 62 to 145 arriving back in Telluride just at dusk.






to be continued

[Dr. Strangelove]

On the way up 550 I met a couple who said to me, “Lake City was the epicenter of color, right now.”

I wasn’t planning on doing Co 149, but with that moniker placed on Lake City, why should I not travel there?
So I did. And the colors did not disappoint
















I camped on the Rio Grande river at Palisades campground that evening.




It was there I met a nice couple from Pascagoula, Ms. I remember him asking if I lived in New Orleans because he saw the fleur-de-lis on my side case. And then they asked "what part (of New Orleans)?" This struck an area of my brain that hadn't been used in two weeks and it felt "stretched" like a muscle that hadn't been used for a while. I had to grin when I answered, because here, along the Rio Grande river in SW Colorado on a cool gray autumn afternoon, it is not a question I expected. We talked for a while and it turns out that they head out this way every year for some R&R and eventually wind up in Wyoming before heading back. I told them about the roads I took, where the color was, etc. It was interesting that so many travelers just follow a road, and don't know where it is going or its "number." I suppose that comes with lots of travel in a shelter like a truck, but for travel on two wheels your place on the planet, even though you are just a speck is of paramount importance. I don't think you need to know your gps coordinates every second, but being caught in an inhospitable place is not to be desired, especially for a traveler like me, a novice. Live and learn.

The next morning there was ice, not frost, ice, on my topcase. I had a cup of coffee with chocolate milk in it sitting around their campfire as we swapped addresses and warmed our feet. I asked about the love bug situation and they told me that the migration was beyond Louisiana in Mississippi, now.
God be praised!

Then, I headed out, my last day in Colorado.

Beautiful scenery along the way to New Mexcio for an overnight in Taos.







And leaving Taos I bid good-bye to the high country.


But, on the way to the second crossing of Texas I passed through two small towns that arrested my attention, Cleveland and Mora, New Mexico.

Separated by only a few miles they were a time capsule of the southwest of the 50’s or what I imagine the southwest of the 50’s to be. Somebody correct me if I am wrong.

On this journey I saw many towns that were dead. I saw many towns that bustled. But these two, Cleveland and Mora seemed to be in a time warp in between life and death, on a life support I could not see, but kept alive somehow.



The buildings shown here look dead, but there were just as many that had some life within. At the Cleveland bar, at 11 am a cowboy stopped his truck in front, ran inside and came out with a cold six-pack. I was waiting for the truck to leave and when he saw me he saluted with the beer. I saluted and grinned right back and he drove off. I snapped the picture, dust from his getaway hanging in the sunny air.



There was a busy supermarket called Russell's.
Well, sort of busy,
Well, there were 10 cars in the lot.
And why is every defunct video store called Paradise Video?
And what’s up with the two white metal silhouettes of the couple dancing on the screen door? Was this a Cantina of days past?
A purple house?
And of course the Cowboy Kitchen.
San Antonio chapel needs a chocolate robed priest somewhere in the scene.
And so many dead storefronts of a time past when there was great competition between the two towns.
A memorable spot to be sure.





















And I ride on.

Through Clovis, across flat lands in anticipation of the second crossing of Texas, I roll along a path crossing towns with names like Lariat, and Muleshoe, and Levelland.

Flatter than a tabletop
Makes you wonder why they stopped here
Wagon must have lost a wheel or they lacked ambition one
On the great migration west
Separated from the rest
Though they might have tried their best
They never caught the sun
So they sunk some roots down in the dirt
To keep from blowin' off the earth
Built a town around here
And when the dust had all but cleared
They called it Levelland, the pride of man
In Levelland . . . James McMurtry


In Levelland I ate at the Mexiteria, massive amounts of home cooked Mexican food, that I, unfortunately, had competition for--namely the flies within. I covered my Dr. Pepper with a napkin and ate quickly, bite, shoo, bite, shoo.
The musca domesticas eventually found a couple on my right that offered less resistance to sharing and only visited me on rare occasions, like every third bite.

The next morning would be one of those rides that mimic the journey, but are a poor cousin to it, the ride back home.

Across pastureland and farmland; windfarms and oil wells so thick you could smell the petroleum, and eventually landing in Inks Lake State Park near Llanos-and Cooper’s Bar B Que.




There was a pit stop in College Station and then across East Texas and South Louisiana to get home. Very depressing country that and it was a slide down in mood until I was about half a mile from my home, turning into my neighborhood, laden with the grime and crust and memories and adventures of the road.
Me and Stella!

“You can go across country on one of those.”

“That’s something I always wanted to do.”

I went out seeking clarity: and on the way I discovered some things about my self that will remain unmentioned. But what I felt in that last half mile was a sense of “Accomplishment.” I really did it.

And it was sooo sweet.

“I'll just be Jules, Vincent – no more, no less.”

Thanks for coming along

John

PS

[Dr. Strangelove]

Addendum to post

There are conventions that are so commonly used in ride reports that they become more than a bit commonplace.

Pictures of food is one—I will not post pictures of food. There has been only one picture of food that looked anywhere close to appetizing and that was one of a red and green vegetable pasta medly posted by GypsyRR in her Roamin’ report.

Pictures of half eaten French fries – not here, Bubba.

Another convention is the shadow picture. Ok, I succumbed to it, once, but I did make it a little different.

And another is the picture of the reflection in the rear view mirror.



I have not posted any, at least I don’t think so, but not because I don’t have them.


In the beginning of the ride I told myself I would not take them, but as the trip went on there were so many beautiful images to be seen there that I thought, ok, here’s a twist on it.


Since the past is prologue to the future, since we can only be certain of the past and since the future is frequently hazy, dark around the edges and sometimes seems to be bug spattered,




for those reasons, and because I have quite a few of them, here are my rear view mirror shots. I decided to take a bunch of them.
Deride or enjoy; ridicule or imagine, your choice.










The End

[Boxer]

Thanks John! Very nice trip. Next time, take me with you.
It has been almost 5 years since I rode those roads across Colorado down to Ouray and back up to the corner of Utah through Flaming Gorge and on to Ywllowstone. Your photos bring back fond memories and give me inspiration to plan another trip out there.