From Durango, Colorado
Wednesday, July 13th
*Hi there! If you want to see larger versions of the photos, just click on them.
Sunday evening in Medicine Lodge, saw the arrival of two couples from Kentucky, heading home on their motorcycles from a whirlwind tour through the west. We were all staying at the same motel. L-R, Keith, Robin, Joann, & Rudy, all from the Bowling Green, KY area, were down to earth, mannerly, and delightful. Their thick Kentucky accents announced a different style of life that made me realize, once again, that America, and Americans, are not all the same, at all. Keith, Rudy, and I, talked manly stuff; mostly about motorcycles, and Keith, who rides a Harley Road King like mine, but without a windshield, confessed to having recently eaten a large bug, and being hit, at speed, by two big grasshoppers. What a man! The five of us had dinner together, and after sayin’ grace, me, a mostly non-meat eater, merrily downed a perfectly cooked 10 ounce rib eye. Cost? $9.95, with all the fixin’s. I’m moving!
Do you recall the name Carrie (Carry) Nation? This woman led an occasionally violent crusade in the early 1900’s against the consumption of booze that included taking an ax to bars, and booze, and holding open demonstrations against the evils of drink. She lived for a time in Medicine Lodge, and this is photo of her home.
Monday morning saw me up and at ‘em at 5:30 AM to beat the heat. At the restaurant where I had breakfast, I asked the waitress if she had Granola. “What’s that” was her response. I settled for corn flakes. There were two men seated in another booth who, shall we say, had a certain look. I asked if I might take their photo while simultaneously remembering doing something like this years ago in Taos, at the Pueblo, with rather poor results. But they said, “Sure”, and I snapped this pic. On the way out of the parking lot, one of the men, the man on the left with the hat and beard, was walking off to my right. I stopped, stuck out my hand, and asked his name. As he reached to shake my hand I was praying that he’d say some kind of wacky Mid-Western name……”I’m Homer Kutz, that’s spelled K-U-T-Z”. (sounds like Coots) My dream come true!
Rolling out of Medicine Lodge, at dawn, I headed north on Rte. 281, and saw this beautiful sunrise. For the next 100 miles I rode on two lane roads through ranching country with only an occasional and very slight change to the flattish contour. But it had its own stark beauty that made me love its burnt grass simplicity.
I was very excited with the prospect of seeing Dodge City, a place I’d be passing through on my way to Lamar, CO. Visions of Matt Dillon patrolling the streets, and Miss Kitty asking me to have a drink with her in the Long Branch, (and maybe a little action), crossed my mind. What I actually saw was something straight out of a Sci Fi flick. Giant processing plants, grain elevators, huge stock and feed yards, every Goddamned pickup truck in America, and an overpowering stench of cattle feed and manure that ranks right up there with paper mills. Disappointed! This city is an agricultural Detroit, and I got the hell outta Dodge as quickly as traffic allowed.
Between Dodge City, and Lamar, CO, I saw America’s heartland. Fields upon fields of grain, corn, and sorghum; more cattle than flies on a forgotten sandwich, and a sense of the giant size of this country; it seemed limitless. This section of the trip also brought me through Greensburg, KS, a town that displayed numerous signs proclaiming that it was the site of “The Worlds Largest Hand Dug Well”! Well I’ll be!
BTW, there were lots of big tractor-trailers on the highway full of cattle being taken to “you know where”. Since the sides of the trailers are perforated to allow for ventilation, you can occasionally make eye contact with one of the condemned. Their eyes say it all…”please help me mister.” I recommend avoiding eye contact as your next filet could be eaten with a side order of guilt.
Just as the heat began to come on strong, I arrived in Lamar. After fueling up Harvey, I grabbed lunch at a very authentic Mexican restaurant. But my left hip was killing me, something that started right around the same time I began taking yoga a few months ago; (so much for yoga). So, I hid out in my room and spent the time daydreaming about nice places to live, and wondering if I’d ever again spend that living time with a companion who I truly liked and desired.
Tuesday morning couldn’t come fast enough. I’d decided to press on directly to Durango, and was greatly looking forward to the ride. The road from Lamar, to La Junta, CO, was nothing more than a repeat of western Kansas, but many of the towns had, by comparison, an increased sense of prosperity. If you really want to slow down, I’d recommend Hasty, Colorado. In fact, with no effort at all, you could come to a complete stop in this middle of no place shrine to Mid-America.
Immediately after La Junta, CO, the lay of the land changes to a better version of what I saw in western Kansas, something like the visual difference between New Hampshire and Vermont. But what truly pleased me was the seventy-mile, two lane, stretch of Route 10 that crosses the uninhabited High Plains between La Junta and Walsenburg. With virtually no traffic to spoil the views and mood, this spectacular scenery looked like so many western movies I’ve seen, but most notably High Plains Drifter.
Upon arrival in Walsenburg I was greeted by a huge sign that said, “Welcome to Walsenburg, a nice place to be”! And indeed it was a pretty little prairie town. And prairie land it stayed until past Alamosa, when the flatlands turn into hill country, a prelude to the mountains that had, by this time, become completely visible. As in, Jesus! Look at that!
About 30 miles beyond Alamosa, up you go into the Rio Grande National Forest. And I mean up! Up to about 11,000 feet at the top of the Wolf Creek Pass, which, once you’ve crested it, reveals one of the most incredible views of raw natural beauty I’ve ever seen. From Alamosa, all the way to Durango, I didn’t take a single photo as my time was well occupied keeping Harvey on the road while riding him hard through the “S” curves in the canyons that followed the snaking mountain streams. Eye popping scenery, everything you ever thought about Colorado coming true; and air so fresh it could revive the dead.
Here’s a little statistic for you. Out of all the states in the Union, Colorado ranks last for its per capita number of over weight people. Louisiana ranks second or third.
I was forced to go fishing in a mountain lake today where something ate my night crawlers, but I can’t say what. This evening found us at a concert where we had a picnic. When the sun went down, the temp dropped to 59 F, and my southern thinned blood went looking for my winter coat!
Tomorrow, (wednesday) it’s back on Harvey to check out the entire area. Durango, like Portland, Maine, is on my short list for more than just a visit…and warts and all, so is New Orleans. But I’ll be here for a couple of more days of rest, and research of this wonderful area. Jesus, every f-ing person looks so bloody healthy! And maybe that’s the draw.
Last but not least, Harvey the Harley has proven to be an ideal long haul touring machine. A very good balance of power, comfort, stopping, and handling characteristics. On the highway seventy is very relaxed, he likes eighty, and has absolutely no objection to ninety. And surprise, surprise, if you aren’t an idiot and think that you’re on a sport bike, the cornering ability is quite good. The ride through the Wolf Creek Pass was motorcyclists dream, and Harvey was up to the task. All in all, two thumbs up for this excellent machine!
More soon!
XO
Middie
