Hot Sulphur Springs

What is without question the most memorable and enjoyable experience of the entire two-month bike trip through the Colorado Rockies almost didn’t happen.

Before I left Napa I'd plotted out a very specific route for these two months, with the intent to be very loose in the process, always open to change. Other than Estes Park, where it had been a necessity, I had no campground reservations, no place to be, no time schedule. My next planned destination was Winter Park, a ski resort town at the base of Berthoud Pass, about 50 miles away. My question this evening, as I sat in my campsite at Timber Ridge poring over the maps and guidebook, revolved around whether to ride straight to Winter Park, or take a side road to Hot Sulphur Springs. After my somewhat harrowing day fleeing ghosts and goblins and landslides, a soak in some hot springs or a swim in a hot pool sounded better than wonderful, and the guide book listed a free campground along the banks of the young Colorado River. I opted for the detour, and have been forever grateful for that decision.

I broke camp early the next morning, packed up and headed back downhill through Grand Lakes toward the next adventure. Twenty-seven miles later I took a right turn for what I expected to be an easy 10-mile ride into Hot Sulphur Springs over an essentially level highway. Quickly, I encountered a killer headwind. Then I realized I was losing elevation, which I did not want to do since I had to retrace this road the following day. I debated turning around, but felt committed to this course and finally decided to just go for it. I needed training in altitudes and grades, right? Right.

From my journal:
"So I rolled into this little burg, tired from the wind and wondering why on earth I was here. It's tiny. I looked around and found the baths and the campground, which is a flooded bank of the very angry Colorado River. Free, but not wonderful. Millions of mosquitoes. I had finally decided to ride back to Granby and when I stopped for a soft drink the people in the store convinced me to stay. So I went down there again and looked around and found a spot that would be manageable for one night, even though the outhouses were in a flooded marsh. The mosquitoes got to me, so I decided to stay in a hotel. The people back at the store guided me to the Stagecoach, where I got a serviceable room with bath down the hall for $12. The bath doesn't have a shower and the tub is filthy, but the toilet works. So I hustled back to the spa and soaked in a tiny sulphur pool which was hot, but cloudy, with some kind of particles that looked suspiciously like shredded skin swirling around in it thickly. After only a few minutes of soaking, the owners hustled us out of the pool because of an approaching thunderstorm. I eventually gave up and went to take a shower. [The guide book had mentioned a barn-like building housing a large pool with water temps ranging from 105 to 123 degrees. I think this may have been closed for cleaning. I do know it was not available.] The showers there didn't work either, so I went back to town across the wood bridge and stopped again at the store, cashed a check and bought some beer. Back at the hotel, the bar was open and I thought it would be much nicer to write and read in the bar than in the room. I’ll just have to transport the beer in the panniers tomorrow."

Nothing like a little more weight to haul uphill.

The bar was tiny, but definitely hopping on this Friday night. I took a seat at the end of the tiny bar, ordered a draft Coors, chatted with the bartender, watched a group of young men playing pool, and wrote in my journal, happy and content. One of the pool players, who I later described in my journal as "a young Adonis, a blond, long-haired John Travolta in a T-shirt and cut-offs", took a break to grab a swig of beer, looked at me with a big grin. "What are you writing there?" he asked. I told him, and after a few more questions and answers I found myself enfolded into their group, accepted as one of the gang, like it or not. Happy with my journal I was a bit reluctant, but they were such joyful, happy personalities that I finally let go of whatever hang-ups held me back and let myself simply enjoy the moment. They weren't flirting -- I had turned 40 six months previously and they were in their 20's -- they were just friendly and fun.

These guys, construction workers on a road building project I'd passed on my way into town, were ready for a good evening of fun and beer. The room was really quite small, the pool table took up most of what wasn't allocated to the bar and stools, so the scene was a cozy one. Adonis took his pool playing seriously, but the group was garrulous and he, in particular, had a seemingly endless supply of jokes that he told with great mastery of style.

