Western States Trip Day 6: Alpine Drive

It's the highest paved road at least in the Contiguous 48, and possibly beyond. State Highway 34, as it crosses the Continental Divide between Estes Park and Grand Lake, CO. All visitor guides (and in person advice) recommend the drive, as well as checking out the Alpine Visitor's Center (above the treeline, midway), and any the best of the advice echoes what is recommended for hikes: get out there early before the crowds hit.

Well, that's just not what we do.

Though time continues to pass between then and now and some details escape me, I am certain that we once again did not break camp prior to 9:30 or so. Now, in fairness: my camping history with my friends contains a history of us mostly just busting ass to break down camps and get going - to the extent that the automaton-like quality of the proceedings often suck a bit or a lot of fun out. I think many aspects of my family's leisurely camp mornings are to be appreciated. And frankly, I don't mind a little alone time before everyone else rolls out of the tent. But the realities of camping in a national park (or, at least, THIS national park) is that: 1) you go later in the day, your chances of surprise thunderstorms go up dramatically 2) crowds increase. An early start, then, seems a no-brainer.

But that's just not what we do.

Anyway, we did stop by Kind Coffee again, adding an additional 20 minutes or so to our morning (but I don't regret it), then headed back towards the park, swinging around to take Trail Ridge Road, north of our campground (all near the main eastern entrance). I'll say right now that it is flat out torturous to be the driver on a trip up Trail Ridge Drive, amid that scenery. It is spectacular; world-class, but you daren't divert your eyes from the task at hand (e.g. staying on the road) for too long. As such, we did a number of stops along the way, noting the remarkable drop of temperature at each successive one. We were going to be rising about 4,000 feet in the course of about 12 miles.

The ladies at our first stop. Big Thompson River in the valley below. This seemed high up at the time.

Daddy above the treeline (~11,500 ft). This photo is how I remembered we stopped for coffee. You can see the three southernmost mountains in the Mummy Range (Chapin, Chiquita, and Ypsilon) in the background. If Sharon and I ever return, a summit  those three peaks will be among our (pretty much exclusively) backcountry experiences. Note: the damn hair on the camera lens that pretty much blemished all our blue sky photos pretty much from this day on.

At the top of the little summit trail from the Alpine Visitor's Center  that takes you up above 12,000 ft. Windy! And cold enough that long underwear top /t-shirt combo and gloveless hands were no longer enough. Hi, intruding hair!

So, there was spectacular view after spectacular view. But what these photos are not capturing at all is that there was a caravan of vehicles headed up the highway and you would see the same folks over and over again at the stops, and the Alpine Visitor's Center was a madhouse. Full service restaurant, jam-packed gift center, and interpretive display. We spent a little time in each (having our picnic lunch in the cafeteria), and I was feeling rather claustrophobic.

Sharon and I outside the observation deck at the Alpine Visitor's Center

I did learn some good stuff at the interpretive display, and they really hammered home the notion of the fragile tundra ecosystem. A tundra basically exists because of the cold. And it can occur either because of altitude or latitude. In either case, plants are generally short & stubby and grow (and recover!) slowly, even in spite of many adaptive traits designed to protect themselves from the high winds and radiant UV. In fact, some species take over one hundred years to grow an inch.

Anyway, back to our experience.Selfie sticks were everywhere and there was this one goof who - and I'm not exaggerating here - every time I saw him at a stop, he was walking along staring into his phone which was attached to the end of a selfie stick. I'm not sure he ever diverted his eyes to actually look around. He was much more concerned with the documentation and, doubtless, some video-based version of his own Oliopolis and was content to live his life out purely through a viewfinder world.

I was struck throughout our visit, also, at the number of international visitors. Which makes total sense. Per my earlier rumination, that's exactly what I'd expect to see were I to visit the most spectacular/historically significant/famous any country had to offer: an array of the generally well-heeled from across the globe. I did have one related International Incident I will remark upon, however. At that Summit Trail, on the short descent just after that last family photo above, I saw a group of three young Japanese women at the top of their selfie game. On top of the world and loving it. Next thing I know, one of them has tramped off across the tundra - the tundra about which there is constant KEEP OFF signage - given its fragile nature which I detailed above. Now here I am watching this woman from another country bagging another in what what probably a long train of selfie conquests. Now, were I to go take a crap or carve my initials into rock on Mt. Fuji, I should expect (and rightly so) to be castigated, and roundly. Here she was endangering a sacred place in a threatened ecosystem in my country and I was pissed. In a decidedly non-Dan moment, I glared, motioned back, and hissed "BACK ON THE TRAIL." She promptly complied.

Shortly after that, we were back in the car. But the whole experience did not help me shake the persistent bummery regarding my whole "overrun" perception of our trip, thus far. As it turns out, I think that, for many people, Alpine Visitor's Center is a turnaround point. Physically, that is. For me, it was the point of my emotional turnaround, I think. Once you cross over the Continental Divide, the views are a little less dramatic, the peaks less visually striking. And the crowds, such as they still were, much more sparse. And it was upon crossing the Divide that the seeds of my softening view, planted over a cinnamon roll & coffee at Kind Coffee the day before, took hold and sprouted.

It had been one of my goals to see the Colorado River. Not the Grand Canyon rapids, nor the beleaguered source of water for Cities-That-Should-Not-Even-Exist, farther south. But a humble little stream that originates from La Poudre Pass, not far at all from where we would be able to access it via the Coyote Valley Trail on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park. I think, now, that there was a perfect storm of my long-held fascination with the Old West, my recent viewing of the Ken Burns documentary on the subject, my love of geography, and - I guess, maybe some general "unfinished business" sense that lingered from my Escalante Trip from 2006, leading up to this particular experience. But what I can say now is that the very serene and generally non-peopled Coyote Valley Trail ended up being one of the highlights of our trip, from my perspective. After explaining (hopefully, in not too much boring detail) the significance of what The Colorado would become farther downstream, we left the kids to splash & play and Sharon & I went on a leisurely, beautiful hike.

Lucy is in a kind of pose-y phase of her life. Her sister and dad are lost in reflection.

