I haven’t hit a keystroke for this journal now for 4 months. It seems the Muse had left me and I had so many opportunities for living presenting themselves every morning when I like to write these missives. I simply didn’t sit down to write for a while. So, I will take a different approach to cataloging within this section of my blog and record this summer’s journey in reverse order, August 31st through June and early May.
Diane and I took a walk last evening right before sunset along a path among the gigantic Cottonwoods that line the northern bank of the Missouri River here in Frenchtown. (an old St Charles, MO neighborhood) The trees stretch mightily to the sky seemingly attempting to catch the aircraft that use this corridor to take off and land at nearby Lambert International Airport. Their leaves constantly rustle even when there is seemingly no breeze. This evening there is a strong breeze, however. It is rolling down the river and through the Cottonwoods. Low clouds are moving fast, foretelling a cold front is on its way here. The air is refreshing and smells of earth and wood and green growing things. Our dogs, Dash and Heidi, step lively and keep their noses pointed up into the breeze, savoring the splendid earthly odors of the little riverine forest. The mighty Missouri is up and running, having been channelized some decades ago for commercial river traffic, which, at least currently, is virtually non-existent. The river valley is alive and present and nature is in control tonight in this green oasis amongst the urban sprawl of St Charles, MO. We feel so alive. I resolve to start writing about our travels again come dawn as I have so often in the past.
This area, arguably more than any other area of Missouri, carries its history proudly on its shoulders. Though the present-day St Charles is a fast-growing urban metropolis in itself, a little brother to St Louis and its suburbs, its past is always present and on display. Sometimes stately, and at other times shabby, it’s here in spades. You can feel it, you can see it, you can taste it in the wind. A typical river town with hills that grow westward from the Missouri, many neighborhoods retain beautiful old homes from a bygone time when individuality crowned home architecture. Many feature broad, expansive front porches that catch the cool afternoon breezes from the river below. Even the old, old French homes built 200 years ago had large, intentional, purposeful front porches. This town was founded and built by French explorers and trappers as was St Louis. Gradually, German immigrants made their way here and settled in the Missouri River valley that stretches clear across the state like a muddy aquatine belt that holds up Missouri’s pants.
It is a fertile place...as fertile as any you will find on this planet. These big rivers, The Missouri, the Mississippi, The Illinois, and the Meramec all meet near St Louis a scant few miles from here. In their day they freely moved back and forth at will with the years across the broad valleys that contained their flow...as if you can ever contain the flow of a river for very long. Thus, their valleys became intermittent river beds chock full of the continent’s sediment, richly dark, deeply laid, and willing to grow the seeds of almost anything placed within their care. The soil here will swallow you up eventually after you’ve run your race. Now and then ancient artifacts will fight their way up from the collective loam of the valley. Indigenous peoples moved through here constantly. The fertility of the place was so attractive to life itself. Nomadic hunters and gatherers left their spear points all over the valleys. A good storm will often raise them to the surface of the soil for a fresh life in the sun. The Mound Builders of Cahokia ruled this area for centuries leaving their grand earthen pyramids behind as a testament to their civilization and capacity for trade throughout the Americas. Next came the wandering bands of Osage, the Kickapoo, The Sak and Fox, the Shawnee, and others who thrived on the plentiful game that easily replenished itself within the green hills and valleys of these rivers. The French came to trade with them. Trinkets and tools for furs, beaver mostly. The Germans came to farm the land and recreate a semblance of their homeland before the plutocrats and barons starved them off the European continent. Remnants of the French and German immigrants lay all over this land.
Yesterday, September 21, I rode my bike east on the Katy Trail towards the confluence of the Missouri, Illinois, and Mississippi rivers. The Katy Trail is the restored roadbed of the old Kansas, Missouri, and Texas Railroad. It has been re-purposed into a bike trail that spans the width of the state east to west. As I rode west to east along the Missouri River I passed along the huge Cottonwoods I mentioned earlier. Intermittently they gave way to hundreds and hundreds of acres of corn and soybeans soaking in the sunshine and damp, rich soil...growing before my very eyes. As I pedaled along it seemed as if the river was growing ever more anxious as it neared its confluence with the Mississippi. I certainly was. After about 9 or 10 miles I arrived at a little village called, “Black Walnut”. Here German immigrants came to start a new life some 200+ years ago. A small grove of Black Walnut trees shelter a cemetery there of those original immigrants. Over the decades it had become buried beneath the ever deepening topsoil. Once again, the valley gave up its past as a few headstones peaked out after the flood of 1993 and interested local descendants cleared the soil to reveal the historical place. The Black Walnuts have always been here. Perhaps they will continue on for decades and centuries to come.
“How Far is it to Goodland?”...
