We can see around the next bend. Our time as campground hosts here at Steamboat Lake is fast approaching its end. We loosely committed to staying until after Labor Day but the exact date of our departure has always remained liquid. It’s the usual way among campground hosts. You commit to work for a definitive time, say Memorial Day through Labor Day, but the actual date and times of arrival and departure ebb and flow with the season by a few days. For us, our departure date has revolved around voting in the upcoming presidential election and when could we visit our kids and grand kids with the Covid-19 pandemic still raging. Until just lately, we weren’t sure we would be able to see our family at all. Regarding the election our consideration has been centered on just how soon we could go and vote in person in South Dakota. We do not trust the mail right now. With all the hub bub around mail-in and absentee voting, we decided we will go to our legal state of residence, South Dakota, and vote in person. We will personally hand our votes to the legally recognized person in charge of handling votes in SD. It’s many hundreds of miles out of our way and quite a lot of gasoline expense. It’s that important to us.
As witness to how messed up the USPS is right now and why we hesitate to mail in our vote, Diane just received her Mother’s Day gift from Suni, our daughter about a week ago. I watched on line as it bounced weekly from Phoenix, Arizona to Denver, Colorado 8 separate times, bound in some kind of mail sorting snafu. I believe it would be going on still had I not been able to find a very helpful IT person in the USPS system who took mercy on me and my story and actually performed some gypsy wang dang doodle computer magic and stopped the insane postal merry go round of “Who’s got the cheese”. I can just see that same madness happening with our votes. No thank you. It’s too important to us. To summarize, then, the first available in person voting day in SD is September 21. We’ll be there.
I think the importance of voting is in my blood. I remember getting to vote when I reached 18. It was a new law, you could vote when you were 18, not 21. This was brought about due to the Viet Nam War. So many folks my age were getting drafted, but did not have the right to vote. My generation made a huge stink over it, as we did so many things ( the War, for instance ), and we won the right. My dad, a staunch Democrat, would call me the night before elections and say,” Get up early tomorrow, I’ll pick you up and we’ll go vote. Be ready at 6:30.” This was not an offer, it was a command. You will vote and I will see to it was the undertone. He needn’t worry. I was all about voting, anyway.
Then, when we reached the polling place he would say, “ Now, make it fast. When you get in there just pull the donkey’s tail and vote a straight ticket. Don’t even think about voting for a Republican.” Ha! I can hear him today. He regaled me often about how the Democrats saved the US during the Depression, Of course, my dad worked on government railroad projects in Alaska during the late 1930’s and he never forgot that experience. I remember it was a WPA project of some sort. Did I vote the straight ticket every time? No, I broke ranks now and then. To me the “Environment” has always been issue #1. Whomever is going to work hard on preserving this world for my kids and grand kids, and yours, gets my vote.
Way back during the early Road Apple band days...1972-76, stopping the proposed Meramec River dam became our band’s cause celebre. At the end of every show we would perform John Prine’s song, “Paradise” and include passionate pleas to our audience to do whatever they could politically to stop the dam. We made it as dramatic and as powerful a plea as we could. We had a very good fan following then and I can’t help but think we did some good on that issue. Senator John Danforth, Republican, stepped up and used his considerable influence, there was a vote on it, and the dam was stopped. One of the things Diane and I will do when we return to St Louis is we will float that Meramec River once again. We’ll cast our lures ‘neath a tall and graceful sycamore and hook into many old memories of joy on the river...while we create ever new ones that will last a lifetime. John Danforth, where have you gone?
Routte County is loaded for bear so to speak when it comes to outdoor enticements, things to see and do. Here is hiking galore and scenery unlimited. Though Diane and I have spent a lot of our free time enjoying what the area has to offer, there is still so much more to experience. That’s one of the benefits to camp hosting. You stay put in an area long enough to really, really experience it. You don’t just go for the greatest hits...you begin to live in the area...to experience the off-track things that 90% of the folks who visit never see. The locals begin to tell you about areas that they know of, where they go to when they need to recharge their batteries and seek solace and inspiration.
