The way to Colorado lies on the western side of the Carson National Forest, continuing up the Rio Chama valley towards the San Juan mountains. As I said before, the highlands (higher lands?) of the Carson National Forest are really a southern spur of the San Juan Mountains. To the west is a vast expanse of high plains. So, the San Juan’s, which already have some snow on them in October, dominate the landscape. They are magnetic!
In the town of Chama, 84 turns left towards Dulce, and NM 17 bears off to the northeast, right into the San Juan’s, through Cumbres Pass (10,022 ft) and La Managa Pass (10,230 ft), back towards the Rio Grande National Forest and the Rio Grande valley. This is very inviting, and actually had been an alternate route from Taos, but I’m intent on getting to Durango, so I postpone this trip for another time - some summertime!
Driving west on 84, the terrain is clearly wetter, there are grasslands, creekbeds and thick spruce and aspen forests. Halfway to Dulce from Chama, 84 turns northerly into the San Juan foothills, and starts to wind between lush ranches and forests. Sometime after crossing the border into Colorado, I notice a sign on the shoulder, rather like the “mowing ahead” signs we see here during the summer, but this sign says instead “Cattle Drive ahead”. Cattle Drive Ahead? I’ve got to know!!
Digressing again, at one point in that European trip from 1970, I was in Austria. Austria is a very beautiful country. They had, maybe still have, a policy that for every tree cut, two must be planted. As a result, there is no barren terrain, there are farms, towns, cities, and forests. I had gotten to Austria from Munich (ah - there’s a story for that city too), via Salzburg, to Graz. At Graz, I was able to tour an armory from the 16th - 17th centuries. The Moors had been invading Europe (I understand that Flamenco is a consequence of those invasions into Spain), and at Graz a large armory of weapons and armor had been assembled to repel the invaders. Indeed, the defenders were successful, and although there was much fighting at Graz, the taking of Vienna was thwarted, and the invaders were fought to a standoff. The armory has been preserved intact since 1551! Then, and I’m supposing that is no longer true today, on payment of a small fee, I was able to wander the five floors of weapons, arrayed as if in a warehouse - which indeed it had been - without inhibition. My strongest memory of that afternoon, other than the amazing freedom to wander about and touch pieces that would be behind glass if in NYC, was noticing one breastplate with a perfectly round, roughly 5/8 inch diameter, dent in it. I supposed that the breastplate had saved its wearer from a lead ball shot from some archaic wheellock firearm.
After Graz, I went to a campground in a small town called Langenwang, a bit closer to Vienna. There are many stories to tell about that stay, but the one that belongs here is about cattle. One day, headed I recall not where on one of the pastoral roads, I became engaged in a cattle drive. Well more of a milk drive, because they were milk cows being herded from one pasture to another, or from pasture to barn. My little white Opel became surrounded by large, thankfully docile, black cows, guided by a somewhat amused and annoyed herder with - yes - a staff! The Brothers Grimm appeared in my backseat, a white swan landed upon my hood, and I awaited a clear road, entertained Grimmly.
But in Colorado, it seems there are no cattle on the highway! Then, just as I’ve been lulled by the exquisite valley, there in front of me is a herd of perhaps 50 steers! They’re moving downhill, on the opposite side of the road, and traffic is backed up behind them as if they were a stopped schoolbus. They’re accompanied by a half dozen riders, men and women, and three or four dogs. The riders are keeping the cattle moving downhill, and keeping them to their lane (double yellow after all!). The dogs are nipping at the strays’ heels, and the riders are directing the dogs and generally pressing the back of the herd. All wearing cowboy hats of course (except the dogs)!
84 ends in Colorado at Pagosa Springs. To the right (east), lie the San Juan mountains and Wolf Creek ski area (for those of you who like to know those kinds of things). Pagosa Springs is located on the San Juan River, which is about the size of the Musconetcong there. There’s not a lot to Pagosa Springs, its rather a main street (Pagosa Street) sort of town, with a lot of restaurants and motels on the way in. I’m heading for the resort however, and on spotting some steaming pools, I turn off the main road. Fortuitously, I’ve found the resort, called, appropriately enough, “The Springs”.
The concierge plays the silly “its Saturday, I’ll have to see if there’s anything available” game with me while she evaluates me, and finally I get a room. Access to the various pools comes with the room, and although the room is expensive, it’s a lot easier to lodge there than to go elsewhere, buy a day ticket and have to go back and forth. They provide nice heavy terrycloth bathrobes, and soft towels on demand. There are perhaps a dozen different pools, in different sizes, at different temperatures, and with different amenities (waterfalls, better looking women). There’s also a small number of “adult” pools in a segregated area. I ask what do they mean by “adult”, and the best I get is that children aren’t allowed. Duh! I saw nothing else that actually distinguished the adult pools from the others, other than a fairly elegant gas fired outdoor fire place of the circular basin sort, but maybe I just wasn’t there at the “right” time.
The air was cooling quickly as the sun was heading towards setting, and I went for the hottest pool, which at 111 degrees was pretty toasty. A bit of time in there, and I moved on to a slightly cooler, but slightly larger pool nearby. Getting bored there, I went back to the hottest pool. That pool was about waist deep, and access was via a single step at the side with a central handrail. When I had first gone in, I noticed a large chip out of the concrete plaster covered step. I wanted to avoid stepping on that loose chip when going back, so I carefully looked into the pool for the chip, and stepped down with my right foot so as to land just to the left of the chip. Unfortunately, the step was not a continuous ledge, and I kept going! An intense pain shot into my left thigh as I tried to stop my fall, and the best I was able to do was slow myself down enough that I maintained just a little bit of decorum as I kept from landing on another occupant! Ow! I still don’t know exactly what I did to that muscle or tendon, but I could barely walk and couldn’t ascend a stairway!