The old fiddle tune, “How Far is it to Goodland?” I learned as an early 20-something string band guitar player always comes to mind when I find myself traversing the width of Kansas. The tune was written by some wayfaring fiddle player who grew tired and impatient as he traveled east to west across the seemingly endless prairies of the Sunflower State, Goodland then being a hamlet on the western edge of the great prairie. Diane and I were doing the traverse in reverse. Nell, our trusted motor home, faithfully took us down I-70 toward the Gateway City. Cross-winds buffeted our vessel as we bounded eastward, leaving our mountain home of the summer fading into the clouds behind us. We noticed it getting hotter and a little more humid than we were used to. It being September, summer still had a lot to say before she left for the year. We, being at lower altitudes, could feel the change of easier oxygen intake and and more H2O in the atmosphere. We were leaving The West and entering The Midwest, the Home of the Sultry Summers.
Since we recently joined Harvest Hosts, the club, so to speak, of travelers who can stay for free at farms, wineries, brew houses, and golf clubs, I had mapped out several participants along I-70 where we could spend a night on our way to St Louis. Reaching Abilene, KS, we found our first Harvest Host farm that we would experience. Abilene, of course, is the birthplace of Dwight D Eisenhower and the town has devoted itself to preserving his accomplishments and legacy. Abilene is a friendly little town. One can spend a day or two there as a visitor and really enjoy the folks and assortment of small town amenities and museums. We chose the farm.
We found the farmstead a few miles north of the interstate and settled Nell on a flat, grassy spot next to the chicken coop. Dozens of pecking hens rambled around our little house on wheels inspecting the tires and the undercarriage curiously. Goats, some with fully rounded horns, rambled around the property nervously looking for competitive males to bang heads with. Often they found that competitor and they would stand up on their hind legs and lunge headfirst at their opponent. The sharp bang of their horn's collisions became regular and the other farm critters seemingly didn't notice the noise any longer. Some sheep chewed lazily in the grass. A few donkeys brayed out behind the barn, seemingly always hungry though they looked fat and happy to me. Diane was in near heaven.
Some of Diane’s fondest memories are of regular visits to her grandmother’s little farm in Green Castle, MO. Diane mingled with the farm animals speaking to them in the timeless tones we all believe they find pleasant and reassuring. Diane communicates easily with all manner of animals, she always has. I tell her she is the reincarnation of St Francis of Assisi whose most frequent portrait shows him with outstretched arms, little birds perching on his fingertips.
Sunset here brought a magnificent splendor and aura of peace to us as the fractured light tinged the vast farmland with amber tones. The milo field next door to us blazed golden. Katydids, those familiar songsters of the east, began their droning mantra. There came a hint of coolness in the air, refreshing and familiar at the same time. A small group of coyotes let loose with some lonesomely long calls from perhaps a mile away. Kansas can offer peace and a restfully spiritual environment if you allow it.
The next morning we were given a full tour of the farm by our hosts. It was as if they were professional guides. We actually learned quite a bit about farm life with these particular species of livestock and chickens. We bought 4 dozen of the best chicken eggs imaginable, some wool kits for the grandkids to enjoy playing with, and bid our goodbyes to the couple who owned this little farmstead in central Kansas. At no other time during our lives would we have considered spending a valuable day of vacation listing leisurely on a little farm in Kansas. We would have been too busy getting from here to there, flying by on the Interstate, anxious to get to some destination. God bless retirement and for the time and awareness of simply being wherever it is you are. God bless Kansas and this farmstead couple who have found a way to live their lives in that fashion every day.
The Front Range for a Hot Minute…
John Michael and Leslie, a couple we shared campground duties with at Steamboat Lake State Park, turned us on to the Harvest Hosts club. Joining this club for roughly $100.00 per year a traveler gains access to hundreds of farms, wineries, brew houses, and golf clubs across the US. The agreement with the Hosts is that you can park your camper/motor home/tent on their property for free for one night. No electric or water hook-up is provided and there is no dump station, but, you are allowed to park for free. In exchange you might purchase something from the host that they have for sale. In the case of a golf course you might play a round of golf or buy something from their pro shop. At a winery you might snag a bottle of their wine. John Michael shared lots of pictures with us of places they had stayed through Harvest Hosts. It sure seemed like a great way to get off the beaten path of RV Parks when you’re traveling cross country and aren’t near a state park or forest service campground. We decided to opt in for a year and give it a try.
Racing down the eastern edge of the front range of the Rockies through Fort Collins and Denver, then Colorado Springs, we found our first Harvest Host location at which we could stay and try out our new club. I have to say that I-25 which runs north and south between those points is one long traffic jam these days. Colorado’s population is exploding and this must be where all the folks are coming. Have mercy, driving Nell through all the construction and traffic along this route is tiresome and nerve- wracking to say the least! Cherokee Ridge Golf Course was our destination and we found it nestled on a little hill overlooking the valley of Colorado Springs and Pike’s Peak.
Cherokee Ridge is a wonderful golf course. They have a challenging par 3 course as well as a 9 hole regulation course that you can play twice for your 18 hole round. The greens are double-fast and in super shape. They allow the fairways to grow just a tad long and the rough is deep and green. I figure that they keep the grass a little high to compensate for the extra length you can get from your driver and long irons due to the mile high altitude. Our first afternoon upon arrival we played the par 3 and really enjoyed it, though a storm blew up quickly around the end of our round and started blowing everything that was not tied down all over creation. The next morning we played 9 regulation holes and had a marvelous time. For me, it was one of my better rounds in quite some time. If I remember correctly I shot a 43 or 44 for 9 holes.
