Author: Steve

Sunday It is a short drive from Crawford State Park to the town of Gunnison; forty
miles of breathtaking rim drive along the north edge of the black canyon.
From there, it’s another hundred miles through Lake City, over Slumgullion
and Willow Creek passes, and down (not very far down) into Creede. Creede
is not quite as high as Leadville. It is a little over a thousand feet
lower. Elevation 8,800 feet. Judy was still feeling a little woozy (like seasick) from yesterday’s
adventures, so we decided not to admire any more spectacular drop-offs. We
drove back through Hotchkiss, around though Delta, south through Montrose,
and up highway 50 toward Gunnison. It’s a good drive. Purple and white
lilacs in full bloom. We just keep gobbling up great scenery. It was a good day for spotting ring-neck pheasants and yellow-headed
blackbirds. And we saw a roadrunner, crossing the road, out in the valley.
As soon as we popped out of the hills an ultralight swooped into view, doing
a great impression of a crop duster over a freshly green field. No soaring
on thermals for this guy. He was a banking turning diving swooping machine. We ran the Navigator program on the computer for this leg of the trip. Judy
kept an eye on it while we worked our way there. We ran it on the
“motorhome friendly” option. While we were driving up highway 50, before we
got anywhere near Gunnison, the Navigator directed us to turn right on the
Blue Mesa Bypass. Our highway map didn’t show a Blue Mesa Bypass. We were
skeptical. We slowed down at the turn but didn’t commit. We looked to our
right and saw a dirt road as we went by. Thirty miles of dirt road in the
Motorhome? I don’t think so. Immediately, when you screw up, the Navigator
calculates the next best route, given your failure to act properly in the
first place. The next best route? Ten miles later. The Slumgullion
Bypass. We didn’t fall for that one either. We stuck to Highway 50, until
we got to Highway 92 on the map. Past Blue Mesa Reservoir to the Highway
intersection. We turned right onto a road completely covered by tumbleweeds
on our side. I made a wide turn. That didn’t seem like a good sign, but it
didn’t get any worse than that. We’ve driven some small winding steep roads this trip. It’s not very fast,
driving the motorhome towing the Jeep, but it has never been a problem. The
Bounder has plenty of power to get up the hills, and plenty of braking to
get down, and there hasn’t been any traffic on these roads. We get to motor
through the mountains at a convenient pace, with a pretty good view of the
road. We made an early afternoon arrival at the outskirts of Creede. We’re at the
Antler’s Lodge and RV Resort, right on the river. This felt more like a
trip. A two hundred mile day of slow driving. That’s more like it. Tomorrow. Back to work.

The unlucky truck rolled down the hill. Guys at the top. Truck at the bottom. Perched at the edge.

Our camp and view at Crawford.

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The view into the black canyon.

Saturday No hurry to leave this morning. We have two days to get to Creede, and it’s
not very far away. Our goal today was to drive to some place we’d like to
spend the night. We headed back through Glenwood Springs, south on highway
82 to Carbondale, right on highway 133 past Redstone and the turn-off to
Marble, and over McClure pass. Before we left Glenwood Springs, we stopped at the local filling station and
tanked up on diesel. While I was pumping, I noticed that the price was a
little higher than advertised, so I looked at another pump, and discovered
that there are two kinds of diesel: number 1 and number 2. I didn’t know
that. I was filling up with the more expensive one. Number 1. I mentioned
it to the guy inside, and he was horrified. I filled up with number 1?
He’d have shut off the pump if he’d known (never-mind that he had to turn
the pump on in the first place so I could fill). It comes out of the pump
at the island where every other car and truck fills up, but I was wrong for
putting it in my vehicle. He had put it there for the local construction
guys for some reason. It got a little foggy after that about why it was
different from number 2 diesel, and why it was so bad to run it. I’ve been
led to believe diesels run on pretty much anything, so guess we’ll go
through this tank and try to do better next fill-up. I’m still surprised
that the more expensive fuel is the worst fuel to use. Can anybody help me
with my diesel fuel education here? The drive over McClure pass was a knockout. Been way too many years since
we’ve done that. Drove down the other side, through the tiny town of
Somerset. Somerset consists of a few houses in a canyon, built right on the
highway with no setback; squeezed between the road and the railroad; train
cars lined up, each getting their load of coal right on the other side of
the houses. A tiny industrial island in the middle of all this wilderness. On down to turn left at Hotchkiss. It was just a few miles down that road
to Crawford State Park. This is the place we want to spend the night. Iron
creek campground. Right on the lake. The lake is filled with western
grebes. We’ve got bluebirds, meadowlarks, geese, ducks, grebes, swallows,
kingbirds, blackbirds, finches, and I heard a hummer. And cows and frogs. This is a fifth-wheel kind of place. There are five campers here. Four
fifth-wheels and a Bounder. On the long run-out on the west side of McClure pass, we passed a vineyard
with a strange and wonderful name: Terror Creek Winery. Wow! What a name. So here we are, a ninety mile day. These short days driving really suck.
We drive down the road for two hours and we’re done for the day? Call this
a trip? I’m just getting started. When do I get to drive for six hours or
eight hours all at once? We were here so early; we had plenty of time to look around. We ended up on
the north side of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. This is not the main
entrance. It’s on a dirt road. You get to get very close to the edge of
the Black Canyon, and look straight down into it. Straight down a thousand
feet or so. Such a steep narrow canyon, sunlight could hardly ever make it
down to the bottom. The white-throated swifts can though. They are well
suited to canyon living. They are so perfectly adapted to flying fast; they
don’t have normal landing gear like other birds. They can’t perch on a limb
or a pole. They can only cling to vertical surfaces. We (read I) looked
down over the edge to watch the swifts swirling in a shaft of sunlight half
a thousand feet below us. We drove the rim-road for a while. We stopped to check out the young guys
piling stuff by the side of the road. Camping gear. Camping gear, but they
were not at the campground, and there was no vehicle. No vehicle in sight
anyway. Four young guys, all safe. They had been out on a viewpoint, when
they head their little camper truck roll away. It stayed on the road for
about fifty yards, then wandered off the canyon side of the road. It
tumbled end-over-end two hundred feet down the slope before it hung up on
the precipice. They had salvaged whatever gear had flown out on the way to
the edge. A giant tow truck showed up. They were still figuring out how to
get all the way down to the pickup to put the hook on it when we left. Tomorrow. On to Creede.