I soaked my leg, took some aspirin, rested a bit, and headed out for dinner, choosing an Asian restaurant listed in the resort guide. You guessed it, I tried walking instead of driving. Well, I had thought that getting my throat cut and my spine disassembled gave me some empathy with the various injured people I’ve run into over the past 30 years investigating accidents. Well, that was nothing compared to trying to walk what turned out to be about two miles (round trip) in the chilly Colorado evening, with my left leg unable to support my weight unless I had my knee locked. I thought about Gunsmoke! The worst was that every dozen or so steps, I’d lose control, my leg would flex, and the pain would stop me in mid-stride.
After dinner, I went back into one of the pools (adult) to soak my thigh, took some more aspirin (wonder drug) and Xanaflex (another wonder drug) to keep whatever was injured from spasm, and went to sleep.
Sunday, October 10, 2010.
The next morning another dip, an inept encounter with two cute women whom my pain didn’t keep me from eying up, but whom my limp kept me from being comfortable with, a walk (no, I don’t give up - I’m a stubborn German) into town looking for film, and back into the car for breakfast and then Durango!! That leg continued to give me trouble the next few days, and made some of my intended excursions impossible, but so it goes!
Oh. The sulfur. I forgot about the sulfur. The air in Pagosa smells like sulfur. The springs are sulfur water. The sulfur gets into your pores. Even clothing that you’ve put onto your dry body after showering winds up smelling of sulfur. Three washings at home and my bathing suit still smells like sulfur. I’m sure the water is healthful, some people even drink it, but everybody smells like they got seriously paranoid with some 1950's acne remedy!
The road to Durango lies through Bayfield. The terrain is hilly, and the road is mostly narrow as it winds between the various hills. No longer are there the expansive vistas of New Mexico, in fact, at some points I rather felt like I was in the southern Appalachians - perhaps Tennessee or western Virginia. Rounding a sweeping bend I saw a sign for jerky: elk jerky, deer jerky, buffalo jerky. HAD to stop. Wound up in a nice half hour discussion with the woman running the stand, and she told me that her jerky was pure (not true), and good (quite true). She used to live in Durango, until it got too crowded for her, so she moved to Bayfield. Now, I’m having a hard time conceiving that any place in the Four Corners area is too crowded for anybody, too commercial perhaps, but too crowded - no. So, I open a discussion about New Jersey, and what too crowded might mean to me. Its all in the eye of the beholder, I’m sure that somebody from Delhi thinks New Jersey really is the Garden State! She is quite cordial, assures me that I’ll like Durango, and welcomes me to move to Bayfield! The 25 or so dollars of jerky sustained me quite nicely at odd times over the next few days, along with the plentiful supply of Brach’s Harvest Mix that I had imported from New Jersey.
Finally, Durango. Unfortunately for Durango, the approach is through a modern built-up commercial area and is rather unattractive. But, again trusting to the Fates that have guided me well for many travels over many decades, I finally make an opportune but illogical right turn, and wind up on the road to Fort Lewis College! That road crosses Main Avenue, and I’ve arrived! Cruising around a bit, I locate the restaurant where I’m going to meet a friend, and then drive up to the College to get my mental map firmed up.
Durango is pretty much a Main Street city on the Animas River. There are serious ridges, mountains, and mesas on the east and west of the City. The old City is on the eastern side of the river, at the foot of the mesa on which Fort Lewis College is built. There’s a residential district starting just a block off the main street, leading up to the edge of the mesa. Mostly small homes, with front porches, landscaped lawns, trees, people out walking and bicycling - perfectly charming. I got a little lost, disoriented at least, and obtained some directions from a woman tending her garden, without getting that dose of fear that exists whenever I (as a stranger) try to communicate with a woman on the street in New Jersey. Maybe she was armed.
I’ve a little time to kill, so I park my SUV near the restaurant, Carver Brewing Company, and walk Main Avenue. It was very inviting. No closed stores. Couples, singles, children, elders, walking the street, shopping or just strolling. Real stores, a real record shop, a real camera store, some tourist establishments, a huge candy store, restaurants, whatever you could want. Really not much bigger than a good sized NJ mall, but about an order of magnitude more diverse, and infinitely more attractive!
Two PM arrives, my friend arrives (by the way, did I mention that one can find parking on the main street?), and Carver Brewing turns out to have some of the best beer I’ve ever tasted! I get some recommendations for lodging, and finally check into a small 1920's hotel, the Leland House, that was converted from an apartment house, and which is associated with the 1890's Rochester Hotel just across the street. The place is decorated in early 20th c. boxing memorabilia and historic Durango photographs. I’m loving it!
A quick shower, a brief rest, and back out onto the streets. Durango has a working, narrow gauge steam railway, with an associated museum and well equipped repair and restoration shop. The whistle blows regularly, as the train crosses many streets on its route north to Silverton, and even the sound of steam is audible at my lodgings! Wanting some photos (I didn’t bring my flash, and now was the first, and only, time I regretted that omission), I walked down to the terminal, and watched the machinations of moving engines and cars about for the next day. The light was waning however, and no photos were possible.
Dinner at a Mongolian restaurant, which was wonderful, and I’m thinking that perhaps I could call my kids up, have them ship my stuff, and that I could move to Durango the next morning.
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