The views from this course are inspiring as you literally always see Pike’s Peak commanding presence overseeing the valley floor. The price was moderate and in my estimation a good deal for what you received in terms of quality. The service from the attendants was excellent as well. All in all we began our Harvest Host experience on a high note and are happy we bought in to the program. I still wonder how the place got the name, Cherokee Ridge, though. The Cherokee tribe historically were never near this area geographically. If it were called, Arapaho or Cheyenne Ridge I think it would be more believable...but that’s just me and my logic. For the reader, we highly recommend Cherokee Ridge Golf Course in Colorado Springs. As for the Harvest Host program, we’re off to a great start.
State Forest State Park and Cameron Pass, returning to one of our favorite places…
Diane and I pondered over which direction and route to travel from Steamboat Lake back to St Louis. The two routes we landed upon were both known to us, we’d done them before. Should we travel due south to I-70 or back over the Rabbit Ears Pass and then quickly north for 50 miles to State Forest State Park and across Cameron Pass to I-25, then south to I-70? Either route gives you a lot of bang for your travel buck. I was a little apprehensive about taking Nell over the Cameron Pass since I hadn’t traversed it before and I feared it a very long and steep ascent. We eventually landed on the notion of revisiting State Forest State Park, even though it meant climbing Cameron Pass. We had stayed there last year during early Fall and loved it. Why not go there and do some more exploring of the region? Done...that was the decision.
As it turns out, that was a great decision. The gradual climb from Walden, CO to the State Park takes you from high prairie lands through gradually changing biomes and ecosystems, eventually landing you in alpine country. All the while during your drive you criss-cross the Michigan River, a bucolic little stream that is steadily regaining its lost nature as a haven for beaver and moose. Little mountain brooks and streamlets feed into the river at various points recharging the mountain character of the Michigan River as it snakes onto the prairie below. Willow line its banks, perfect habitat for moose. Indeed, they count over 600 moose in the region and the locals proclaim the region the “Moose Capital of Colorado”. I think they’ve hit the mark head on with this moniker. The early European explorers were deeply drawn to this area for the wildlife that flourish here. The Tribals who had been here for centuries were not going to simply walk away and give it up. Fighting over it was bound to ensue.
Hiking is a treasure-laden excursion here. There are dozens of high quality hikes with exhilarating climbs and views at every turn. One morning Diane and I took on a wide-open 6 mile hike through rolling foothills and mountain meadows. As I recall it was named, Custer Draw Trail. We saw no one along the route and the silence of our hike, save our minimal conversation, was prepossessing to the extreme. Now and then we would come across the prints of a bear or deer who used the dirt road as a highway to their day’s (or night’s) destination.
On yet another day we ventured high into the “Crags”, that sharp-toothed arrangements of sheared-off cliffs and towering bluffs, to hidden Lake Agnes nearly 10,000’ in altitude. It appeared as a blue diamond set amidst a ring of volcanic rock of various hues. An island perched near the center, perhaps 150’x150’ north to south, east to west. A gentle issue of water leaked from the northeastern side of the lake forming a montaine stream that eventually, miles later, became a channelized water supply for Fort Collins far below the pass. We could have lingered there for many hours if not days. My mind drifts back there often these days.
During two of the early mornings while we camped here I ventured out by myself climbing the trail behind our campground. I believe it was called, “7 Utes Trail”. I know not the story behind the name. But, I do know that the trail climbs quickly and challengingly causing me to rest a few times to catch my breath. Again, the solitude of the place is unmatched. It was as if the entire hike were a meditation. The only sounds on those mornings were the occasional song bird and the pine cones dropping and bouncing off fallen timber that the ubiquitous squirrels were pulling and throwing from the pines. Winter’s sustenance was being collected, cataloged, and stored. On my way down from the mountain along the trail one morning I encountered fresh bear scat, evidence that I was not as alone as I had thought. Rangers told me that wolves will be reintroduced into Colorado soon by a decree from the voting public. I was told by a Colorado State Wildlife Manager in Routte County that they are already in Colorado in this northeastern section. They have migrated here from the Greater Yellowstone area up in Wyoming.
These mountains here in State Forest State Park are called the “Never Summer Mountains”. They are the literal back door to Rocky Mountain National Park, bordering its western flank. Much less visited and explored than the National Park, most of the same geology and certainly the thrill of the scenery is evident here. While elk may not be as plentiful as in Rocky Mountain State Park, the moose are seemingly everywhere. I believe we counted 4 or 5 this trip in various areas. Such a grand animal to encounter...such strength and stature...and dangerous as well. Isn’t that one of the reasons we come to these areas of wilderness? Don’t we at least secretly enjoy the prospect of a degree of vulnerability? Don’t we all pine to reconnect with our former place in nature’s grand scheme? For Diane and me it is an over-arching aspect of our travels.