The Coyote Valley is peaceful and serene, with a vast prairie stretching out before a line of peaks to the northwest. The Colorado lies in the southwest corner, almost up against the mountains that make up the western slope of the Continental Divide. Then - it happened.  Sharon and I saw our first moose. Ever. Kind of crazy, considering we live in MN, but there you go. And not just a moose. But a momma and baby who got just close enough to regard us warily, before continuing slowly on.

They actually got even closer than this, but we never got another good one of momma and baby in the same shot

I once heard about wildlife viewing: if more than half of a group is watching you; or if a single animal is not able to resume what it would be doing if you were not around, you're too close. I'm glad we weren't too close.

This was one of the most amazing scenes I saw; but maybe not really evident till you really look closer. A tree-filled valley with a little lake...right on the precipice of what may well have been a 2,000 ft drop into the Beaver Creek Valley, below.

After that experience, things really did change for me. Sharon actually took the wheel for our drive back over, and I got to truly experience those amazing, spectacular views in uninterrupted sequence. It was a contemplative Dan that broke bread with his family over the evening camp meal that night.

Western States Day 5: Kind of a Wash

Lucy's growing rash? It had gotten worse, reaching her face, her legs, her back. Itching terribly. Sharon and I were beginning to strongly suspect something else was going on, unrelated to the original ringworm diagnosis. This day was originally to involve a trip to Estes Park to ensure fresh camp food for the rest of the week and a clothes-washing (you see - we were somewhat limited in how much we could pack, food- or clothes-wise, do to our tiny car), and then a day hike possibly up one of the smaller peaks that immediately ringed the town. We decided to include a trip to the pharmacy in there.

Well, when camping, I'm up and ready to get going at about 6:30, with no alarm. Partly owing to the fact that I don't sleep in much in general, partly owing to my excitement about starting the day in a cool place, and partly owing  to the fact that I sleep terribly in a sleeping bag/trail pad and am up every hour or so, anyway, all night. Morning is an excuse to not have to climb back into that on-and-off state of mild discomfort.

Photo from a previous camping trip. Not sure which, it could have been just about any of them.

So our m.o. on this camping trip (as in most) was me, out of the tent, just kind of hanging about and maybe getting a morning fire going and waiting for other to emerge. The "get an early start to avoid crowds" theory was a complete non-starter, but if, 12 years into having kids, I hadn't found a way to let my own predilection for fast starts and keeping on time go by the wayside, I would've hung it up long ago. Therefore, I was, resigned to (if not without sadness) and settling into the notion that we would not be done with breakfast and ready to head out for the day till 9:30-10:00 (ruminating, from time to time, on how different that schedule would be if I were camping with my guy friends, or just myself).  Anyway, that meant that we were headed into Estes Park mid-morning. 

We got to the pharmacy and spoke briefly with the pharmacist and then ended up with the conclusion that we really needed to get Lucy seen by an urgent care doctor. Just...too many questions that were in need of answering, and the poor girl needed some relief. So...via smart phone (thank GOD for having the smart phone), we found the closest clinic that took my insurance...50 minutes away in Loveland. Ugh. Nothing for it but to pack up and head on, grabbing an early fast-food lunch on the way.  Lovely drive, from Estes Park to Loveland. But one way or the other, we would traverse the road four times in the space of three days, and it was slow going. Slow in the twisty mountain roads. Slow in the stoplighted, gridded, retail hell that is all of Loveland I am aware of. And to the clinic.

To make a long story short, our MN urgent care doctor had misdiagnosed. NOT ringworm, but a mysterious (from a cause standpoint), harmless (but itchy!) skin affliction called Pityriasis. The doctor said there could be no mistake, and handed us a fact sheet. And there it was, symptom by symptom. Preceding herald patch, with small spot progression. Christmas Tree spread of the rash on her back. There you go. Nothing really to do but manage the itchiness and wait for it to go away, but WHAT A RELIEF that it was not ringworm, not contagious, and not as a result of anything we did (or were still potentially doing) wrong. 

Unfortunately, a whine in the steering/braking that we had noticed, briefly, on the way out (first becoming apparent right after leaving Crazy Horse monument...curse of Crazy Horse?), was evident again on our way out of Estes Park and was to the point of a regular and disturbing concern by the time we reached the clinic. So our next step - what could we do? Stop at a couple of auto shops and confront one of a traveler's worst fears: car repair on vacation. We decided to nurse the car back to Estes Park (oddly, the whine disappeared again), and have it worked on in a fun town where we could find something to do in the meantime. Fortunately (truly! read on...), we could not find anyone in Estes Park who was open or available to see the car, so we swung by a laundromat & threw our dirty clothes in, then I did our "2nd phase" grocery run while the girls headed over to a chocolate shop. After that, the afternoon half gone and all hope of any kind of a hike in the crapper, we decided to swing over to this coffee shop by the river.

Anyone who knows us knows that coffee shops are kind of our church. A time for family and fellowship and convening with a warm friend over conversation, or reading, or other low-key, low pressure time spent in the company of those we love (and/or ourselves). It is something we seek out in our travels, as well, having found the character of so many coffee shops in the country to be remarkably similar - state to state and whether in small towns or large. A kind of home away from home and chance to reflect on the trip thus far and/or (as the case may be) regroup. 

Rosie reflecting by the Big Thompson River in lovely Estes Park

At that coffeeshop by the river, Kind Coffee, I had a KICK ASS cinnamon roll along with some coffee that was also really super. I then had the idea of calling my local neighborhood mechanic, back in MN. A Vietnamese guy with a Buddha fountain in his waiting room, Nghia is competent and friendly, and will actually tell allegories to you during your transaction, often leaving you with something to chew, philosophically, on after you drop off your car. Anyway, I gave Nghia a call and, after describing the nature of the sound, he seemed confident I should just ignore it and have him look at it when we got home. Especially since it only seemed to emerge in steep hills, and then would go away if the car were turned off & re-started. So that was a load off. After hanging out for a bit, I ran back to get the laundry, then came back to join my family for the just a little more chillax time. 

