4,000 Miles

Great Sand Dunes National Park. Alamosa, CO.

Jaap and I packed up and set out in Westie (our Ford Focus) with a mixtape playing and the windows rolled down. Denver to Alamosa, Colorado. As we traveled south, the view of the Rockies took my breath away. The snow defined the intricate jagged patterns and sculpted the purple grey giants.

“You know it’s not supposed to be a clear night, right?” the park ranger of the Great Sand Dunes National Park Visitor Center warned us. She continued on, explaining the regulations of a backpacking permit once we confirmed the storm wouldn’t be changing our minds.

My single pocket backpack held just enough room for a change of clothes, warm layers, and food for the next twelve hours. Jaap used a bungee cord to hook an eight-year-old Walmart tent to his North Face pack. I felt unprepared as I watched two ladies and a twenty-something couple gather up their own packs, all of which appeared straight out of REI.

As we stood in the nearly vacant backpacking parking lot, the thunder rolled intimidatingly near. Jaap and I laced up our hiking boots and strapped on our packs. With the park ranger’s paper map buried in my pocket, we traveled directly over the tallest sand peak. These are typically reserved for sledding down via cardboard, trash can lids, or winter sleds.

The billowing tan pressed up against the deep blue in a seeming contradiction. It felt out of place to be immersed in endless miles of sand, then look up to snow capped mountains. Two climates mashed into one. The valleys and crests of sand began to morph into one until I could no longer identify which peak we had been traveling. Any uniqueness was diminished as the wind breathed a heavy sigh.

Jaap and I wandered the wilderness until we felt satisfied with our distance from civilization. We arrived at a bowl in the sand, situated our few belongings inside the tent, then climbed nearby peaks to soak in the monotonous beige exuding its own unique beauty. We ran through the shifting ground, stood on our hands, and recorded the snow globe world we found ourselves in.

As we ate our dinner of cold breakfast burritos and the sun faded, the world of mountains and continuous hills became draped in a cerulean haze. The sky changed from stagnant blue to hovering sunset to ominous dark clouds lingering above. I hopped from foot to foot trying to muster up warmth, while shrilling in excitement and anxiousness as the clouds moved quickly in our direction.

My eyes tore open as the first drops of rain drummed the thin nylon covering. It came down in torrents and shook the thin walls. I lay awake in unease. At every attempt to calm myself, warnings flashed in my mind: “Don’t enter into the dunes during a thunderstorm.” A display in the visitor center demonstrated the consequences. I passed right by, spinning the structure like a toy before walking toward the counter.

My toes wiggled their way through the shallow river flowing between the lost desert peaks and the backpacking parking lot. My feet pointed and flexed in the icy reprieve. We paused for some time to dump the snow run off onto our faces and hair. Our Sand Dune shower would last us until we reached the shoreline of Alabama.

 

 

Buffalo and Wildlife Preserve. Amarillo, Texas.

The drive out of Colorado was filled with gradient shades of blue and purple under the yellow orange sun. The small towns on the mountains’ outskirts were filled with splintered wood and abandoned homes. Old trucks of rust puttered by. The scene unfolded into a flat and dry expanse. We were immersed in the same tan that comprised our every meal.

 

We came upon Palo Duro State Park in Amarillo, Texas. We had no plans, no reservations. We had given ourselves enough time to pitch a tent, make and eat dinner, and get some good sleep.

“Do you have a reservation?” The lady at the window asked.

“No…”

“Well, unfortunately reservations are required and tent camping is full.”

We exited Palo Duro and pulled into the parking lot of a zip line outfitting company to figure out where we could sleep. We had missed the KOA check-in deadline, which had been our fall back. I feared we would be sleeping in the car in some vacant area.

Jaap finally found a Buffalo Preservation under the “Amarillo Camping” Google search. It was another thirty miles in the direction we had come from, but it was what we had to work with. We missed our turn into the preserve, creating an evening of backpedaling, speeding forward, retreating, and rerouting.