Attack of the Porcupines…
All summer long we’ve incorporated hiking into our daily routine. This includes our pets, Dash and Heidi as well. Often we took them with us up into the mountains to walk a path or a dirt road into the mystic. Most regularly I would take them for a walk or a short hike around the environs of the State Park, favoring places where I knew we’d encounter few if any other humans. During our stay they fancied themselves great and successful chipmunk hunters of the first order...top shelf...head of the class. Sniffing the little critters out of their hiding places became their obsession. Most days I took them up Tombstone Trail on the eastern boundary of the Park. This is a one mile long trail that gives inspirational views of the area and offers short transects through several geological and flora environments. The views of Sand Mountain, Hahn’s Peak, and the Lake itself never ever failed to move me emotionally. Even around the lot where we parked Nell they never lost their dedication to the cause, bolting pell mell from the opened door into the brush, stacked lumber, and innocuous hiding places scrambling for a leg up on their quarry. As the fates would have it, they never caught said chipmunks, though they were always the literal nose away from victory. They so enjoyed their roles in the hunt.
I’ve always been alert to the possibility of stumbling upon wildlife while hiking. I keep alert and scan the peripheries of my field of vision for sightings. So often along these hikes a mule deer, perhaps even a mother with its yearling, would bound up out of a shaded resting place and dart away from us, jumping as it climbed the hillside as a kangaroo might. As this was a season of several bear sightings I was alert for them as well, and as always, in the back of my mind I considered the cougar who may see the dogs and me as breakfast. Coyotes are an issue here, too. Their lonesome calls at night are common. Of course, the run-in with a fully loaded skunk was the most plausible conflict I considered. This was to be avoided at all costs, Diane and I having been through that stink bomb twice with dear late Maxine, our black Sheba Inu/Schipperke mix. Never ever did I think for a moment that we’d run into a porcupine. Actually, I can’t recall ever seeing one in the wild so it never crossed my mind that they could be lurking in the tall grass awaiting a bushwhacking opportunity.
One Sunday morning nearing the end of our stay at Steamboat Lake at the tail end of a tame hike along the Cottonwood Trail I took the dogs off their leashes to give them a little free time. Maybe this would be the day they actually caught a chipmunk? We were walking along the short stretch of path that led to the Maintenance Shed where we lived. No guests of the campground or hikers would be there and so I thought it OK to set them free to run a bit. A slight movement in the high grass to my left caught my eye, but not before it caught Dash’s perview. In a leap he was on top of the movement. Within a nano-second he was crying loudly and running away down the path in abandon. Barbed quills stuck out at every angle from his leg and face, though the leg took the brunt of the attack. He had been had. Not only was he not the victor of this short battle, he was its lone victim...and injured victim he was!
As quickly as I could I chased him down and tried to calm him, though holding him was challenging as those quills would dart into me as easily as they did Dash. Dash has a severe heart murmur which we’ve been treating him for and I thought for a moment he might have a heart attack and die right there. Once Dash realized that I was trying to help him he calmed enough for me run with him in my arms back to the motor home, calling for Diane as loudly as I could. Having never experienced this trauma before we didn’t know what to do. Should we try to pull them out? Would they break off in his muscles if we tried? What to do?? Off we drove the 30 miles into Steamboat Springs where an animal hospital was open. Diane drove while I cradled Dash and tried to stave off that heart attack I so surely thought was coming at any moment. Dash hung in there like a champ though his facial and ear expressions gave away his self-defeated emotions.
The doctor at the hospital gave us a couple of options. They could knock him out and remove the damn quills which would be less painful for him, but...there would be no guarantee that his heart could stand the drugging. The second option was to give him something like a Valium to calm his nerves while they pulled out the quills with a glorified pliers that undoubtedly had a Latin name so they could charge more for them. (Yankum Horribillum would be my guess) “Oh, and by the way, we should administer this battery of tests to determine how badly his heart is functioning so that we can accurately assess which extraction method we should elect to go with. The cost you ask? Only $1,400.00 US dollars.” “We’ll go with the Valium.” I replied...”the $400.00 option.”
All in all Dash was a star throughout the pulling of the quills. I doubt I would have behaved as well myself. I now know that barring the worst case scenario involving a porcupine, I can probably remove the quills myself, though I may wish I had a few Doggie Valium handy. As it turned out, Dash favored a bad limp for two days and we couldn’t figure out why until Diane discovered a deeply buried quill that was still injected right into his paw joint. Poor guy must have had terrible pain. Diane latched on to the quill and pulled it out entirely with no breakage. Immediately, Dash stopped limping and was as happy as a lottery winner. No charge from Dr Diane. Oddly enough, though I had never before seen a porcupine alive in the wild before this encounter, within a few days we had seen three more in the area. And so it goes. One lives and learns.