One of our new friends here, Tom, spoke to us in reverence of some places in the “Flat Tops” as they’re called. The Flat Tops are a lightly visited National Forest area about 30-40 miles southeast of Steamboat Springs. A dirt road leads you into the area and that in itself curbs a lot of tourist enthusiasm for visiting the area. I can see why Tom loves this area so. Tom is a former paratrooper and winter survival expert military trainer. Tom spent years in Alaska training with the military and later being a trainer in the art and science of winter survival in the wilds of Alaska. Tom will go to the Flat Tops and camp out solo in the winter, huddling in his survival gear for days at a time truly one with nature. Not apart, but part of, the winter mountains. When Tom told me of his favorite places in the Flat Tops, I knew we had to go there. To fail to do so would be in direct violation of the Nomad Creed. The Nomad Creed states that when a fellow wanderer like yourself entrusts you to his or her favorite off-track, must go there, hideaways, you must travel there or forever be banned from receiving priceless travel tips henceforth forever from fellow Nomads. We did abide. We went there.
Perhaps it was the time of year, perhaps it was the relatively hot summer, but the area was pretty desolate of people. You pick up this dirt road out of sleepy, dusty, Yampa and head up, up, and over a ridge-line of mountains ( The Flat Tops ) and then drop down into a gorgeous valley of Aspens and Lodgepole Pines laced with little streams and punctuated by lakes. Hiking trails lead off into undisturbed forest outbacks replete with large mammals and birds announcing your arrival to their comrades. We stopped at a lake called Vaughn and let the dogs out to relish in the mountain air and sunshine. You could easily tell they were as delighted as we were in the mountain atmosphere. They were quickly engaged in their favorite Colorado pastime, hunting mice and gold-mantled chipmunks. They never succeed, but love the hunt.
After a terrific lunch that Diane made up for us we began to head back towards Yampa as it was getting late in the day and it looked as if a storm were building some momentum over to the east. We will surely have to return here many times hopefully to really dig into the hiking and discover more hidden secrets of the area.
Returning back down the dusty road we stopped at a small lake fed by one of those great meandering streams lined with willow. We thought we would maunder a bit in the twilight. After a short time, a moment, a bull moose poked his head from the willows, apparently to join our daydream. He was 40 yards off and no imminent danger to us. A heck of a specimen. Such a thing to see...Massive, elegant, wild. Such are Bull Moose. Such are the Flat Tops.
Another side trip we made was to Rabbit Ears Pass, highway 40 leading up and over the eastern mountains out of Steamboat Springs. This is a long slug of a drive that will test the mettle of any RV. It’s not particularly scary, as many mountain passes in Colorado are. But it is a long one that could overheat many an RV engine before you reach the top. Once you reach the pass itself you have many choices to make. Dirt roads lead off in all directions to semi-wilderness areas, remote and wild, hard to get to, even in a Jeep. Hey, that’s what we do these days. That’s why we own a jeep, “Tank”.
We found a really remote area that opened to what I would call a glade….granite floor with sparse vegetation. A few pines managed to take root in the barren, rocky soil providing good shade. At one end of the small field giant granite boulders the size of houses were tumbled together to form a great lookout spot over the valley floor below cut by a small creek over the millions of years this place has existed. It reminded me a lot of Elephant Rocks state park back in southeastern Missouri. What a great spot to set up shop for a while and simply live! Diane brought her clay and busied herself meditatively crafting rattles that she would later fire in a kiln and paint to perhaps decorate the RV, or, give away to friends. They are really cool little treasures. An Indian basket of these will stun and delight your eyes. So creative and primitively exquisite. Maybe a Ute mother one time fashioned just such a toy for her baby here in this mountain enclave.