As I reflect back now, I think it was the combination of the "comfort of a diagnosis" experience with Lucy, the decision NOT to have the car looked at, and that cinnamon roll that were the turning points in my trip. The point at which challenge and disappointment gave over to "OK, so this is where I stand. Let's have a good time."

Lucy had wanted to make sure to stop by a gift shop and look for some merch to bring back to her friends. To this point, that sort of excursion had seemed like a waste of valuable camping time ("Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me where I might be able to find a tee-shirt that says 'Estes Park?'"), but this day did seem like about as good an opportunity as any. So in and out of a few stores, during which time, I will admit I got this pint glass:

It only occurred to me, later, that this was no more uniquely "CO'" than it was "MN." Ah, well.

We then stopped by a little place on the edge of town that proved to be a highlight of our day: a dedicated rock store. Rosie is currently the rock hound of the family, but we all have a passing interest, and this store was a real treat. Rocks, minerals, crystals - in a natural state or polished - great fun to look through. Everyone got something special to them. Sharon got a piece of rose quartz as a gift to a friend. The kids each bought a couple of smaller rocks, then got to buy a sluicing bag (basically, a bag of sandy rock with a few specialized rocks which they could run through a sluice in the back - great fun!). I got a three pound chunk of petrified wood from Wyoming that is currently serving the purpose of a scholar's rock on my work desktop):

How can't you just look at this and contemplate?

Following that, we headed back to RMNP, and the visitors' center that was closest to our campground for a little exploring of natural history in and around the area. In the facility I got to witness a Real Idiot in action. A soccer mom, talking to one of the rangers:

 

Idiot: "We'd like some ideas of things to do with our kids. Today we drove up trail ridge drive and stopped at a few places and let them feed the chipmunks"

Ranger: "Oh, no. You don't want to do that."

Idiot; "Oh, I know. But, whatever. Anyway, tomorrow we were thinking about hiking up Long's Peak (a somewhat technical ascent that is quite rigorous, takes eight hours if you're in great physical condition, and which has claimed dozens of lives).

I didn't really hear any more, but geez! 

Other than that, my main takeaway from the visitors center was that the place looks a lot more natural than it did 100 years ago, when there was a golf course and private residences there! Apparently people who originally came out to find gold couldn't find gold. Then they tried to farm, but you can't farm there. Then they switched to tourism (resorts, golf!) and it was only after a kind of heavy-handed involvement from the Federal Government in which much of the land was brought into the NPS, that they became outfitters and horseback tour guides. So it seems that a lot of the "locals" around there are descended from folks who were quite hardy, and possibly not all that bright.

After that, back to the camp for our standard wind-down. Next day was to entail a drive up the highest paved road in the continental United States: US Highway 34 from Estes Park to Grand Lake, other wise known as Trail Ridge Road.

Western States Day 4: Bierstadt Lake Loop

The Hike

So, we've got a pre-teen triathlete in the house who works out compulsively and can do possibly twice as many pullups as me (no kidding) who proclaims "I'm not all that into hiking." So that's a little backdrop to our strategy of when & where to explore in the park. We know that, above all other places, Lake Superior has a quality that can just still her soul. Where she is otherwise driven and anxious, she can just sit on the shore of that magnificent lake and look out for a seemingly endless time. Our great hope is she will find the majesty of the mountains similarly inspiring. But we decide to take it relatively conservative on day one, both as a result of the unknown of "what are these kids up for (emotionally, more than physically)?" as well as with respect to easing into the whole altitude thing. Our plan, then, is to take the park's tremendous shuttle system (free shuttles to and from some of the more popular trailheads), and hike a point-to-point from Bear Lake Trailhead (about 9,475 ft elevation) to Bierstadt Lake and out to the next trailhead, a total of about 3 miles. Definitely some climbing (and at 1,000 ft above our campground), but nothing too rigorous, considering where we're at.

Now, I'd done much reading and cross-referencing of book and my topo map in advance of the trip (no way!) and planned out possible- to likely- hikes, based on a combination of feasibility, potential awesomeness, and lack of crowds. Many sources had recommended getting "an early start" both in terms of good wildlife viewing (dawn, no surprise there) and also to beat the crowds. Based on my experience (primarily in MN State Parks, and never before, actually, in  a national park), however, I figured "Hey, it's sort of peak season, but since the work week just started (this was Monday), the foot traffic should be pretty light." Also, based on pretty much every hiking episode I'd ever had in publicly-owned lands, my assumption was that as soon as we were about an eighth of a mile from the trail head, we would be lucky to see another person. The eye-opening contradiction to both of those assumptions was to be my second great rumination of the trip.

The reality is that LOTS OF FUCKING PEOPLE VISIT ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK. And they're not just there for the weekend (duh - it's their summer trip). They are there all week, and they're there to hike. Many of them, anyway. Now, there are plenty more people who are just there to mob Trail Ridge Drive (see future post), and probably quite a few more who are there to buy a sweatshirt that says "Estes Park (see past post). But when you're hiking a point-to-point that begins from  probably the most popular trailhead in the fifth most popular National Park in the country, you're not gonna be alone. I had a growing sense of this, as we rode, crammed on a shuttle bus that was standing room only, but it was ramrodded home as we disembarked amid a crowd of hikers, photographers, and day-trippers of all ages, nationalities, and (seeming) preparedness. You are SHOCKINGLY, JARRINGLY not alone. I mused to myself whether golf "tee times" would help space things out at the trailhead, but that would have been an impossibility (had it not been silly in the first place) as there was too steady a stream of folks issuing off on the trail. Now, in fairness, the Bear Head trail branches immediately off in a few options, ranging from a leisurely half-mile nature stroll on a flat wood-chip trail to a rugged overnighter that traverse 12,000+ foot peaks and continue on to cross the Continental Divide. We were somewhere in the middle (well, a little closer to the former end of the spectrum), but in reality a number of people left the trail we were on as we climbed a couple of hundred feet and wound our way through aspen and ponderosa & lodgepole pines for a long, higher-altitude stretch of our hike. Even so, we were rarely in a position where another party wasn't visible somewhere in front or behind us.

Miraculously, just Sharon & Rose, here.