Wild Fish and Wild Animals…
North Routte County is a feast for the senses. Wild mountain streams, some so small you can hop across and others so swift you cannot remain upright if you tried to wade across them, lace its thickly forested mountain sides and undulating valleys. A few have been dammed to create sapphire and emerald lakes. Steamboat Lake, Pearl Lake, Hahn’s Peak Lake are my most favorite, though dozens of natural Alpine lakes hide in pocket valleys among the peaks. Cool, crisply clean water make up the veins and arteries of the region. It seems to us that the region is near virginal in its opposition to pollution. True, thousands of visitors come here for that very opportunity of solace and respite, and so some pollution is unavoidable. However, I can tell you firsthand and unequivocally that the visitors to this area are immeasurably more conscientious about litter than say those in Texas or Arizona where we also camp host. You can put Missouri in that list of littering addicted territories. Additionally, I can find no evidence of any runoff from agriculture or industrialized farming. Even the algae that closed Steamboat Lake last summer I’m told by the rangers is a cyclical and natural occurrence. We saw none of that toxic slime this summer. This makes for a very healthy environment for wildlife, which we love to see.
The black bear population here and in Steamboat proper is flourishing. Very often as we hike throughout the area we find bear tracks and scat. This summer there were three bears in the State Park area. One was shot and killed by the wildlife manager as it had habituated itself too well within Hahn’s Peak Village, actually breaking into homes and raiding them for food. When the rangers catch a bear that has remained too long in the proximity of people and becomes habituated they tranquilize them and carry them into the wilderness areas north of here and release them with a tag. If they catch the same bear a second time they put them down. It’s unfortunate. The local wildlife manager told me that out of say 10 bears in recent years that he has caught, tagged and released, only one remains in the wild. The balance have found their way back to civilization and continue raiding for human food. So, it is true that the black bears’ greatest threat is the availability of human food. I’m also told that typically the bears who raid homes and trash dumps are getting too old to hunt and go for the easy pickins in town.
Moose are very plentiful in Routte County as well. We viewed three this summer without really searching for them. They are so massive to see. The streams here are lined with willows and the moose find the tender branches and twigs they provide irresistible. Red Fox are plentiful as well. Throughout the late summer we noticed one in particular who liked to walk the main road here, CR 129. I’m sure he was scrounging for road kill. He appeared old and scraggly. Others we would see dart through the camp or dodge us on a trail as we unexpectedly came up on them.
Of course, the Sand Hill Cranes here are an inspiring sight...and sound. There are four who seem to live here throughout the summer and we’d see them and hear them every single day. Their calls sound like Pterodactyls or Velociraptors from Spielberg’s Lost World series of movies. They strut about the low areas where the small pools of water have formed from the various little streamlets. They are shy and wary of humans. It’s difficult to sneak up on them for a picture or a closer glimpse of their majesty. However, if you are able to sneak up on them they give you a special insight into a rare species of very large birds. The closer you are able to get to them the more detailed and subtle their coloration appears to you. Elegant birds, these Sand Hills are.
The Beavers here are plentiful as well. We watched a pair who had dammed up the creek that feeds Hahn’s Peak Lake so thoroughly that their new lake covered the road into the camp area. They were so playful, seemingly joyful at the very prospect of simply living. Beaver dams are evident on nearly every small stream in the area. Their lodges and dams are affirmation that given the chance, wilderness will return to an area. Of course, beaver were the main attraction to the early white explorers to the area. Mountain men found this area a virtual Eden when they first arrived, though the native Utes were not going to leave without a fight. I was enlightened by Jay May, a pre-eminent area cowboy and 5th generation homestead family member, that up on the Wyoming border lie the remnants of a battle wherein the Utes attacked a company of trappers in a cabin-like fort. Jim Bridger, the most famous of the mountain men, was present for the fight. Ute pictographs are reportedly all throughout the area if you know where to look for them. Reportedly, most are on private ranches. Jay tells me they are here scattered all around the valley. He tells that the Arapaho would come up here and hunt and raid the Utes often but never established themselves permanently. The Utes persevered, until the white men overran them.
Mule deer are seemingly everywhere up here, though I haven’t counted any white tail deer that I can recall. I love they way they jump as they run away when you come across them. They seem like kangaroos or perhaps an antelope the way they bound. Rambunctious chipmunks scurry around by the bushel-full in the sage and underbrush of the forest. A pair of Swainson’s Hawks circle our camp area daily. Eagles, ospreys, even a pair of pelicans hang out by the Lake. Of course, the ubiquitous Canadian Geese are here, too. Natural food is abundant here. This abundance carries over to the fishing that is to be had in the lakes and streams. The Natural Order is close to being in control in this very large island of Government lands.
Steamboat Lake has been given the crowning achievement of being classified as a Gold Medal Trout Lake. There are two total in Colorado. The trout fishing here at Steamboat Lake is like no other lake or stream I have ever fished. In all the times Diane and I have fished here we have been skunked maybe 2 or 3 times. That’s out of perhaps 50 or so trips to the water. Every week or so Diane would turn to me and say, “Let’s have trout for dinner tonight”. Sure enough, we’d go down to the Lake and catch 2, then quit. Even when the lake was being generous to us and providing bite after bite, we felt that we should only take what we were going to eat that night. To waste this resource by freezing left over freshly caught fish would be a sin. We would simply stop fishing, so as not to endanger the trout by hooking them. As Levon Helm of The Band sang on “The Night They Drove Ol’ Dixie Down”...”Just take what you need and leave the rest.”