We pulled through the vacant gate with fifteen minutes prior to curfew. After settling in, stretching our stiffened legs, and setting up the hammocks, we sat down for our third meal of breakfast burritos. This time we cracked open a can of peaches for a side dish. We ate in a silence of ease, passing the peachjar back and forth.

 

The open prairie caused a wind tunnel through the narrow strip of trees, leaving us to the breeze’s beck and call in our swinging hammocks. I tried rolling up tight, trapping the fabric edge with my leg and my shoulder, to keep from the violent flapping of the outer edges. The wind rocked my elevated form, closed inside a larva’s tomb, long through the night.

“Jaap! Jaap! Did you hear that? Are those coyotes?” I had been startled awake by the sound of howling. Calls to the moon, to one another, in answer to what, I’m not sure. I was trapped, dangling from trees with no protection, save for the thin nylon sheet. The direction from which the sound was coming from had lost itself in the rustling grass. I had half a mind to run straight to the car. I laid with eyes peeled open until a stretch of time passed with no more echoes. I drifted back into sleep until the first colors of sunrise reawakened me.

When the sun fully lifted into the sky, we rolled from our hammocks and shook out the snails and slugs that had made a home of our shoes. We ate round four of breakfast burritos before driving out into the next unknown.

 

Caddo Lake State Park. Honey Grove, Texas.

Nothing appeared across the horizon except for barren prairies and lone skeleton trees. The miles ticked by unnoticed, marked only by blue numbered posts. Telephone poles, wind turbines, and abandoned weathered sheds.

The closer we traveled to Caddo Lake, the more color entered into the streaked scene. Honey Grove, Texas. Lush green trees and streams created an oasis under the Texas sun. It was a friendly kind of simple.

We chose a spacious fire ring near a stone chimney and cattails hugging the lake. We wasted no time in boiling water over our first fire. Our first warm meal, without cold premade burritos.

As Jaap killed ten brown furry spiders climbing on our tent, I stirred the food and moved the pot above the flames. “Don’t spill the water,” Jaap warned, eyeing my cooking methods. A few minutes later, I did the unthinkable. I spilled the water.

We savored each bite, eating straight from the cooking pot with our aluminum spoons. I began laughing about the water incident, the way I do whenever my clumsiness takes hold. “I told you not to spill the water, and what do you do? You spill the water!” Jaap declared in laughter.

We retreated to the tent to play cards as the mosquitoes sounded their warning. Ducks made a loud cacophony of quacks and calls through the dark of the night. After a short time of annoyance, the clamor became background music. Though quite loud, it somehow became comforting in its rhythmic familiarity.

 

That morning began the start of our traditional camp breakfast: three packets of brown sugar and maple oatmeal, two bananas, and one brewed cup of coffee. Finishing the oatmeal, scraping the bottom clean, we rolled up the sleeping bags and tent, folded the blankets, and boiled our supplies clean.

 

Fort Morgan, Alabama.

We traveled from lake to plains to swamp to ocean in ten hours. I rolled down the window and stretched my neck out to inhale the salt and feel the humid breeze on my face. Palm trees created a tunnel for our entrance, welcoming us to our haven. We winded through the dispersed Southern homes, simple and antique, worn by the sun and the sea. I kept my arm out the window, cranked up the tunes, and let my waist-length hair tangle around my face. I closed my eyes to the sun as a smile spread.

 

We pulled into a neighborhood of colorful condominiums scattered along the shoreline of Fort Morgan. Jaap’s family was lounging on the faded yellow porch in the purpling dusk. They ran down the steps to greet us with hugs and questions. We went inside for some drinks leaving the unpacking for later.

I woke up around six in the morning, while the house was quiet with dreams. I made some coffee and journaled on the porch’s white washed wooden picnic table. The longer I sat, the more I questioned why I was sitting fifty yards from the beach with the ocean just beyond my sight. I could hear it. I could smell it. I could taste its salty remnants. It was whispering quietly to come near. I grabbed my coffee, journal, and pen. Down by the shore, I sat transfixed at the foaming outskirts, watching the morning waves gently fold in.