As is probably pretty evident in these words, I was really pretty shaken by the reality of how busy the trails really were. I was beginning to realize how truly I had counted on solitude as a necessary part of my Rocky Mountain experience. It was a somewhat bitter irony, remembering the solitude (not a soul!) we'd had in a park in the small town of Rushmore, MN, two days beforehand, before I'd even left my home state. As in so many instances in life, I tried to put my cynicism on the shelf for the sake of my family, but I was probably making a few (too many?) asides to Sharon. There was a particular family that we were jockeying back and forth with that we just couldn't shake. Or, we wouldn't shake. For, you see, when you hike with kids you hike their pace. Period. And they didn't give a rip. Thank God.

Now, there was a "T" right before Bierstadt Lake, at which we made the decision to take the shortest route to exit the hike without actually seeing the lake, owing partly to time (we'd had a pretty leisurely pace which, again, was kid-driven) and partly because we could see some gathering clouds and we were faced with a 500 foot descent down the mostly exposed side of a mountain and didn't want that to coincide with one of the Rocky's famous & frequent afternoon outbursts. That last descent ended up presenting the most expansive, striking views of the day and, incidentally the greatest degree of solitude, as we only met a couple of parties traveling either way (up or down) for the final mile or so. We did, however, perfectly coincide with an afternoon thunderstorm. I'd been carrying Rosie on my shoulders because "(her) legs hurt," but when the storm looked imminent, I put the kid down. Everyone donned our raincoats and we instructed the girls to speed along ahead, and try to reach lower ground. A sprinkle began, followed by thunder and a steady rain, and then light hail, as we were all trotting along, realizing that (in spite of feeling like we were in the upper echelon of general equipment preparedness vs. most of whom we'd encountered) ponchos would have probably been more practical  than raincoats, which we ended up stretching out over our daypacks. I do regret that the storm (which ended up being brief, with things clearing completely, minutes after we arrived at the trailhead shelter) disrupted what would have probably been by far the most inspiring and rewarding part of the hike.

Beginning the descent, with clouds gathering, pre-storm.

In any event, here is the rumination, which is of such significance to me, that it, alone (had our Rocky Mountain adventure not been rewarding in any other way - which it ultimately was), may well be worth the great amount of effort, expense, and time that this trip consumed: I value solitude in my exploration of this world (and, perhaps naturally, especially in my experiences in nature). Possibly above all other things. This doesn't seem all that groundbreaking. Doesn't everyone? Well, maybe not to the extent that I now realize I do. 

Sharon and I have had the recurring discussion about labeling people "introvert" and "extrovert" and how, although it is fundamentally based on where you get your energy, it can be a very unhelpful categorization, because the layers are too many and too nuanced to unpack. I think a lot of people would call me an extrovert. After all: I love a good party. And I certainly don't mind being the center of attention in many situations, whether as frontman of a band, or merely when regaling the assembled in a social gathering. In contrast, such events (or the prospect of them) is absolutely draining to my wife. We can finish a night out with friends after which she needs recovery time, whereas I feel energized. But I can't go to the State Fair. I just can't do it. It makes me want to curl up just thinking about it. Same for super busy airports, museums, sporting events, concerts (I KNOW RIGHT) and, apparently, national parks. Claustrophobia. Knots in the stomach. A weird negative and poisonous-feeling focus on the differences between the people I see and myself. Just awful. Sharon would prefer having a place to herself, of course, but can apparently pretty easily separate herself and have a personal experience that is not diminished much by the presence of others. 

Anyway, I find this whole thing fascinating. But the ramifications, if I really think about it, are astounding. I'd always figured that, were money not an issue, I would probably get around to seeing many of the "great attractions of the world." The Sphinx, perhaps. The Blarney Stone. Abbey Road. The Liberty Bell. Whatever. Suddenly, I realize that - quite to the contrary - I would be wise to not go NEAR those places. Or else to approach them from the other side (North Rim of the Grand Canyon, for example) or in an off-season, if that's possible (per my earlier post: I'd seen Mount Rushmore when it was just me and one other guy, in November 1996. It was pretty cool!). The prospect of being in Times Square when the New Year's Ball drops ranks only slightly below having a candiru gnaw the wall of my urethra in my list of least-preferred pastimes. The reality is that everybody who can, is going to see the great places of the world. Worse yet, the rich and privileged (among whom I never feel particularly comfortable) are over-represented at those place. Better, I think my re-calibration would be to find the quiet, yet beautiful places of the world with (consider Rushmore, MN. well...one out of two ain't bad...) the former as the primary pre-requisite. As an unexpected aside: our campsite would prove to be the location in which we found the most reliable solitude, repeatedly throughout stay. Nothing wrong with having those moments to close your day out, I say.

Lucy finding her own quiet moment, as day wound down.

Western States Day Three: Arrival at Morraine Park

Crazy Horse

Our intent the next morning was to head out of the Black Hills to the west by way of the Crazy Horse monument farther down the road. If you're not aware, the monument, also being carved out of a mountain, is a private, non-profit undertaking (no Federal funding) that began in the mid-20th century and will eventually be the world's largest sculpture, at 563 feet high. By way of comparison, the faces on Rushmore down the road are about 40 feet high.

Fuck me? No, fuck YOU!!

I was heartened by the number of visitors to the monument (each of whom were paying a hefty admission price that will help support continued building of the monument), and then discovered that the site also plays host to the Indian Museum of North America, and the Native American Cultural Center, two attractions filled with art and artifacts of North American Indian history (and, of course, the requisite gift shops). I also saw the book, American Presidents: American Indians (which, I should note, I have now checked out from the library and am reading) again, as well as this super cool map showing the historic locations of many of the tribes of North America. Alas, we were on a schedule and had to hit the road again, as we were to make CO before dark. Back into the car and off onto the byways on our way towards the great, windswept, cowboy state of Wyoming - which, by the way, reveals another thing about crossing the Missouri River. You start to see people wearing cowboy boots for a reason other than fashion which to me, as a Minnesotan, is downright exotic.

A LITTLE BIT OF WYOMING!