The last trout we caught on Steamboat Lake the day before we left were the most exquisite of the entire summer for us. Diane and I went out in our kayaks one last time the day before we left. It was midday no less, hot for this high altitude of 8500’. The Lake, though still relatively full for this time of year, was dropping. Our plan was to simply circle Bridge Island and then load the boats on to the Jeep for the next day’s journey back towards St Louis. Why not drop a line while we were at it? We were skeptical due to the conditions and the time of day. Even after being here nearly 6 months over 2 years we had not fished the entire lake yet. However, I mentally marked every area that I knew held fish. Last year’s best producing spot was not holding up as this year’s best. This year’s Honey Hole was located about 100 yards off the Island on a line directly between the second cat tail grouping from the little bridge and Sand Mountain. It was right at the start of our planned little excursion for the day. Every single time I fished that hole...boom...fish on! You had to be exact, though. I would let the wind carry me in my kayak down a line about 40 yards long perpendicular to the shore. The key is to keep your bait moving, but not too fast, as you drifted along.
Within 8-10 minutes, boom, the fight was on. I had switched from 6 lb test line to 8 lb test half way through the summer because I had lost fish due to broken line with the size, bite, and pull of these finny fighters. This particular trout did not move much when he first hit my line. He was trying his best to resemble a log I suppose. But, once he realized I was seriously after him he went to work, darting, leaping a few times, running under the kayak, and literally pulling the boat a little. I felt sure he would break the line, but I had my drag set near perfectly. Finally, I had him netted. Though I didn’t measure him I’m very certain he was in the 22-24” category, a Cutbow. (half Rainbow/half Cutthroat Trout) By God, a real big beauty by any standard! Within moments Diane called out, “John, Oh, I got a big one!” I quickly got my fish on a stringer and paddled fast towards Diane in her kayak. I had the net, so my getting to her was critical. We thought her fish would break off, too. He was another bruiser. She expertly moved the fish in close where I could net it. This one would go every bit of 18-20” and it was another Cutbow! We were hootin’ and hollerin’ and both laying claim as to whose fish was bigger. And, all this during a midday heat wave with the lake falling and not a cloud in the sky.
I tell you the truth, this lake produces big fish. I say the average size of the trout there is 15-17 “ and when they are biting you could, if you paid no heed to conserving this wonderful resource, catch dozens in an outing, though somehow, I see most folks getting skunked. When you fish a lake once it’s hard to know HOW and WHERE to fish it and be successful. Plus, most folks who fish here do it as a checklist item on their vacation to-do list. It’s a good thing, too, because I believe this lake could easily get fished out. The lake is stocked yearly but the trout here are naturally reproducing as well. The lake bed is crawling with crawdads and the trout grow unusually fast and fat on the plentiful diet of their favorite food. Some say that the trout’s unusually colored, (beautifully pink salmon-colored) flesh is a result of their diet. I suppose that is true. I can tell you straight away, though, that I have never tasted trout as deliciously elegant as these Steamboat Lakers. Our buddy and fellow camp host, Mitch Otaki, creates a most awesome trout sushi from these beauties. His prowess at creating this rarest of sushi dishes is becoming as legendary as the big fish that haunt this rare gem of a lake tucked away in the mountains.
Update...the day after we left for St Louis, Mitch sent me a picture of a fellow who caught a 33” Cutthroat trout!
Mid-Summer Sizzles…
The period between June and the end of August is a buzz of activity up here. It’s family vacation season for sure. The work for us all in the campgrounds is the busiest, the State Park staff is busy with maintenance projects and putting on demonstrations, etc. for the guests, and the general tourist trade is being catered to by every available hand on deck within the greater community. Steamboat Springs is busting at the seems and all the shops are banking dollars as fast as they can. The camp hosts got lucky this year as a fire ban went into effect early, meaning that we don’t have to clean fire pits. That cuts our work load almost in half. Diane and I spend the found time going through the public day use areas picking up litter. We’re seemingly on a mission. Diane is litter’s worst enemy. She will find it wherever it hides, and if she can’t get at it...she sends me. We find that picking up trash is very rewarding. There is a positive end result to it.
The lake, oddly, is taking on water and getting more full. We are getting some rain, but not nearly enough to cause the lake to gain volume. They’re holding back water for some reason. I wager it is in anticipation of the continuing drought over the summer. This one is 20 years long out here in the west. It’s near devastating in some areas west of here. Lake Powell is down lord knows how many feet. Lake Mead is down to something akin to 35% of its capacity. California is drying up and burning up. We try to conserve water any way we can every minute of every day. It’s what everyone is going to have to do very soon, if not now already, so that some semblance of normal life can go on in the future.
