The next day, we drove through Glenwood Canyon. Here, the Colorado River makes the first of its iconic cuts through the rising western landscape. The Grand Canyon, with its length, depth, width, age, and National Park status, gets all the hype. But Glenwood Canyon set the stage for the wonders further downstream. Just west of Gypsum, cliffs rise in layers from the gentle downslope. Millennia – millions of years, actually – of a slow upthrust allowed the river to slice its way thru, creating sheer walls less than a quarter mile apart. On the south side, the Denver and Rio Grande built its first tracks, still in operation today, now carrying coal from Utah to a power-hungry heartland. On the north, fifty years later, a narrow twisting two lane road became the major East-West connection between Denver and California. This short stretch was actually the last part of any cross-country Interstate highway to be built. By the time engineers were willing to tackle this crevice, sentiment had turned against ease of travel, and preservation of the canyon took first priority. Which was a bit hypocritical, as it was already scarred by the rail line, the meandering two lane, with a small hydro electric dam and reservoir smack in the middle.
But environmentalists won the day, so the road was built without any rock being blasted from the canyon walls. A few tunnels were gouged thru, and much of the roadway was actually built on pylons, sometimes in the river itself, allowing a four lane divided highway to appear where there really wasn’t any room. For good measure, a separate bike path was built, opening up the route from Aspen to Vail for two wheeled human powered transport.
But back then, the Interstate was not even a dream, and my father had to take those curves at 40 mph or less. Through Glenwood Springs, then up an similar two lane Highway 82 into Aspen.
When we entered Pitkin County, we noticed, or, rather, didn’t notice, one early example of the care the locals took with their privileged home. No billboards. A few years earlier, they’d been outlawed. Outraged small businessmen had been placated by a single turnout, with a tasteful white sign, covered with very small, equally sized ads for local motels, restaurants, and sporting gods stores. Set near the airport, the idea was, you pulled into a little turn out, and stopped to read the signs, all at once. More appealing, and probably safer, too, then having huge signs splattered along the roadside, hiding from view the mountains rising on all sides 7,000 feet above the valley floor.
When we got into town, we noticed that the usual panoply of large garish signs outside tourist establishments was also missing, as was any neon lighting. Aspen itself was a jumble of old Victorian houses on the north side of Main Street, and a bunch of low slung motels and lodges on the South. We pulled into the Swiss Chalet, which was a collection of single units, one room each, dark brown, in the shadow of the giant ski mountain which rose abruptly, 3,300’ directly from the edge of town.
But skiing was not what we came for. The next morning, we drove up Castle Creek road, stopping ten miles up at the Elk Mountain Lodge. Stretched out for a mile or more as its front yard was a swampy section of the creek, created by a series of beaver dams. The lodge offered rooms for the night, but they were apparently outside of my dad’s price range, as we went to the end of the swamp, and found an abandoned town called Ashcroft.
This was a standard old west mining Ghost Town. The primary building material was wood and the only color available apparently was grey. Two lane dirt tracks connected the remaining structures, which we could just walk right into and wander around, imagining how anyone could have lived out a winter in such a place. A hundred yards down the track were a few picnic tables, designated by the Forest Service as the Ashcroft Campground.
We claimed a spot, put up a canvas tent, and turned around back to the lodge. My father, ever the wrangler, had learned they too rented horses. So we saddled up, without a guide. Harry somehow was good at convincing the dude ranch staff he not only could ride, but could also be trusted to take good care of the horses. I suspect a few stories about his youth in Montana did the trick. Anyway, this time our ride was not over gentle mountain prairie, but straight up the hillside, to American Lake. Three miles, 2000’ up. It was mostly walking, leading the horses as they stumbled and clopped over the rocky track.
But the trip back down, once we hit gentler slopes, led us through the aspen grove girdling the bottom half of the mountain. White trunks, gentle shade from the tiny upside-down heart shaped leaves. It felt as if we were riding through a a giant never-ending room.
That night, the gentle summer air turned to high mountain cold. Shivering in my sleeping bag, uncomfortable on the canvas cot my father had set up, I wondered how cowboys, at least the ones on TV, were able to just unroll a blanket from behind their saddle, throw it on the ground, and, taking of their boots, simply fall asleep with only a ten gallon hat for cover. I spent half the night trying to sleep, eventually succumbing to the rolling waters outside our tent, clattering over stones while the breeze shook the aspen and rustled the fir trees.
My father let me sleep in. He was notorious for getting up with first light, and bustling around trying to stay warm. This morning, he had busied himself with his fishing rod. He finally woke me after he got a fire going, and showed me the trout he was about to cook.
“This is what I’m having for breakfast. Want any?”
I must have turned up my nose. I was scared to say no, though, as he was always after me to eat this or that or the other thing which I was sure would make me sick, or at least tasted terrible. But this time, he said simply, “Well, I’m going to try it – I don’t think I’ve ever had fish for breakfast, especially one I caught myself.”
Never a prideful man, and surely one never to boast, this morning, he was almost beaming at his accomplishment.
(To be cont’d)