I brought Mr Worthington, my guitar of choice for 47 years. An acoustic instrument never sounds better than it does outdoors. There we sat for several hours, time itself becoming an unknown entity. Only the breeze, the pines, the silent granite, and the slowly drifting Sun were aware of our presence. A visage of Heaven, a high meditative plane, a moment unto itself for our little family... apart from the 21st century yet totally woven into the fabric of this small time and place. However you can describe this feeling of really living in the present, that was us. Diane in her art, the dogs lying under the shade of the pines, me, and my guitar. Only the setting of the Sun brought us out of our living dream.
I’m unsure if it happens this way every year here in Routt County, Colorado. One day Autumn arrived. I mean to say that it hit on one day. We went to bed the night before having been warned that an approaching storm was due and that temperatures would drop into the low 20’s if not teens. I fired up the ceramic heater and placed it near the water tanks to help keep them from freezing. I disconnected all the water hoses and drained them and made ready for the cold. We awoke to a snow storm that dumped 2-3 inches of wet snow. It was beautiful. Though it only lasted for the day, it was wondrous hiking through the Park. I snapped a dozen or more pictures of the wintry scenes, accented by a few colorful golden aspens. After that day, the temps stayed in the 60’s and 70’s for the highs and low 30’s for the nightly lows. The aspens continued their transitional march from green to golden. The hummingbirds, so amazingly plentiful at our feeder, left en mass for warmer climes. AND, the lake began to clear of algae. After just a few days of colder temps, the lake was declared safe again. The Rangers test it every day when it has algae to ensure it’s safe to enter. All tests were negative...which is positive in my book.
My friend and neighbor, Mitch dropped by to invite me to go fishing with a fellow camp host, Tim. Tim has a boat there with him at the lake that will comfortably seat 4. We set off about 7:30 AM the next morning, highly charged with anticipation. None of us had fished the lake for something like a month or more and we knew there were BIG trout in there. We’d caught big fish here before. Were they still active? Were they sluggish due to the algae life they had just gone through? All the typical questions about proper bait to use that day, where the fish would be found, and braggadocious claims of past victories that three men who love to fish could offer were slung about like seed from the hand of a farmer in the Spring. Briefly, my thoughts drifted back to trot-lining with my buddy Bob Breidenbach on the Cuivre River in Missouri.
We used to wade the lines in, neck deep, and tie them off on willows. This way you knew when fish were on since the willows would be shaking from the fish trying to get free. Tyeing them off on stable things like trees is not the way to do it since a catfish can pull the hook out of its mouth if it has enough resistance. Willows it must be. We always caught catfish...Blue cats, Guigons (flat heads), pretty channel cats. To this day I’ve never seen a more productive catfishery from such a small little stream. Wading in those lines at dusk and then running them throughout the night is pretty wild to boot. You get out there around 2:00 in the morning, pitch black, bugs swirling around your head like a mist, neck deep in muddy water with God knows what swimming between your legs. The anticipation is enormous. Then, you feel the unmistakable deep tug of Mr Cat. Have Mercy! The Righteous Catfish...Gift of The River Spirits...The Golden Fleece of Missouri Rivers (well, I’d have to throw in Smallmouth bass into this category, too).
Abruptly, I was snapped back into the present by the shout from Tim, “Big fish on!” Mitch had the first fish of the day, a whopper. It was a a 20+” Rainbow trout. We hooted and hollered. “That’s what we’re talkin’ ‘bout.” bellowed Tim. We decided to stay put right where we were on the lake. We had a good hole here, deep water where the bottom temperature was still cold enough to entice good trout. We found their hideout. We stayed at that hole all morning and well into the afternoon. Mitch ended up catching two or three. Tim caught four or so. But me, I must have caught 18 or more. It was my day. Somehow my karma was coming in loud and clear and good. I must have been exceedingly good to someone along the way to warrant this kind of success. Maybe it was all that litter I had picked up all Summer long. Who knows? I wasn’t going to challenge the notion. Tim laughed as he made fun of my “hillbilly” fishing technique for catching trout. Good fun among guys, new friends with lots in common. That’s what the day was all about.