A wildfire has sprung up east of us some 5-6 miles as the crow flies. Fortunately, it is moving eastward into the Zirkel Wilderness and not towards us. It was ignited by lightening and indeed, we believe we saw the bolts that were the guilty party during a “dry thunderstorm”. At night we can see the flames leaping on the ridge line. During the daytime hours the giant plume of smoke resembles a volcano seething. We typically get winds that start around noon and those very strong breezes out of the west are just increasing the size and scope of the fire. It’s interesting, we cannot recall the winds this summer ever being this continually strong during past visits. Locals tell us they recognize that trend, too.
Yet another fire is raging over by Stagecoach State Park, 40 miles away to the east. The monster wildfires in Oregon and California are out of control and the downwind smoke from them here is intense. Some mornings when you go outside you can’t even see Hahn’s Peak, the ultimate local landmark. You can smell the burnt wood in the smoke. You can see micro particulates in the air. There were a few days when none of us went out to work because the air quality was so bad.
The fire crews set up a tent city down the road on CR-129 in Clark out in a big field. There are hundreds of people there, working long shifts on the “Morgan Creek” wild fire, the one I mentioned that is closest to us. They are not trying to put it out so much as keep it from destroying homes. The little Clark Store less than a mile from the work-camp posts updates daily on the fire and its direction. It is a natural process, and, there is so much dead wood out there resulting from beetle kills to past fire suppression strategies that the forest needs to be cleaned out so to speak. It will be a better forest in the future for the fire we have now.
The Morgan Creek fire has shut down access for us into that part of the Wilderness. We love going up that way along the Elk River and its forks. The hiking is amazing, the wildflowers beyond belief. It is, after all, a wilderness. However, there is near unlimited areas west of the fire we can still explore and revel in. Often, after our work is done, Diane and I pack up the Jeep and the dogs and head up high into the mountains where the air is cooler, finding a solitary spot alone. Diane will work her clay magic art and I will play my guitar for hours taking in the solitude and simply being together in nature...a part of nature, not apart from it as life in the city has been for us these many years during our work-a-day world. We have a few favorite spots that we have accumulated and if you must know where they are you can reach out to me, I will tell you how to find them. But, I won’t publicize them here. I think you get the reason why. This is our dream. We get to live it now. Have mercy, how God has blessed us!
Before the fires hit I took two hikes that I more or less led up to the summit of Hahn’s Peak. Both times I took fellow camp hosts along who wanted to summit the peak but were hesitant to go without someone who had done it before. I gladly volunteered. I love that trail to the top. Diane stayed behind due to her vertigo. There are treads along the trail that really do challenge your balance, especially coming down from the peak proper. Though I so wish I could take Diane up there, she is wise not to try it. That area is all large and semi-loose chunk rock the size of bowling balls and you have to pick and choose your path somewhat carefully. The trail to the summit of Hahn’s Peak is not really mountain climbing per se. The summit is only 10,850’. Your vertical climb is only 2000’. I will say, however, if you are not in decent shape physically, don’t try it If you can get up there, though, the views are exhilarating, inspiring, rewarding, and memorable for a lifetime. As an aside...a few of the seasonal workers, young 20-somethings, climbed up there later in the summer after midnight to watch the flames from the Morgan Creek fire. Their pictures were both frightening and exciting at the same time.
Perhaps because of the extended drought, or perhaps because we have managed to get a few short storms dropping much needed rain this summer, the wildflowers are exploding all around us. This is our 3rd summer here and this season has seen the broadest array and most abundantly profuse selection of flowers yet. Starting in late May it seems a new species erupts every 10 days or so. They will invariably blanket a hillside or pop up in bunches as giant bouquets. Often, the color array from the diversity of species stuns you. Purples matched against soft butter yellow. Seemingly cobalt blues against Cabernet-colored stalks rising. The False Swamp Lillies (I think I am being correct here in my identification) are leaping upward from every damp crevice and swampy area. They are exploding their ivory-colored clustered flowers outward for full sun exposure. (It may be that there are two species here...Swamp Lillies and the False Swamp Lillies. Maybe the False ones don’t bloom. I’m unsure about it) The Arnica, or as the locals call them, Mule Ears, are stacked neck to neck. It’s as if Arnicas replaced the poppies in that scene from the Wizard of Oz. The Arnicas are so thick in one camp ground that they went ahead and named the campground after them. Of course, the highly sought after Columbine are blooming everywhere in the shade of the Lodgepole Pines. Indian Paintbrush point their saphire strokes at the richly blue sky. I wish I were more accomplished in identifying plants and similarly I wish I could describe their beauty in better detail. I can tell you in all earnestness that this year’s display is beyond comprehension, even when you see it for yourself.
Music in the mountains…
Wherever we are I’m always on the lookout for musicians. Though I spend more time playing my instruments now than I have since the days I played music for a living I don’t seem to come across many folks I can sit down and play music with. I thought I’d find more players out here in the campgrounds but it remains rare. There have been occasions where I’ve had a great time pickin’ out some tunes with others and those times have been memorable, but I crave more opportunities. It’s just not enough to sit around and play by music by myself most of the time. Playing solo in the shade on a sunny afternoon is nice and has its own rich rewards, but it’s a different experience playing with another musician, communicating in real-time on another level of consciousness. It’s the old “1+1=3” syndrome. You join with another person and create an artful or transcendent experience, ethereal and elusive yet very real. We all crave it and we all find it in different ways. Mine is through music.
