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.

Naked Wood Nymph

I’ve never been one to see ghosts, find fear much of anywhere. Had I been that kind of person, I would never have attempted this lengthy bicycle journey alone in the first place. But there are times…..

On the morning after my Cave Woman trip to Grand Lakes, I traveled back down the hill a short distance to some kind of National Park Service recreational facility, planning to do some hiking and exploring. I spoke with a ranger, who pointed out some trails, offered suggestions.

Leaving the bike safely locked, I headed uphill for several miles through the forest and past some rusting, abandoned corrugated metal mining shacks, over a series of switchbacks that eventually brought me into the sunshine at a narrow dirt road that had been cut into the side of the mountain. The plan was to follow that road for awhile until I reached an intersection with a trail going back downhill, forming a loop that would take me back to my bike. You know what they say about the best laid plans!

Still feeling the exhilaration of the previous day, hot and sweaty from the hike and the sun, I walked along the road gazing with great longing at the tiny stream that flowed alongside. I don’t think it was natural – memory says it was no more than a shallow trench dug into the mountain beside the road with a mere trickle of water. I’d gained a lot of elevation by now. The road formed a steep cliff along the mountainside beyond which there was nothing but endless trees and mountains as far as the eye could see. Finally, I stopped for lunch then stripped off my damp clothing and gave in to the urge to cool off in the stream, take a bath in the cold water, dry off naturally in the warm sunshine.

Lying naked in the sun on top of the world. What a feeling of freedom!

Refreshed, I dressed and continued walking down the road for about a half mile when I realized I’d left my sunglasses on a rock, returned to find them. Everything that happened after that was a little crazed.

After finding my glasses I returned to where I’d left my pack and continued along the flat, exposed trail until I reached a site where a huge rockslide – seemingly recent – had pushed boulders and trees thousands of feet down the cliff. The road looked recently bulldozed, and with great trepidation I walked on, hoping to pass that section quickly. It looked as though the earth could move again at any moment and bury me under a new pile of boulders down the hill. A storm was approaching and I was anxious to get off the mountain before rain and lightning came along.

Finally, the threat of impending lightning, thunder, rain and rockslides got to me and I turned around and ran back beyond the threatening cliffs, and further. I must have run a mile, at that altitude. Then I hurried along the road, anxious to reach the trail downward so I could have more protection. It seemed an eternity, but finally I started downhill, cutting through the woods across switchbacks whenever I could see the trail below me. That’s a real no-no, and I knew better but was too panicked to care.

It really was quite ominous. I could hear the thunder, clouds darkened the sun, and the forest was totally silent. Each time I stepped off the trail for a shortcut, I felt as if I had stepped into some enchanted forest out of the hobbit world. I kept waiting for trees to move and attack me, or for some vile creature to give chase. I never saw another living creature the whole time, nor heard anything except the thunder and the rushing of waterfalls down the mountainside. It was eerie, strange. I was a bundle of jitters.

It took me almost two hours to reach the valley. My moments of fantasy, seeing myself as a naked wood nymph dancing in the sunshine, were short-lived. No ghosts or landslides appeared.

During this two-month solo bike tour of the Colorado Rockies I kept a detailed journal chronicling the experience. I wrote a few new introductory paragraphs for this story, but the portion of the story that continues from "after I found my sunglasses" was lifted verbatim from the journal entry written that same day.

Cave Woman

The road was rough and I was going fairly fast and looking at the scenery. Suddenly, I looked ahead and saw a rounded asphalt depression about two feet in diameter, with a rough knob of asphalt at the far end. There was no time to avoid it, all I could do was grip the handlebars tightly, raise up off the saddle, and ride it out. The bike literally left the ground – both wheels, just like a skier coming off a jump. It landed with shimmys, all the weight bounced, but it didn’t go out of control as it might have. Scary. Funny. All at the same time.

This little incident took only seconds – takes longer to describe it – and thus began my first day of travel. I’d left the top of Trail Ridge Road headed for Grand Lakes 22 miles below, coasting down the steep hill at a good clip not paying much attention to where I was going, distracted by the incredibly beautiful, vast environment of snow-covered granite peaks and deep green forests. It’s astonishing just how much can go through one’s head in such a short time when faced with an urgent situation, how the brain can evaluate and make a decision in mere seconds and the body will follow. Over 200 pounds flying through the air with nothing to land on but two skinny bicycle tires is quite a sensation, I’m here to tell you. Terrifying for a few seconds, a huge relief when I realized I was in one piece. When I pulled to a stop to check things out, the only damage was that a pannier had come unhooked on one edge and was hanging a bit crooked. Everything – including me – could easily have gone flying in all directions and that would have been the end of the trip. Fortunately, it’s merely a humorous memory.

My bike at the top of Trail Ridge Road, 12,183 above sea level, the highest pass in the state.  This is the kind of scenery that detracted from my cycling!

I’d begun the day in Estes Park and while my original plan had been to ride the bike up and over Trail Ridge, I realized the day before that I simply was not ready for this yet. Not physically, not mentally, not emotionally. So I’d caught a shuttle bus to the top and started off on my planned adventure.

Timber Ridge Campground lies just over 12 miles and 3,283 feet below the 12,183 foot summit. I knew it was there, had every intention of passing by and continuing down the hill, but curiosity pulled me in to investigate and I felt captivated immediately. This was what I’d been looking for in a campground but hadn’t found in Estes Park: level, wooded with spacious private campsites nestled among the trees. Because of the late snow melt that year, this campground had just been opened for the season and was virtually empty. Totally peaceful and serene. I decided to stay, fully realizing I had no food and would need to ride on down to Grand Lakes to do some shopping. I didn’t care. My energy was high, my legs strong.

I chose an isolated site among huge trees, set up my tent, unpacked the panniers and left them inside the tent, then headed downhill with a small, lightweight daypack I’d brought along for hiking. Although essentially all downhill (about 450 feet elevation drop) the road was nonetheless a series of ups and downs over rolling hills through 10 miles of deep forests.

I was flying! For the first time since I’d arrived in Colorado over a week earlier I was really, really riding the bike with deep pleasure, my heart soaring, my legs pedaling furiously with the sheer joy of it all. No pain, no weight, no struggling. Just me and my bike doing what we did best and rejoicing in every moment. Filled with energy, bursting with an overwhelming sense of ‘I can do this,’ I wanted to sing and shout to the world. But I didn’t – nobody would have heard me anyway.

After 45 minutes of flying down the mountain I found a supermarket in Grand Lakes, bought food for a couple of days and, with 10 pounds on my back – another new sensation that required a bit of balance adjustment – I flew back up that mountain almost as fast as I’d flown down. An hour of pedaling fast and easy in mid-range gears and I was back at the tent. Exhilarated. Stimulated. Joyous.

All that stayed with me through the evening. My body felt great from the exercise, my mind felt great from the accomplishment of getting over Trail Ridge and getting to Grand Lake for food. I felt remarkably self-sufficient, in a pioneer sort of way, that I could choose an isolated campsite and still supply myself with food from a hilly source 10 miles away. The caveman syndrome, I guess – or in this case, the cave woman.