The long anticipated wait came to a chilling satisfaction. Jaap, Karlijn, and I quickly raced to the ocean, taking two running steps in the shallow water before diving head first into the refreshing waves.

 

Jaap’s dad found a canopy tent that was bent and toppled in a heap from a storm. We worked to straighten the limbs the best we could. The neglected structure was elevated using two by fours, kite string, and some duct tape. It was enough to create shade from the Southern sun, but was quite an eyesore along the beach.

We spent each day, along the beach, from ten in the morning until eight at night. We laid in the sun and jumped in waves. We did yoga and headstands and handstands; frisbee, football, and volleyball. We took walks and much needed naps.

We swam with the waves: diving under, flipping over, jumping, or simply floating alongside. Feeling lost in the current, lost in the waves, I could no longer see the shoreline. The waves rose and crashed around us and the current guided us along. We floated past our canopy tent and down the beach before allowing the waves to carry us to the sand. The water became unusually deep near the shore. The current pulled me, bringing a pause in trepidation before realizing I would be okay as long as I stopped fighting it. I swam in the direction I was being pulled and landed where I needed to be.

Surfboards, kayaks, and scooters were scattered below the upper level of a small elevated blue shack. Jaap, his sister Karlijn, and I were greeted by a spirited guy missing teeth in his life-loving smile. He hollered upstairs for the owner of the shop. The owner was a leathery kind of tan, sporting pure white hair and an island necklace against his darkened skin. His gait spoke of his athleticism, but he possessed a calm demeanor that fit the image of a surfer. Even in conducting business, he was easygoing. He cut us a deal and explained that since he lived upstairs, we could bring back the surfboard any time.

 

Jaap was able to catch some waves and stand up. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he pushed me into the waves to give me speed. When I had the impulse to stand, I would gather my feet beneath me with a push up and a slight hop. Each time my feet hit the foam, the instability from the small waves threw me back into the sea. I rode one wave in on my knees, raising my arms out to a “T”.  Each crash would drag me along by my ankle wrapped in the surfboard leash. My hair tangled up in the waves, gently pulling me along, as I scraped limbs along the sand of the shallows.

 

Sam Houston Jones State Park. Lake Charles, Louisiana.

We drove through the traffic of Mobile, Alabama through the southern forests of Mississippi to the western border of Louisiana. Spanish moss hung on tree limbs like an aging man’s beard. Sam Houston Jones State Park. “Don’t feed the alligators,” signs warned.

We crossed a bridge protecting us with chicken wire and entered into a path through droopy trees hanging low above our heads. We pressed on to mucky footing and trickling streams weaving through the dirt, swatting chatty mosquitoes along the way. On our search for fire fuel, we found ourselves in a wooded inlet between the river and algae pond, covered from view by trees and shoreline plants. A noise progressed as we walked. I froze. I never had heard such a sound. The almost birdlike squawking began jumping quickly around the concealed pond like a bouncing pinball. My fearful conclusion was that it had to be a baby gator. I turned back to the gravel path, without even bothering to check if Jaap was behind me. I took the nearest escape and left Jaap to fend for himself.

 

Building a fire for dinner in a swamp was a new kind of challenge. The twigs we did find were damp or mossy. Smoke burned my eyes, leaving tear streaks as I continued doctoring the small sparks. After an hour-and-a-half, we gained just enough heat to warm our beans and rice. Night soon approached and we were able to witness the receding sunset casting haloed shadows onto the swampy pond’s glass surface. The silhouette of the moss covered cypress released a calm beauty of the night’s setting.

Back in our tent, we laid flat and sprawled in the sticky atmosphere, like the end of a yoga session, staring up at the darkened silhouette of cypress trees. Swamp creatures whistled and hummed into the deep navy sky dotted with stars.

 

We made our breakfast on the single propane burner: oatmeal with some leftover granola from the beach and percolator coffee. We changed into some dry clothes, setting our dampened attire to dry for the next night. We began the perfected routine of folding up sleeping bags (my job) and carefully rolling up the tent tight enough to fit in the snug zippered case (Jaap’s job). The quick shower was enough to wash my hair and rinse off the humid sweat before making our way across the South.