Quite a few of the trout I caught that day were in the 22” plus category. All the fish were generally much larger than those you would catch in Missouri. We kept some, but released the vast majority back into the fertile waters. Mitch declared he would make Sushi from the largest one I had caught. Tim declared he would cook up a batch of his famous pasta with meat balls, a day-long challenge of his chefhood. I declared I would come over and eat. Ha! I will declare this also: That dinner the next evening, attended by all three of us and our better ¾’s ( spouses ) was exquisite. I have to say, that trout Sushi was remarkable. I hesitated to eat it, but after the first bite it was I who was hooked. Somehow, some way, some of the Rangers got wind of the feast and just happened to stop by. There was plenty for all.
The Rangers told us stories of trapping mischievous bears and relocating them into the nearby wilderness, traipsing and hacking through the woods at night looking for hunters and campers who had campfires going in violation of the fire ban, angry moose encounters...In short, all the neat stuff you love to hear from Rangers. That’s how they contributed to the feast. We told fish stories. Some true as evidenced by the Sushi, and some kind of true. It didn’t matter. We were all there because of our mutual love of the land, respect for the natural gifts the Good Lord had given us, and the sublime satisfaction of good conversation and shared experience with new friends.
Along with Autumn’s arrival, the haze and smoke from wildfires moved in. Dozens, if not multitudes of fires in California along with the 3 or 4 local fires that were still out of control filed our eyes and lungs with lingering haze, a trashy amber color. Even the afternoon breezes, fairly strong here, did not lift or move out the haze. They just brought more. Although it makes for wild sunsets, this haze is a constant reminder of what’s happening to the country, the planet. It’s drying out precipitously in some areas and historically flooding in others. Folks who live around here are worried. This has been a very, very dry summer. Great for tourists, but bad for the forest and the wildlife. The undercurrent of coolness in the air and the brightening of the aspens into golden blankets against the evergreens assuages the angst of the times quite a bit, though, and moods are pleasant and happy.
Labor Day arrived as did the last throng of campers. 99% well-behaved, these holiday campers are so much more civilized acting than holiday campers in Missouri, our own home state. We got to where we would not go out into the country or on the rivers floating in Missouri during holiday rushes. So many drunks and party people. F-Bombs echoing off limestone bluff walls. I have nothing against a good party. Hell, I used to get pretty loaded on the river myself. I get it. Let loose, let the steam off. But, when the river is packed shore to shore with shouting, peeing, obnoxious people most of the joy of being outdoors in nature is lost. It’s not that way here in Colorado, at least not in this part of the state.
A new camp host couple arrived to take the place of a couple at Pearl Lake, 6 miles down the road, who abruptly left when they heard a wild fire was approaching their home near Grand Junction, Colorado. Shawn David Allen is the gentleman’s name. He is an accomplished entertainer playing popular songs on his guitar with a great singing voice. He entertains in the bars at the ski slopes during the winter. He is quite good. Kelly, the Admin. Assistant here who is our supervisor, came up with the idea of having us both play as a duet on a pontoon boat for the guests during the Labor Day weekend. Well, this was a new venue for me for sure. How could I refuse?
Kelly motored us around the lake near to the various spots on shore where the campgrounds were. We really got into it and played our hearts out, jamming and singing and having a great time. We had never played together so we created a routine where we traded off back and forth who would take the lead on a song while the other fella would add whatever they could on guitar or maybe a harmony bit on singing. It worked out amazingly well. I was a little apprehensive that folks would find our music “intrusive”...not what they came to the mountains for. But, the folks cheered from the shores, some waving flashlights like lighters at a rock show. Some delivered request via kayak and canoe. Shawn provided a PA and we both brought amps so there was no problem being heard on shore. Our music echoed off the mountain sides. The sun was setting and it was a pretty cool scene. We ended our little show with the great John Denver song, “Rocky Mountain High” It was more than fitting. We had a marvelous time and I think the campers did, too.