There's some pretty amazing natural places in Wyoming: the Bighorn Mountains, Medicine Bow National Forest and a little place called Yellowstone. But we were only to be skirting the western side of the state by way of Interstate 25. All the same, we were clearly in territory that was vastly different from where we originated. The high plains, literally. Open gates on either side of the freeway that can presumably be closed in times of snowstorm. Rest stops in vast, wide-open, wind-swept spaces. Distant, treeless rock formations. And an utter lack of cultivation. Then, as we approached the southern border of the state, I saw it off on the western horizon: what was almost certainly Laramie Mountain of the small range that bears its name. At 10,200 ft above sea level, not anything compared to the giants of its larger, western brother, The Rockies, it struck me quite powerfully as the first peak I'd seen since my youth that topped out over the treeline (about 9,800 in Wyoming), a full 3,000 feet above the highest mountain I'd seen in my adulthood (Harney Peak of the Black Hills which, incidentally, is the highest peak in the USA east of the Rockies and far, far older than any mountains outside of its own range, taller or otherwise). [Well, I guess I'd been in the mountains with a couple of friends (Pat M & Cory L) in 2006, but we were more passing through high-wooded ranges on our way elsewhere. Never above treeline, and never really in a position to do much "peak-gawking"].

One wind-swept rest stop and one Laramie Ultra on the horizon.

From that point on, it was another race against time as the day was getting on; the actual immense immersion of the full-blown Rocky Mountains seemed worlds away (in fact, a state away); and we really, really wanted to set up camp before dark. We continued on, speeding along at 80 mph (the speed limit, I've discovered, in pretty much every state west of my own). We crossed into Colorado, and it really took no time at all to reach Fort Collins. OK, now for one of the great realizations/ruminations of this trip...

Finally, Colorado

So: some of my closer friends know that my brother, who was 14 when I was born and who moved west before I reached kindergarten, basically just sought out liberal college communities in mountain states for the next 15 or so years of his life. Fort Collins, Boulder, Albuquerque, Corvallis. One of the very fondest memories I had that was drawing me back to the mountains was a visit to my brother during his time in Fort Collins. The haze of years (and me being possibly around 10 at the time) had me remembering Fort Collins as this little mountain town nestled among the peaks. I remember my brother telling me stories of the floods of the mountain streams wiping out Loveland (which, I assumed, was also nestled among the peaks). Even Denver (with its famed Eisenhower Tunnel through which I'd passed in the rain at breakneck speed in the dead of night back in '06), I'd assumed, straddled some high mountain pass, with various white-capped peaks at its very doorstep. What I now realized, as I sped through Fort Collins and slowly crawled through in Loveland (stopping at every red light in what seemed more like the world's longest strip-mall than an actual town), was that these cities were actually quite FLAT. Mountains still just a ridge, if a little higher and stretching, now, the length of the horizon. And then it struck me: Duh! Of course you wouldn't build a city IN the mountains! How impractical! I mean, maybe a resort community, like Estes Park (which I would soon see) or Vale (about which I am making an assumption). But not one depending upon trade & commerce, the ability to actually zone & build and deliver public services with some degree of normalcy. You build in the last flat space available before the mountains. Mind = blown. Or, at least, 34 year-held assumptions, falling away.

Anyway, it did take forever to get through Loveland, which was the point at which the road finally turned and headed directly towards Estes Park and the heart of the mountains, themselves. After a last bit of wide highway, we entered the foothills, inducing a series of memories: lying in the back of the station wagon as we weaved through mountain roads, my father (seeming infinitely wise about such things) establishing the notion of "foothills" and their relation to "mountains" and showing me how you can sometimes think you're just going straight along, but if you look out the back window you can see, in fact, that you are climbing up (try it: it works!). And then: a true mountain road. traveling along the fast-racing torrent that is the Big Thompson River. Bare-faced, rocky slopes that minutes ago were named "foothills" suddenly skying above to a height that I  didn't dare remove my eyes from the twisty road enough to see. Scattered homes wedged narrowly between stream & cliff for which people could not possibly have been able to secure insurance. We traveled along this way for about half an hour till things opened up into the valley that held little Estes Park with it's 5,000 residents and tourist population many times that.

Ah, Estes Park. I immediately sensed this little town was to become a battleground between my love of quaint, quirky villages and loathing of places overrun by tourists. But no time to ruminate. No time to slow down and ask a passerby (possibly in a British accent), "Excuse me, sir...But I've been having some trouble trying to locate a sweat-shirt that says "Estes Park" on it!" It was on to that last final destination of our journey: Rocky Mountain National Park.

When they say that Estes Park is right outside RMNP, they're not kidding. Literally, five minutes outside of town and you're passing through the main entrance on the east side of the park. Only a few more minutes and you're winding your way into the world-class campground of Moraine Park. Ahead of time, I'd been a little concerned about the immensity of the campground itself, as well as its innumerable electric sites and the certainty of 30'-40' RVs and their accompanying generator noise. But resource after resource had assured me "No, Morraine Park is great." I was often thinking, "Come on. I'm from Minnesota. I know great campgrounds." But it's no joke. Morraine Park is super. Just make sure that if you plan on tent camping, you choose something in the tent-only loop of "D," And you really want one of the sites on the far west side (and very specifically, you want either one of the two we stayed in).

As it turned out, we reached the campground at near dusk, so there was very little time to dick around. At least for the adults. We set about getting the tent up and getting supper started as the kids got out and began to explore our environs, which were amazing. We were within sight of one or two other campsites, but quite a bit back from the main loop, and nestled right up to one ridge of the moraine after which the campground was named. A just a few feet past our own private bear locker was a large rocky outcropping, perfect for kid exploration & down-time, and not a bad spot for a cup of coffee and some contemplation. The view below is this first site (which was to be our site for our first four nights there), with a view the opposite direction of the climbing boulder. You can see the start of the moraine of to the right, though the general steepness of its slop is not done justice in the picture.

Our Big Agnes Big House was made even more kick-ass with the recent addition of this vestibule.