 

McKinney Falls. Austin, Texas.

The scene of cypress and tupelo slowly transformed into juniper. Mossy brown pools shifted into green blanketed forests. We crossed Houston’s elevated bridge of exhaust and billboards. The advertisements and skyscrapers startling us after the small towns and confines of nature.

We pulled into McKinney Falls’ park office, paid the fee, and signed off. The lady gave us our site number, informing us about the flooding and rain. I held back the disappointment when I heard the Upper Falls was closed. It was what had drawn me to Austin.

The shifting gray warning clouds told us rain was coming our way. Jaap draped the cover from our beach canopy tent over a metal pole to create a kitchen and dining room. He cut holes using his double edged hunting knife, laced some leftover kite string through, then tied the strings to stakes we drove into the ground. Everything was set into place when a flash of light and a low crescendoed rumble erupted overhead.

Except for a few drips in the center and a quarter-sized puddle in the corner, the tent had done its job. The door had leaked through (made worse after I unzipped the frame and let the nylon fall inward). Water would sprinkle in if we touched the walls of the tent, so we gathered our gear, pillows, sleeping bags, and blankets around and beneath us into a piled heap.

The sky lightened enough to wander the trails. We didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, and Austin’s green forests were calling to be explored. We checked our paper map and found a place near the Lower Falls. We caught the trail and headed through the thicket of wood, accumulating a few bites and scratches and spiderwebs before reaching the cave. Ducking into the cave, water rained from above. Protected and dry from where we were, the cool air rose and swirled around us. We looked through the hazy window into the chirping forest beyond. The sun filtered through the gaps in leaves, leaving waltzes of light on the dampened trail.

 

Once our eyes were able to fully open, we knew it was time for the day to begin. We lit the gas burner and let the oats cook beneath the tent awning made with a thick branch propped under the tarp. When the oats grew thick and warm, we grabbed our bananas, set the oatmeal on a towel, and began our meal. Breakfast in bed. Wrapped in sleeping bags and pajamas within the warmth of the double canvas. While eating, we waited for the spewing liquid in the coffee percolator to turn from clear to deep brown.

The morning was surprisingly beautiful, so we set out for the Lower Falls. We could hear the rushing water long before we saw the white foam tumbling over the smoothed rocks, but the water was traveling far too fast to jump into. We walked atop the rock formations bordering the high river, until we found a place where the water pooled. We sat in the pocket of nearly still water watching the powerful river rush past.

Jaap and I walked to a wooded site to set up a hammock. We swayed beneath the shade of the junipers as the komorebi filtered in. We were lost in the present with no agenda; no obligations in the solace we had been given. The world was left behind, the to-do lists, the distractions. It was just the two of us with nowhere to be.

 

Austin, Texas.

Hope Outdoor Gallery. A graffitied arch welcomed us inside. The concrete foundation of a large business building had been laid, but never completed. Every inch of what remained was covered with variations of graffiti – from murals to haphazardly scrawled names. The tiered steps, the benches, and the scattered trash exploded in unique, uncoordinated color. We climbed around the tattooed playground, sidestepping used spray cans. In the surrounding city of Austin, skyscraper offices and red brick campus buildings rose up between scattered trees and run down homes of varying paint peel.

 

All the houses residing on the street behind the graffiti gallery were born in a different time. The yards exploded in vegetation, plantation shutters,  attached guest houses, porch fans, and wicker chairs. Fatigued, sweaty, and dizzy from the Texas heat and uphill routes, we made our way back to Westie. We drank warm water and caught our breath before making our way to Whole Foods. There we circled the grocery store for free samples, made a second loop for a few more snacks, and then grabbed some ice cold lemonades. That night we met up with my cousin at Torchy’s Tacos where we now had choices of food ranging from salmon and avocado to fried chicken and green chile to barbacoa and queso.