The next day as Diane and I were making our rounds in the campground cleaning camp sites several families came up and complimented the “performers” on the pontoon boat. They had no idea it was me since I was some distance away. It was a great idea from Kelly. She vowed to make it an annual event. Why not?
As we wrap things up and prepare to hit the road again we make our rounds to bid farewell to our new friends and the Rangers along with Kelly, our supervisor. Diane and I counted our treasure. We count two different kinds of treasure as camp hosts. Treasure are things we find of some kind of value that campers leave behind. It it’s more than $10.00 in value in our estimation we report it to the lost and found department. If no one claims it after an appropriate period of waiting we keep it or the Park officials give it away. One type of Treasure is actual items of value people leave. The other is type is large litter that we can clean the area of. An example might be a 4 year old soda can under a bush. Perhaps a plastic bread bag stuck in a tree limb. Once I found a wood pallet washed up on the shoreline. Where that came from I have no idea.
Just for kicks, here is a list of our Treasure that I can remember from this round of camp hosting:
a $20.00 bill
$2.29 in change
two really nice camp chairs
three good tactical-type knives
about FIVE dozen tent stakes
two bags of charcoal
several tents, crumpled up as if in disgust
several of those 10’x10’ shelters that you see at craft shows. Frustrated campers have trouble packing them up, or they get blown to shreds during high wind events which are common here. Folks just pitch them.
A brand new pair of men’s socks
a really nice brand new Cabella’s duffel bag
a camper’s axe
a new paintbrush
a brand new women’s visor
about a cord of store-bought firewood
2 glass pipes for smoking weed
a tackle box with a dozen crappie lures ( why crappie lures at a gold-medal trout lake?)
dozens of small toys
around 6-7 tennis balls, apparently dog toys
a dog run
a new dog leash
several hats of various kinds
all sorts of fishing lures and hooks (particularly dangerous when left at a camp site)
a child’s fishing pole
several pair of flip flops
a couple pair of shoes
And, here’s a report on the most common litter items we would find:
all manner of plastic pieces...who knows what they once were.
bread ties, by far, are the most common single item. Both the twisty type and the large plastic snap type
hershey bar wrappers (for S’mores)
candy wrappers
beer bottle caps
beer can tabs
The tubular plastic end-pieces from marijuana pre-wrapped joints
Diane is fanatical about picking up litter. I am infected as well. Our motto and goal for camp hosting is, “Zero Litter”. I really think we left the campgrounds and the Park in general (as we would some days range around the Park and just pick up litter) much cleaner than we found it.
During our last day at the Park Kelly stopped by with a couple of sticks of character that she had picked up in the woods. She wanted me to teach her how to make hiking sticks. I had fashioned perhaps a dozen or so from the local forests and donated them to the Park so they could sell them and make a little coin. I’d write a few lines about where I found them and then I’d give them a name, like the “Grey Ghost”. We’d hang the little marketing slips with the info on the sticks to make them even more sell-able. Apparently, the office staff bought a few right out of the box. So, Kelly and I together made a hiking stick. Now she knows the primitive art of hiking-stick making. It’s a decent hobby, I’ve found. The only problem is, as I hike through woods I seem to be always looking at fallen trees to see if there is a good “stick candidate” laying there.
It was a bit melancholy leaving the Park. We really did have a momentous time here and we made so many new friends. Farewells instead of goodbyes. We’ll meet again, I’m certain. We have their contact information and they have ours. That’s how Nomads travel. New friends all over the country.
We loaded up Nell, our motor home, fired up Tank the Jeep, and headed out, up and over the Rabbit Ears Pass to 14 Highway north, State Forest State Park, Colorado, and whatever lay ahead.