And so after levying
the appropriate curses upon my unruly camping-compatriots (see earlier blog) I
set forth on the bike which-- as a means of foreshadowing let me note--- was
running well at the time, and proceeded
into Rocky Mountain National Park. Looking
at a map of the place I figured I had covered most of the roadways on previous
trips, since the weather was permitting why not take trail ridge and not have
to hurry to get to Steamboat? It was Thursday
morning, I was not-so-far-away from where my gig was tonight-- but this is the
Rockies, things can change, shit can happen, don’t assume you have all the time
in the world to get anywhere.
So I rode. Maybe I’d stop and walk or hike, maybe I wouldn’t. I didn’t feel comfortable being this far away
from a paying gig and fiddle –farting around.
In my life I’ve been a lot of places and seen a lot of things and sometimes
I regret not putting it all down in a journal and that’s not because I care one
iota about sharing it, with you the
world, it’s that I forget where I’ve
been and what I’ve done: I toured Romania
and I can’t remember the name of one
city there other than Bucharest. I’ve been to Italy and loved the food, but I can’t
tell you what I ate, I know I’ve been to Rocky Mountain National park at least
three times (maybe five?) I know I’ve
been to Glacier Valley twice, that I’ve hiked the same trail along the same
river who’s name I can’t remember twice, that I’ve seen elk, maybe bison, never
any bears, and that I don’t think I’ve
taken trail ridge highway before. None
of the scenery is looking all that familiar if only for the reason that I’ve
never been here when there was so little snow and I know for sure I’ve been here in June and (I think)
in August and there was always some ice-pack left, but right now the mountain-tops
are bare. Regardless, I’m realizing as I
approach the highest point on the highway that it is indeed very cold---I’m wearing five layers
under my leather---probably cold enough to snow, and I’m positive as I come
around the back of the mountain that there was indeed deep snow here when I
drove through in June years ago.
As irritated as I
was with my rude camp-mates the night previous, I’m thinking to myself I should
thank them for waking me up so early.
Looking at my phone I realize it’s not 10am yet, and that I have less
than 150 miles to go to get to work tonight.
So I stop near the top of the mountain and take a walk up the path that everyone else is walking on. I think they refer to the micro-climate as
Moraine….I’m above the trees and there are marmots about---I can’t see them but
I recognize their bark—and it’s mossy and windy and pretty damn cold. There are a few interesting out-croppings of
rock at the top and if you’ve ever been to Ireland, you might look at what I’m
looking at and think you were seeing cairns on the Burren (and I’ve been there
and don’t remember if there are any).
Despite tourists and cars driving below its gets very, very quiet once you’ve hiked a quarter
mile up the path and I’m thinking “wow,
when is the last time I’ve been somewhere I couldn’t hear anything?’
I can’t
remember.
I might have
spent an hour drinking in the scenery at the summit (probably more like twenty
minutes) before heading down the other side. There is a written “rule” that you
are not to stop your vehicles on the road in the park. There is another unwritten rule that if you
come up behind someone who has stopped
their vehicle that there is wildlife to be seen. I’m trying to pay attention to the road while
riding, while at the same time enjoying the view, while at the same time
picturing in my head the time I watched another motorcyclist ride right off the
road in front of me for looking at the scenery.
That is NOT going to happen with me, I resolve. And so pulling up behind a stopped car on the
highway at over 12,000 feet I take just a quick glance to my right and make a
quick count of what were at least three bull elk and a couple sows--.I’m not
sure-- but I thought I saw some velvet on their antlers still and I thought their
racks looked pretty big and I really
thought I should keep my eyes on the twisty’s lest I want to go a looooong way down.
And so I made it
back down the mountain safely, and I looked again at my phone and realized I still
had a lot of hours in the day before I needed to report to anybody, so I parked
the bike at the Green Mountain Trailhead (wow, I remembered the name of
someplace??) and I peeled of my leathers once again and made a quick lunch on my
camp stove and realized how warm it was at this altitude and peeled off more
layers until I was in shorts and a t-shirt.
Trying to pack all this stuff back on the bike was a little tricky. I travel with just enough room in my bags to necessitate
always having some of the bulk on my person.
And I got geared (or shall I say “ungeared”) and started up the mountain
holding my phone and my wallet when I decided that carrying either was a bad
idea…so I walked back down to the Harley and considered where I might hide my valuable’s. I thought about putting them under a rock,
and then I considered that it might rain (despite clear skies….this is the
Rockies, after all) and what I did was pull off the side cover to the bike and
stow them there.
As another bit of
foreshadowing I would later think that was perhaps a bad idea.
I hiked up the (somewhat
busy) trail—I did take my phone, to use a s a camera/watch, holding it in my
hand the whole time---and the views were pretty enough for not getting back
above the tree line and I gave myself an hour up to make it another hour down
and I took some pictures
and enjoyed the quiet and came back to the bike around
the middle of the afternoon. I got my
leathers back on, I got my GPS set, I got everything re-secured to the bike and
fired her up.
Cough, cough,
cough, rumble…
My bike has never done that. I’m thinking maybe it’s
an altitude thing.
Get back on the highway, go fifty yards, bike dies.
I hit the starter,
bike fires. I ride to Kremmling with no
probs, thinking that B.S. I’ve heard about needing to “re-jet your injectors”
or whatever it is they say you’re supposed to do to a Harley at altitude might
just be true.
I stop in
Kremmling to top-off on fuel. I’m only
50-odd miles from Steamboat, but this is the west and topping off whenever you
can is always a good idea. I go to start
the bike.
Cough, cough,
cough, rumble….
Again, I’m
thinking this is an altitude issue…don’t stress
And as way of
foreshadowing, it’s funny how some things just occur coincidentally……