I woke up before my alarm to the sound of thunder and rain drumming on my cousin’s roof. I laid listening to the familiar putter, then rose to watch the storm flash. Jaap and I ate scrambled eggs, my cousins and I sipped our coffee, and we all talked about nothing in particular. We left before eight am, draped in a blanket of rain, with a new loaf of bread and a record player with a Johnny Cash album.

 

Bottomless Lakes State Park. Roswell, New Mexico.

The desert was filled with rocky plateaus and lakes protected by enclosed red rocks. We found a secluded campsite grill at the crevice of two plateaus alongside a dried up riverbed. We set up the tent in the blazing heat. We made dinner early in order to escape the beating rays and the unbearable sun. We cooked up the lentils and rice in the elevated grill, the fire burning the dried twigs without hesitation.

We ate and relaxed in the shade, sitting on a green plaid blanket atop the desert rubble, playing a few hands of Rummy. Once the sun sank low, we changed into bathing suits and walked down the desert path. We passed by two high school girls with fishing rods make their way into the same small lake.

“Are you guys from around here?”

“No, I’m from Colorado,” I responded.

“Oh! Where at?”

“South Denver.” I simply replied.

“Ah cool! This is the best inkwell in the park. It’s the best part of the town, really. Well, enjoy RosHell.” And off they went.

Jaap jumped first. One practice step and then off the edge he went. A simple splash  disturbed the green glass surface. A second or two passed before his full head of thick brown hair shook out of the water.

“Your turn,” he yelled smiling up at me.

“Did you hit the bottom? Did it hurt?” I stalled in uncertainty.

“No, jump in!”

I was hesitant, laughing and nervous. Uncertainty cluttered my thoughts. I measured the step I would take. I remeasured and mentally played out the exact position to place my foot. I asked Jaap again the best way to jump.

“Just use the rock behind you for leverage and tuck your knees up.”

I leaned against the rock face, arms near my waist with palms pressed against the cold surface. I rocked forward to the flatter spot, then rocked back to place my back flat against the red earth. I closed my eyes and I took three deep breaths. I pushed my body away from the rock, planted my left foot, and sent my right knee driving up.

Time stopped. I hung in the air, both knees tucked, arms bent out to either side of my body. I caught my breathe. A sharp inhale. In the next instant I was entrenched in a cold rush of water. I was frozen in the exact position I had left the rock, shocked by the landing I hadn’t seen coming. The moment I reached air, I coughed and spit.

“You didn’t hold your breath?”

“No, I was distracted by my panic!”

Across from our blanketed figures, the sun receded into the Sacramento Mountains. A single strip of quiet highway cut through the terrain. We watched the open desert sky fade into night. The day heat cooled and the fire blazed. After brushing our teeth while admiring the stars dance to their flicker and fade, we crawled into our haven. We stared past our mesh shelter until drifting off to sleep. A rattling jolted us awake. A scavenger rummaging through the tin trash can under the concealment of dark. Jaap beeped his car to scare the creature away to return to the peaceful desert solitude.

 

Rio Del Norte National Monument. New Mexico.

From the swamp to the desert and now to a canyon with a river flowing through. A photographer with a camera lens the size of a telescope stood on the road side adjusting the lighting and aperture. We winded our way into the park. We stopped at the pay station and grabbed a paper map. Reading the short description of each primitive campsite, we chose the Big Arsenic Springs Trail. The mention of a cold-water spring caught my attention.

I gathered clothes for the night: fleece lined leggings, wool socks, long sleeve, and flannel. I had plenty of room in my pack and I had seen Jaap stuff a white plastic bag into his (which I assumed contained our cooking pot).

“My packs almost empty, I can take the food,” I announced.

We clipped on our sleeping bags, tightened straps, and laced running shoes before winding down into the gorge. We followed the steep, windy descent, sidestepping the rocks and roots. My knees and hips ached with the pounding, but I pressed on to keep up with Jaap.

“I just thought of something. You brought the pot, right?”

I stopped in my tracks after having seen the green metal sheds marking our destination. “I thought you had it in yours. I thought it was in that plastic bag.”

“That was the propane stove,” Jaap explained.

“Oh. Crap,” was all I could say.

Silence.