Oh, and for the record: our campground was at 8,300 feet above sea level. Throughout the trip, it didn't seem to cause much trouble for any in the party. Maybe if you had a load in your arms and ran a bit with it, you might give a little "Whoo!" exhalation at the end, but that was about it. 

So, supper. And then night fell. And then a campfire. And that was that for that day.

Western States Day Two: Rushmore, et. al

That Damned Hotel

The hotel was called "Presidents View," as it was nestled halfway up the rugged shoulders of one of the Black Hills in and around which the small town of Keystone was located. So named, as some of the more expensive rooms actually afforded a distant view of the famous mountain pretty much everyone was there to see (this is true: we went there the next day and EVERYBODY was there). We were not in one of the more expensive rooms. A hotel with prime real estate such as this one could have really gone one of two ways: luxury suites/resort or "cram as many people into substandard rooms as possible and be the cheapest rate in town." We stayed there because they were the latter. And because they had a pool (a major selling point for the kids, of course). It was basically Tiki Tom without the waterpark. And somewhat more cramped quarters. But whatever; we were there to let the kids swim for a bit and then crash for the night before a day's adventure in the surrounding community.

So, swim swim swim. And then to bed. Whereupon I lay down and attempted to get comfortable. Too hot, then too cold. Then, the beginnings of a belly rumble. Then, that moment where you first start thinking, "Wait a minute...is this building to vomit?" To a few minutes later, kneeling by the toilet and "HUUAGH." And so began an evening that I recall as involving no less than 15 trips into the bathroom, continuing to expel every ounce of beer and nachos in my system. Luckily, things never did get too watery, so I don't think I was dehydrating myself as is often the case. Also, everything about it felt it was so squarely about the beer and nachos (and, I don't know, the 4,900 ft elevation?) that I didn't really avoid drinking a little water to absolutely sure dehydration would not be an issue the next day, when I would be needed. And that was that. Somehow, everyone else managed to sleep through this all. I finally got to sleep around three or so and felt like a bit of a ghost at the beginning of the next morning, but I was still up before everyone else and pretty much ready to go.

Rushmore

So, how to approach this...I will start by saying I think my love for this country (and, dare I use the loaded term..."patriotism?") would surprise many people. I have actually had conversations with my kids, explaining the wondrous thing that freedom of speech is, and general affluence. And these points are made starkly evident in my reading with Lucy of "I am Malala" (Nobel Peace Prize winner Malala Yusafzai's story of her quest for education for Pakistani girls under the Taliban). A student of history at some level, and having actually studied our nation's presidents a little more in depth in the past couple of months, I really should have been primed for this visit.

But man...I came immediately face-to-face with a perfect storm of a few different pieces that are among my greatest turn-offs: crowds, ugly parking situations, overtly "touristy" places, and chintz. No getting around it: we were headed for one of America's peak tourist attractions at peak season. Just. Not. My. Fucking. Thing. Everything about it made my fibers rebel and I had to muster all my energy to avoid exuding and cynicism. I used the trick of tunnel-vision: tunnel-vision with regard to my kids' experience, actually looking at the damned mountain and reflecting ("that's quite a mountain!"), and making note of some really fascinating books in the gift shop (including one exploring the various American Presidents through Indian eyes that is now on my GoodReads list.

I'd been to Rushmore once before, alone in November of 1996, when there was literally one other person on the grounds that I could see and I pretty much had my run of the place (albeit with a gift shop that was closed for the season). That is an experience that I hold pretty close to my heart. Not sure I needed to go again, but there I was. Sharon and I guided the kids on a nature path around the perimeter on which we saw few other families (the ol "5 Minutes From the Visitors' Center" theory), and we had the chance to talk with a NPS naturalist about buffalo, which was informative. But ultimately, you are there to see IT. And it is pretty damned impressive, when it comes down to it. And how can you leave without that classic family photo?

The King of Men poses in front of what are presumably some other world leaders of some renown.

Look, they made some really good decisions on the four presidents they included on the Mount. Four of my favorites: Washington: Wow. How many military generals in the history of the world would have abdicated a crown? Jefferson: From his role in the drafting of the constitution to the Louisiana purchase, to the design of the "Jeffersonian grid" to his role in the Lewis & Clark expedition, his influence was immense. Teddy Roosevelt: The most quirky of the selections, it's a great one. One of our last great true populist presidents, and the creator of the National Park system. And then Lincoln: About which nothing even need be said, right?

All that said, they do a lot at the monument to remind you of the sacred history of the Black Hills to the Indians and of the repeated aggressions, encroachment, and deceit that wheedled it away piece by piece. I couldn't help but reflect how the building of a monument celebrating The White Father smack-dab in the center of their once sacred lands was a final "FUCK YOU!!!"from my European Ancestors to the people they displaced. Sigh.

Back to Keystone

The plan was to spend a last day in "civilization," doing Rushmore then maybe giving the kids a chance to swim around in the pool again. Well, we'd not counted on the extend to which Keystone truly exemplified the notion of "tourist trap." In its purest form. Zip lines (not a bad locale for this, the Black Hills, I will concede), gift shops, go-karts, etc. etc. And my kids are at a perfect age to be absolutely enamored with the notion of doing any or all of them. Had it been Sharon & me without the kids, we would have headed to the local ranger station and found some public access trails & gone on a hike. Or maybe explored into Custer State Park (which I've also visited in the past, and which is a wildlife bonanza). But...we had our Wild Place ahead of us on this trip, so we gave them Keystone for a day. Cynicism back on the shelf. Steeling myself against the onslaught of The Typical American Families that thronged the attractions. In the end, the kids got to do a mirror maze (which remained one of the highlights of the trip for Rosie to the bitter end) and a zip line (Sharon & I did this, as well), and get a treat; and then retreat for some more swimming at the pool.

This qualifies as a zip line, technically, I guess.

I will merely leave you with this one awesomely stupid find of Lucy's: Possibly the very worst missed-opportunity, inexplicable "poke your head through and take a picture" sign on the planet.

This missed opportunity and overall stupidity needs no explanation.

You may recall a bottled margarita phone camera share. That was the meal this night. Then back to the hotel.