I attended 3 “open mic nights” in the area and to be frank, they were fun, but not totally satisfying. With Diane’s encouragement I decided to try harder to find those opportunities this summer. I started out by going over to the Roadhouse, the only bar for 30 miles around here, and pestering the owner, Carol, until she relented and gave me a shot to perform solo on a Friday night. The Roadhouse is set up nicely for live music complete with a large hall and a stage. Folks gather in the evenings for a dinner of pub food and drinks and hang out leisurely. There’s a small gaggle of locals from Hahn’s Peak Village just down the road who booze there as well. Now, over the decades I’ve almost always performed on stage in bands. I’ve really never worked on performing solo per se. This gig gave me the opportunity to see how well I could entertain folks by myself. Who knows, this might be a good way to meet some other pickers traveling through as well.
I passed the audition. How difficult could it have been? I was playing for tips. No one was out anything for giving me a shot, and, the area wasn’t exactly crawling with entertainers. I wound up playing there Friday and Saturday nights all summer long. The tips weren’t bad either. The locals never tipped, but the vacationers were generous. I learned tricks on how to get the most tips from an audience there and I learned how to better entertain folks in that type of setting. I generally stuck to John Harford’s rule of thumb for playing to an audience. He told me once at a party at his house, “Here’s how I plan my song list...two for them, one for me.”, meaning, play two songs in a row that the audience will recognize and like and then play one that you really enjoy playing for yourself. That held me in good stead. I could sneak in my original songs with the Johnny Cash material and the more popular cover songs I know how to perform. Fact is, I got good receptions to my own songs. That’s very gratifying. You write these songs and unless you perform them for someone they slowly disappear over time not unlike a photograph that loses its image in the damp corner of a basement tucked away in a shoe box...a story left untold.
The staff at the State Park would regularly come over and support me. They seemed to like the music I gave them. I really liked that aspect of performing because these were by and large youngsters in their 20’s. Being able to appeal to them was satisfying to me. I could appeal cross-generationally so to speak. Kelly Cook, the Administrative Assistant at Steamboat Lake State Park, and the supervisor of the volunteers, was so very supportive of my music. I had volunteered to perform on her “Floatella” event (where you perform on a pontoon boat on the lake as it drives around from campground to campground and shoreline to shoreline) both last year and this year. What a gas that is! She actively looked for opportunities for me to perform. One one occasion she put together the oddest and yet singularly most fun event.
Down the road they had been filming a reality tv series called something like, “Celebrity Ranch”. The idea was to take the sons and daughters of famous celebrities and put them on a real working ranch for the summer. There they rode horses and did various ranch duties all the while creating untold amounts of “un-staged drama”, suitable for satiating the seemingly drama-starved TV audience of America. On this particular evening the group of “celebrities” were going to an “authentic western dance hall” for fun and frolicking, dancing and devil may care drama. It was all coming down at the Roadhouse. One guess who the band was. Kelly brought her dance club from Steamboat Springs to act as the “local dancers” for the script. I, that’s right...just me...was the “band”. The idea was to get the celebrities to try to learn how to dance with the “locals”, in reality the dance club folks, while I supplied the live music. The challenge was, I could not perform any music that held a copyright or publishing rights. This studio did not want to pay royalties. That meant I had to perform original songs I had written. Of course, it goes without saying that they had to be dance-able songs, too.
I dug into my closet and put on my most convincing western attire...high boots and hat, fancy western shirt and jeans. I can easily dress and play this part. It’s kind of part of my personality anyway. Away we went into the night, me playing my original songs and creating dance rhythms the best I could by myself. The dancers cajoled and enticed the celebrities on to the dance floor. Alcohol was flowing as freely as the Elk River during spring melt. Drama, every ounce of it manufactured as far as I could tell, flowed nearly as easily and copiously as the liquor. This guy was mad because that girl was dancing with yonder local. This other girl was crying because her “bestie” ran off with her celebrity boyfriend out behind the bar. On and on it went all the while the cameras (like, 4 or 5 of them) rolled incessantly. I put all my energy into my roll as well. Play for the dancers, play for the dancers. For three hours straight I played for the dancers.
At this writing I’m told the finally edited show will air in February, 2022 some time. I think it will be a hoot to watch the end product of all this “reality-based” filming. From my experience that evening I have to say that reality TV is anything but real. Kelly really outdid herself putting this whole shabang together, though. Kelly is so thoroughly networked within the greater community out here it’s amazing.
Throughout the summer I had so many opportunities to perform live and I’m so grateful for the support that Diane gave me on each and every opportunity. The community, the volunteers, Kelly Cook, were all so super-supportive as well. It does my old heart a world of good to be among so may good-hearted folks who let me be me through my music. It also really boosts my confidence immeasurably knowing I can perform solo and do a decent job of it, albeit after so many years of performing in bands.