We continued on choosing a green shed closest to the spring, near the river, and somewhat tucked back from the trail.

“Alright, I’m going to run up to grab the pot,” Jaap announced.

I consented, telling him I would set up the tent and start the fire.

I checked the time, figuring it would be at least forty minutes before he returned. I pitched the tent, placing one leg into each eyelet at a time. I kept checking the sun, seeing it edge closer to the high canyon wall. I began the fire with twigs stacked Link N Log style and set pine needles in the center. I lit another cluster of pine needles in the the air, allowing oxygen to catch flame, before setting it into the humble home. I added thicker twigs as the fire burned hotter.

I became more antsy as the forty minutes drew near. I kept staring down the path that wound through the canyon shrubs and alongside the spring. I checked the time and then distracted myself with gathering more sticks and unrolling sleeping bags.

A smile spread across my face the minute I saw his tanned face pop out from behind the tree line. “I made it up in fifteen minutes and down in twelve,” he informed me, clicking his watch. “And I brought bananas,” he said with a smile. Once a runner, always a runner, I suppose.

 

I began preparing dinner, pouring the packet of Madras lentils and wild rice into the newly acquired cooking pan/serving bowl/eating dish. I stirred the last of our mix as Jaap continued to add fuel to the fire, sipping on blue Gatorade, waiting for the beads of sweat on his forehead to dry. We sat on the wooden picnic table bench scraping the tin clean, watching the rush of water.

I followed Jaap down the few steps, hopping on small boulders, to the river’s edge. Brown and white foam carved through the canyon, rushing over smoothed rocks. We looked up to see the sky, tunneled by skyscrapers of stone, silenced by the breathtaking magnitude. We walked the trail to collect sticks for the fire and see the backyard of our temporary abode. The farther from our tent we got, the more uneasy I felt. I had seen a whiteboard in the visitor center with the question: “What animal did you see today?” Moose, bear, and mountain lion were listed in different colored Expo markers and unique handwriting. I could not get that image out of my mind: “Mountain lion” with a paw print sketch written in orange like a flashing warning signal.

I looked up to my right, seeing the rocky face of the canyon wall, completely void of vegetation. The compilation of varying sizes of boulders, stretching all the way to the rim, created appealing homes for large cats. “Mountain lions take the high ground,” I had once been advised. Well, in that case we were sitting ducks.

“I’m starting to get spooked. I keep thinking about mountain lions,” I finally expressed.

“When I was filling up my water I was thinking, ‘I would be perfect prey right at this moment.’”

“Don’t tell me that!” I screamed.

 

The night at Rio Del Norte Canyon held a mass of stars spread across every inch of the sky. The sky was a deep black, void of any blue tint or reflected civilized light. There were hundreds of stars as bright as the North Star fading in and out, growing lighter and dimmer. Though my eyelids felt like lead, Jaap and I could not take our eyes away. I was groggy beyond mental stability, yet I was mesmerized as I lay with both hands clasped beneath my head.

 

In the morning, Jaap asked if I had heard anything in the night. “I heard the leg of the tent clanging and a few other sounds I couldn’t quite place. I was in a pretty deep sleep, though.” I remembered thinking Jaap had swatted at the nylon behind our heads.

“I think something brushed up against the tent. I also heard two large rocks slide against each other not too far from us.” Considering we were a yard from a roaring river, I knew the sound of rocks sliding had to be made from good sized boulders.  

 

We made a morning fire with some more branches scattered near the trail to cook our oatmeal. I filled the pot with too much spring water, so we were left with a soupy mush. We ate our meal on a bench, shrouded in a tree canopy. The fresh water spring folded into the river, leaving a pool of foam. The river breaking over the bouldered falls was the only sound for miles. We were lost in the moment, lost in our surroundings.

The sun was taking its time entering the deep canyon. We had a chilly morning, so we built up the fire and left a heap of pine needles for instant flame after we returned from our dip in the spring. We put our bathing suits on and danced by the fire.