I will mention one other note: Lucy had been diagnosed with ringworm (actually, not a worm - a fungus) on her arm a week or so before our vacation. Contagious, but not overly so - and treatable with over-the-counter Lotrimin. So she was in the midst of treatment. But on this second day in the hotel, Lucy started noticing some additional bumps: "My ringworm is spreading!" A little here, a little there. Neck, back, belly, along with some other red spots. We didn't outwardly show alarm, but we were starting to freak out, Sharon & I. Why were we not warned this was a possibility? And where would it end? And what was the implication of hotel bed sharing and sleeping bags and not changing out of camping clothes every day? erg...

Western States Day One: To Keystone!

First stop: Rushmore MN

Trying not to overspend too terribly, we packed some picnic supplies for our traveling lunches. On day one, we were able to get enough driving in before lunchtime to make it to the sleepy, western MN prairie town of Rushmore. OK, believe it or not - I never even made the Rushmore, MN: Mount Rushmore connection until this moment. In any event, it was time to eat and we wanted to eat in a park. We saw the little hamlet of Rushmore (pop 342) a few miles off I-90 and sought out the town park, which was a lovely little time-out-of-place, complete with metal slides, teeter-totters (the real kind) and a ballfield with an awesome old-fashioned scoring system (where you'd hang numbers on pegs under each inning).

They don't make em like this any more.

Being a city boy, I am always struck by the deafening quiet of the still places of the world, when I get out of my car in the middle of nowhere. Actually, I don't know if it's because the silence of those places and the ambient sounds of my city are that different, or if it's just because I usually experience those quiet moments shortly after a number of hours of interstate travel with its accompanying compact car travel noise. I imagine it's a little of both; but in any event, daytime solitude is a little tough to come by where I come from, and it was remarkably peaceful on that hot summer day in the shade, in the country, with the sonorous rising and falling chirr of cicadas. In moments like that, I risk losing myself and thinking "I could live here. This could be all I need." Which is not true, of course, But it's sure a nice chance of pace.

Into The West

After that, it was back into the car and off through a number of uneventful miles broken only by the heralding of change of states (MN to SD). Each new state was an adventure for the kids, with them only having experienced, in their memory, MN and IA (Lucy traveled to KS when she was one, but whatever).

Also notable: The crossing of the Missouri. The crossing could be notable for anyone at any time, but it was particularly so for me, having recently finished William Least-Heat Moon's River Horse, about the author's journey by water from the Atlantic to the Pacific, in which the Missouri River played a major part. As a geographer by both hobby and partly by trade, the river is also significant to me as one of the primary distinctions between our notions of East and West in this country. One might suggest the true distinction between East vs. West is really a function of rainfall - but if that is the case then it only bolster's the river's case, as it is strikingly evident how amazingly GREEN the land is rolling on down to the eastern shores of that great river and how amazingly BROWN it is rising into The West on the other side. Green to brown. Plants to pasture. Growing to grazing. The trip was one running "teachable moment" for my kids where geography was concerned, but I made particular note of that sort of dry, broken pasture land as we encountered it, so foreign is it we Eastern Minnesotans with our lakes, woods, and river valleys. And, as I've documented in the past, though I share almost nothing, politically, with ranchers, I have a place for pasture in my heart. That damned Kansas thing.

In any event, I should not suggest there is no cropland in the West, of course. Where the cows are not, there is generally wheat. And wheat, and wheat, and hay. Lots of hay. And also - and it dawned on me at the time that (it being mid-to-late August and all) we might be traveling during a singularly perfect time of the year for it, but....SUNFLOWERS! In full bloom!!! Field after field in south central South Dakota.

I'm just wasting space, here. This doesn't capture it at all.

I can't imagine being a sunflower farmer at harvest time and being unhappy. It was one of the more cheery scenes I've ever personally beheld. Many sunflower fields, and on both sides. Good, thing, too - for I was to soon feel a chill that would strike me deep and near to the heart. Out of sunflowers and past some more hay, a mere hour or two later, we passed right under the shadow of....Weathertop. Holy shit!

Amon Sul of the Northern Kingdom of Arnor, where once dwelt one of the Seven Palantir of old.

The Badlands

This section won't actually be all that long. Up until a few days before we left, we'd considered camping night one in the Sage Creek Campground in the Badlands. Partly out of desire to save money, but also to expose my kids to an amazing environment that was home to one of my top five favorite camping experiences of all times (Fall of 1997 with Gibbons). It was Rosie's desire to see Mount Rushmore, both of our kids' interest in having a hotel swimming pool experience and, perhaps, my own interest in the Firehouse Brewpub of Rapid City that resulted in a change of plans. Anyway, we made time for a mere swing-through of the scenic route. I could share lots of pictures of cool rock & soil formations, but better pictures than the ones I took could certainly be found elsewhere on Google. I'll simply share one image of Lucy, considering the vastest open space she has experienced this side of Lake Superior.

"This is worth getting to the hotel 45 minutes late for!"

Firehouse Brewery

The scenic detour through the Bandlands is not short. Upon emerging, we were in a serious race against the setting of the sun that rivaled the harrowing carriage chase in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Ultimately, we reached the Firehouse while the last glowing rays of the sun were touching rooftops and I had a curiously large flight of beers (eight samples of maybe five ounces each). I downed the samples in and around a rather large order of nachos (in a world where a man can expect to get four or five measly mozzarella sticks for $7, curiously gigantic heaps of nachos for no more than $10 is a comforting, consistent, and countervailing force). I then decided it would be a fitting end to the meal to also have a full pint of their IPA selection. Though I very responsibly asked Sharon to take the wheel to wind us southward through the Black Hills to the tiny tourist trap (and home of our night's lodging) of Keystone. But only looking back now do I tally that beer total to see I had drunk somewhere around 56 ounces of beer...

Reflections on Rose's Fifth Birthday

Many days, I’m helping move kids along from the moment I roll out of bed, and I don’t really slow down from some level of childcare until nearly nine.  I finish the day and my head is just buzzing and I look at Sharon with a dazed expression on my face and say, "What the hell just happened?"  And I look at friends with no kids - their freewheeling, spontaneous lifestyle and (seemingly) scads of disposable income and experience sudden moments of something like envy.