He told one that was quite long about a Minnesota farmer named Olson. He'd obviously told it often, had the Swedish accent, the timing, the facial expressions down to a science. I can only remember parts of it, but by the time he hit the punch line he had everyone in the place rolling on the floor. It was without question the singular funniest joke I have ever heard. During the course of the evening he told it several times more, as other people wandered in and out of the bar, drawn by the laughter. With every retelling I laughed as hard as I had the first time. The word ‘hilarious’ does not even begin to do it justice.

I spoke to others who stopped in the bar before or after dinner in the dining room. One woman named Jean from Dillon wanted me to call her when I got there, although I never did. Her friend David from Seattle, who was with her, had a stroke a year ago and thought the hot springs might help. A local man’s wife had been completely paralyzed in an auto accident 15 years earlier and lost all memory in the process. She didn't remember having their two kids, or getting married, but they were still married. It had been hard, he said, but he found her a better person now than before the accident. Her personality had changed completely.

"This is a crazy place!" I wrote in my journal at the bar. "Really laid back, very local, very small. Here I sit at the bar, laughing with the local guys. I didn't want to be here, and I didn't want to be in a hotel, but one of the things I am learning already is to let things go and enjoy each experience as it comes, make the most of it instead of being upset."

How many times have I ─ have any of us ─ missed out on a potentially extraordinary life experience because of an inability or unwillingness to follow some uninvited shift in course with joy, rather than anger or disappointment? I believe I have finally learned that lesson, learned to approach whatever life offers with an open and joyful mind, but it took me over 60 years and during those 60 years I know I missed thousands of potentially wonderful moments. Fortunately, on this evening in Hot Sulphur Springs I opened to the joy of the moment.

I don't remember how late I stayed in the bar, but I do know I drank a lot of Coors (the guys kept buying it) and didn't have any dinner other than a few bar snacks and probably not a lot of lunch. They were still going strong when I left.

Although it's difficult to explain why, this evening without question lives in my memory as the singular warmest, happiest, most satisfying, most gratifying, finest experience of the entire two months. I will never forget it. With all the little roadblocks that pushed me to the hotel and into the bar, this evening was simply fated to happen!

I paid for all that fun the next morning, of course. Lots of beer, no dinner, 30 miles of uphill riding ahead of me and not a solitary thing stirring in town when I woke up early the next morning. With nothing else to do, unable to use my stove inside the hotel to cook breakfast, I packed up and left. If the thermometer I saw can be believed, it was 50° outside, but felt much, much colder. Icy cold. The coldest I'd seen yet and not even a cup of coffee to warm me up or fuel my body.

Without breakfast, I had a light case of the bonks all the way back over those 10 miles and 750 feet of elevation I'd lost the previous day. My complaining body had little strength, but I took it as easy as possible so I wouldn't deplete any more energy than necessary. To combat the jarring cold I kept stopping, pulling warm clothes out of the panniers until there were none left. I eventually wore my wool sweater under the nylon windbreaker jacket and pants, plus my wool cap and gloves. I suffered ─ from chilling cold, from lack of energy, from a fuzzy head ─ for well over an hour until I reached Granby.

Was the fun worth all the suffering? Absolutely! I had no regrets, but I could have killed for a cup of hot coffee.

In Granby at 9:30 a.m. a café was open and bustling with customers. I found a seat at the counter ─ the only place available ─ begged for coffee first then ordered a huge breakfast. With icy hands wrapped around the blessedly hot mug, I inhaled an aroma as luscious as nectar, made short work of that first cup of coffee and begged for more. My body sucked up that big breakfast as if it hadn't eaten for days ─ and in fact, it hadn't had much the previous day. I took a good break, thawed myself out, shed the excess clothes and eventually, satisfied and renewed, headed on to Winter Park.

Note: the excerpts from the story of this bike ride have thus far been presented in chronological order, so if you're lost about this one, scroll down to the previous entry on the subject for more context.