We squatted low, hovering above the natural spout, letting the swirl of its icy breath hit our faces. It wasn’t going to be the plunge we had expected, seeing as the deepest section of the pool barely reached the bottom of my calf. Instead, we lowered ourselves down by the strength of our arms.

Breathing quick and sharp, we sat down and tossed the ice water over our shoulders and chest to make up for the lack of depth. Satisfied with the “plunge,” I patted myself dry with the single towel and then tossed it over to Jaap to do the same. I took off, running barefoot straight to the fire to throw the handful of pine needles onto the slow burning log. Flames erupted. Jaap threw the towel around my shoulders as I hopped from foot to foot, sleepiness chased away with the rush and shock.

.

I threw my burgundy plaid flannel over my bathing suit, we laced our shoes, tightened the backpack straps, and headed up the path to travel eight hundred feet in elevation in the mile-long stretch. The gear added weight and pressure to our backs and legs. It took conscious effort to keep close to Jaap. Clearing the top and stepping around the bend to meet Westie, we wasted no time in throwing our packs down in a sigh of relief. We changed clothes in the parking lot restrooms and brushed our teeth in the single drinking spout.

“Ready?” was our departure cue. I said a silent goodbye as we headed back to where we came from.

 

 

Oh Be Joyful Campground. Crested Butte, Colorado.

I opened up the paper map, flipping to Colorado. National parks lined up border to border in the western region. An endless number of dark green tepees indicated campsite options. After much debating, I found a place in Crested Butte called Oh Be Joyful Campground. No address was given, only some rough directions after reaching the town of Crested Butte.

Snow capped mountains slowly arrived in the distance. Roads rose and fell gradually. We passed through single stoplight towns with pickup trucks and run down gas stations. We made our way through a sleepy college town and onto the quiet mountain tourism of log cabin shops and homes. We made our first turn, and then were on the lookout for BLM Road 3220.

Thinking we should be at the cutoff, we veered onto a road bordering a private lake, but came across a gated neighborhood on a hill. We turned around and continued on until we found a parking lot where a wedding was in progress. Jaap turned quickly onto the parking lot’s road. We both knew it was the wrong road as soon as we were on it. It was steep and bumpy and grew to be narrow and tight. We had no choice but to travel three downward tiers to the lot beside the lake.

I hopped out of the passenger seat to help direct Jaap in flipping Westie 180 degrees. There was a car width space between a VW van and black Chevy. He backed up, pulled forward, reversed, and inched on as I directed him to stopping points. Winding our way up the parking lot hill, I noticed a faded brown sign farther down the road. “Ah! It’s 3220. It’s the road!”.

 

The road, we soon learned, was worse than the parking lot we had escaped out of. Jaap carved right and left to avoid the tallest rocks stuck perpendicular into the dirt and the deep crevices from the snow melt accumulation. I sat stock still, holding my breath. We paused at the side of the road during the last stretch as a truck blazed past us at full speed, bumping and bobbing without a care.

This hole in the wall camp was bustling with various tents, campers, hammocks, kayaks, mountain bikes, and jeeps and trucks (all rigged with large heavy duty tires). License plates were colored from across the country. We looked near the public restroom parking lot where the maroon metal poles with white numbers marked each camp lot. All of them were full, each appearing to have been permanently settled.

We wandered the camping area, following the river. I suppressed my growing discouragement. We spotted a few picnic tables across the river and the appearance of campsites peeping through riverbed trees. A blue and a red truck were parked near the tables.

“How did they get to that side?”

“I think they drove across,” Jaap concluded.

“They just drove across? So we could probably walk across.” Jaap seemed hesitant, but I kept pushing. Options appeared to be dwindling.

“River impassable during high water season,” a sign read. I had no idea when that would be (most likely now, considering winter snow would be melting. But I was too stubborn to consider that). I volunteered to see how deep it was.

The water had not quite reached my knees when the current began tugging me toward its route. My tedious walk became unbearable in the cold, especially when I noticed how far I still had to travel. I retreated back in frustration.