But when things are on, they're on. The magic of a squirly, playful, snuggly little body that squeezes up next to me. Curious little minds and crazy ideas. Instances when I catch a glimpse of something that makes me catch my breath and say, "Wow - is that something that came from me?" Other times, a sudden wonderment - "Is this for real? Me, and this amazing, beautiful little creature? And I'm her...daddy?"  Moments I would be content to capture and relive for eternity. On a daily basis.

Daddyhood: The toughest job you'll ever love.

And now - a quick step back: I look at Rose at age 5 and there's so many things to like.  Permit me to take a moment to congratulate myself.  "Way to go so far, man. Way to go."

The Ghost of Fremont Ave Strikes Again!!!

I shit you not - the music box in my girls' room spontaneously started playing two times right before 11:00 pm tonight. My girls were both fast asleep, and both times, the music (just a few notes in slow-ish succession) stopped right before I could get in there & check.

March for the Middle Class

I was at this demonstration yesterday. Of late, I've been trying to strike that very careful balance between being effectively informed & involved in politics of the day without just seeking out those bits of sensationalism ("what did Michelle Bachman say today?!?!?") that serve to whip me up with no discernible return on the emotional investment.  But it seems to me that this whole "class warfare" thing, in which the Republican Party has effectively managed to direct public ire and legislative activity away from millionaires & billionaires and focus it on the working class, may end up being a tremendous overreach.  At least I'm hoping it will be. It should be, and right now it seems that it might be one singular issue on which the historically scatter-shot Democrats may be able to make a little political hay.  In an abstract sense, most people are for the little guy, aren't they?

ANYWAY, to this end, I attended yesterday's March for the Middle Class (which I really wish would have been called "March for the Working Class," but maybe they are really trying to cast this net of popular appeal as wide as they can - as almost everyone sees themselves as middle class).  But I wanted to do my part on helping this movement have a show of force, and I wanted Lucy to see, as I said on Facebook, that there are some things her daddy thinks are worth fighting for.

So, we went. Here is the Star Tribune write-up.

I kept going between getting a little caught up in the emotion of the event, and just simply being fascinated at the sociological exhibition on display.  Especially the chant leaders, and the expectation that the crowd would pick up the chant.  As near as I can tell, it is ESSENTIAL at a rally like this to have some sort of fervent chant going at all times, or you totally risk losing energy & focus; which could just kill an event of that size (couple thousand or so).  But, you only have 10-12 total chant lines that you can call upon, if you expect the crowd to know what to chant back.

“Who does the work?!”

“WE DO!!!”

Or

“No justice!”

“NO PEACE!!!”

Or

“Ne-go-ti-ate”

“DON’T LE-GIS-LATE!!!”

etc.

I find myself more comfortable with responding to some chants than others, but in order to help make the rally effective, I decided it's probably necessary for me to take part in them all, just at varying levels of volume & energy.

I've been to a couple of political rallies prior, but never an official "march" or "demonstration." It was very, very peaceful. No counter-protesters.  Some PA problems when the speech portion began (which also can really kill the energy). One guy tried to get me to donate to a Socialist newspaper.  I didn't want to get in an argument, but I did feel like that sort of presence is the last thing the demonstration needed.  Were Fox News to have been there, that would have undoubtedly been their first piece of video shot.  Other than that - nothing too surprising.  I will mention two particular highlights for me:

1. During the "assembly" before the march, Lucy & I were hanging out by the road.  Cars were driving by and gaping at this mass of demonstrators.  About a third of the cars were honking in support, and we'd always give them a raucous cheer in response.  At one point, a St. Paul Fire engine happened by, and as they did they just laid on the fucking horn for about twenty seconds, which resulted in a tremendous response from the assembled.  The chills that went up my neck were real and dynamite.

2. During the speech portion (after the march), one of the speakers was interrupted by an announcement that he relayed: the harbormasters' union of San Fransisco had just shut down the port of the city in support of the Minnesota protesters.  Solidarity, right?  Another electric moment for me.

That's all. Peace. Out.

Into....?

or "The Awaited 'Happy Post' ‘The Pre-Happy Post’"

Towards the end of 2010, Sharon & I started attending couples counseling sessions.

We've always known we had a good thing going. Sharon & I align almost identically along political and world views, and are of similar mind on issues ranging from appreciation of early 20th Century film noir to child-rearing philosophy. But when we have differences - we don't confront them head on; we bury them. We also have dealt with ongoing issues related to intimacy which, without revealing the innards of an issue which is far too complex to get into in this forum, I will simply say finally came to a point of being (that word again) stuck. Stuck at a point where we needed some sort of outside intervention.

I credit Sharon as being the one who finally arranged for our counselor. I cannot emphasize the significance of this highly enough. It was a great affirmation for me, who was (as later came to the surface in our sessions) feeling increasingly shut out of Sharon's personal struggles. An affirmation that our relationship was a priority that needed to be dealt with a similar degree of priority, and that everything was connected. A lot of great things have been put in motion as a result of our sessions. We both enter the process, it seems, willing to accept responsibility for how we have, to paraphrase Sting, laid assorted mines throughout our past among which we now walk.

A little prior to us going into the couples sessions, Sharon hooked up with a new psychologist, who I will call "B." And in taking great care to respect as least some degree of privacy regarding their work together, I will say that Sharon is being "pushed" into uncomfortable, but (I believe) necessary territory in a way I have never seen in her history of therapy. And not only that, but I have been invited into "the process" for the first time ever. I was even invited in to a session, so psychologist, client, and spouse could all get on the same page. "B" also wants to keep tabs on where we are at in our couples' therapy and even aspects of Sharon's "woo woo" work. The plan is to get all aspects working in concert, and to make sure we're keeping things moving forward, with homework & concrete achievable goals, however modest. And don't start grasping when things get desperate. Stay in the moment. It's very Jedi-like.

In the time since my last post, Sharon actually went through another rough patch. This is not a quick fix, here. But I feel like the foundation is there - that she (we) have a stable base to descend to when the tower gets tippy.