We wandered the narrow dirt path to the edge of the scattered camps, passing four makeshift setups. There were no campsite markers, but remnants of stay were evident. Somebody had maneuvered rocks into a ring, a tent sized shape was flat and smooth, and large trunks cut three feet in length were clustered near the misshaped rock fire ring. It contained a gorgeous view, the sounds of the rushing water three yards away, and it lived out of sight from the neighboring tent.

“Do you think we can stay here?” Jaap inquired.

“Somebody has stayed here before,” was my strongest excuse. The journey had been long in getting here – I was not ready to risk losing this find.

 

We began building the fire–collecting from the endless supply of fallen and dead timber. We threw the last packet of lentils, a packet of rice, and a packet of noodles into the pot. The pot hung in tense balance with only lopsided rocks to work with. I continually stirred the mixture to keep the grains from burning on the small surface area of lapping flames. Spiders began running out from under the rocks as the fire grew hotter. I felt overwhelmed: making sure the fire was hot enough, keeping the flames to where they were heating up the water, not letting the noodles and rice combination spill or burn to the pan, ignoring the spiders scrambling around my open-toed Birkenstocks.

We set up three of the stumps: one for our dinner table and the other two for chairs. Following dinner, Jaap created a contraption using a stump that held a long branch jutting out of  its midsection. The arm was used to hook onto the handle of my percolator, holding it just above the fire. With it snug onto the branch, we boiled water above the lapping flames for Dutch tea.

We crawled into the tent without the rain cover, while the stars slowly made themselves known. The mountain air was crisp. We buried ourselves deep in the sleeping bags and shoved the blankets inside. I wore all my layers, including gloves and a headwrap. I listened to the calming sound of the rushing river and the wind whistling through the evergreens as I shivered and waited for warmth to come.

 

We woke to the frigid air of a mountain morning. Jaap and I dragged ourselves from the layered cocoon to watch our breathes in the misty atmosphere. As we drank tea, lying side by side in our hammock, a guy clad in khaki popped up with no warning. He seemed taller than six foot, tanned, and bulky with muscle. I immediately saw the gun strapped to his cargo shorts.

“Hi there, folks. Do you guys live around here?”

“I’m from Denver, actually. We stayed the night and are leaving today,” I explained.

“Okay. I’m a BLM ranger and am checking to make sure people aren’t living here. We want other people to be able to enjoy the area. Make sure you clean up all the trash and pick up the area before you leave,” he said in a friendly, but authoritative manner.

“Will do. Have a good one!” I said with a smile and a wave.

“Did you see those guns? He had like three of them,” was Jaap’s response.

“Where’d he come from anyways,” I said perplexed.

 

On our way out of Oh Be Joyful, Westie stalled twice. We were stuck on the steep sandy hill, trying to avoid the jutting rocks. Jaap hooked the manual car sharp right and then gassed it to gain speed. The gears caught and the tires gripped. We were moving, but when our car was driving crooked I was not relieved. I leaned against the forty-five-degree angle, until we reached the flat ground.

Hiking our way up the Lupine Trail, we passed numerous mountain bikers of varying age racing down the path. We stepped aside into the mountain shrubs and wildflowers to let them fly past. My jaw dropped at the sight of their speed and maneuvering. After finally reaching the end, we sighed, sitting down for the first time in two hours. We remained still, contemplating the bird’s eye view of Crested Butte and marveling at the distance we had come. I admired the dirt caked under my nails and ground into the pores of my legs. I knew if I sat any longer all my muscles would stop wanting to work for me and getting back down would be of reluctant obedience.

Buena Vista. K’s Burgers.

We swallowed down the juicy hamburgers topped with mustard, ketchup, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles. I requested every topping, mainly for the sake of any flavor that wasn’t maple, peanut butter, or beans. The dripping meal quieted our growling stomachs and made our mouths water. Once the paper wrappers were licked clean, we got back in line at the glass window to order two vanilla waffle cones. I don’t think I’ve ever had a serving size of ice cream so large, but we licked every last drop of that giant scoop until our stomachs were full–a feeling we had forgotten. With that, it was time for our return. It was the bittersweet moment of coming home and leaving behind the adventures.

 

 

June 2016