Mountains

As you head west on I-70, when you reach the 371-mile marker at town of Genoa, CO, you get your first full view of Pike’s Peak, (one of fifty-three 14,000’+ mountains in the state), although it is yet still some 100 miles southwest as the crow flies; when the sky is clear, the smog is absent and the light is right, it is a view that ignites and rejuvenates the weary westbound traveler. I can only imagine the emotion that first view of the snow-capped peak inspired in Zebulon Pike and his crew, the sky then devoid of any 21st century visual encumbrances, and they not having had the luxury of traversing the prior 500 miles of flatness at 80 MPH in an IPod-playing, greenhouse gas-spewing Chevy Suburban.

To Zebulon Pike and to countless others, those mountains, those imposing peaks, were a welcoming sight, but to me, they were an imposing sentinel; a massive opponent that I would inevitably have to dual, yet, I knew before the battle that there was no chance for victory – the only hope my meager survival on the heartless terms of this enormous oppressor, this never-ending wave of one granite Goliath after another.

The city of Denver sits in a slight depression, a bowl, after the steady but gentle rise of the land which starts at Hays, KS, elevation 2000 ft., and ends 3240 feet later at the eastern edge of Denver. It then dips a bit, just a bit due to the valley created by the Platte River, and then ascends at a rapid rate into the foothills of The Rockies. Natives to Denver likely have a very different view of the mountains than do I; they view them as old friends, always there to have a little fun with on the weekends. To me, they were my challenge, a big Brutus that always had to be dealt with; a little like having to walk home past the house with the mean dog, having no safe alternative route – sometimes the beast was inside and no threat to you, yet you were always praying and looking over your shoulder in passing, mostly it was outside on a chain, barking ferociously and scaring the hell out of you but still only a perceived threat, and then that occasional time when the demon was roaming free, to chase and terrorize and yes, to possibly lay your ass to waste.

I grew to hate those mountains.

My first 10-12 encounters with the mountains were relatively friendly, i.e. there were no issues with the weather. We’d been to Hot Sulphur Springs on seven occasions and once to Glenwood Springs between Christmas and New Years, and not once did we encounter winter weather on the trip; not once! So I was totally dumb to the reality of a Rocky Mountain blizzard experienced behind the wheel of a car on I-70. As luck would naturally have it, I got my first taste of snow and ice on that initial trek to Hot Sulphur as the soon to be owners of the Riverside….pulling a loaded 9x12 U-Haul trailer.

If you’ve never pulled a loaded trailer, you’ve missed a chance to savor the taste of one of life’s real shit sandwiches. As your car groans and strains with the slightest acceleration, you are certain that at any moment your transmission will hemorrhage and vomit itself in the middle of the road. No matter how fast you’re traveling, there is a pervasive feeling that the trailer is milliseconds away from swaying itself to the left, then right, then left, eventually breaking free from the tow ball and somersaulting into the other lane of oncoming traffic. And all the while you’re driving, the thought of this thing attached to the back of your car is more than you can bear, as every sudden noise or unusual movement causes your asshole to pucker up near the bottom of your throat, your arms and shoulders get rigid as a Mormon, your jaw tightens like eighty-eight Stienway strings and your two hands clench the steering wheel in a death grip that turns your knuckles whiter than the blinding snow. To the novice, it is an experience that rivals very few for its propensity to thoroughly and most absolutely suck.

That first haul, December 26th, pulling out of KC at 3:00 PM, we encountered snow when we hit Topeka at around 4:30, some 60 miles west of KC; very light snow but enough to scare the bejeezus out of me – and it was getting dark. I felt as if I was working miracles maintaining a speed of 55 MPH and not losing complete control of the car or my bowels. The snow really started to pick up around Salina and it was now totally dark; the swirling flakes in the headlight beams making visibility extremely difficult. It was also at this time that Julie complained that she was freezing, huddled in the heated passenger seat wrapped in a blanket, her teeth chattering like a pair of dime-store castanets. With the heater blasting it was probably 80F in the car – I was so hot I’d stripped down to my Garanimals. ‘Great!’ I thought, ‘she has a raging fever.’ We made it to the halfway point, Hays, KS, at 9:00 PM, Julie sick as a dog and me as physically and mentally exhausted as I could remember ever being; I was in dire need of both a martini and a diaper change, confused as to what need to first satisfy.

The next morning dawned clear and crisp, the prior evenings snow universally glazed and frozen to the surface of I-70 from Hays to the immediate outskirts of Denver; I think I remember saying “Oh Yippee!”

Even in a bright sun with unlimited visibility, the drive was harrowing; the combination of the car and attached trailer gliding over the glazed surface felt a little like roller skating on an ice rink – there wasn’t one second, regardless of your speed, when you didn’t feel like you were going to lose control. Seven long hours later we arrived in Denver. At this point most of the roads were clear and free of ice, with the only issue being spray from the roads and the constant need for keeping the windows clean, hoping I had enough windshield juice to finish the trip – I had no intention of stopping and maneuvering highway ramps and side streets with the trailer.

Through Denver and the traffic, I started the climb up into the foothills, which all who have made this trek know strains your car’s drive train as you climb upwards at 5% – 7% grades. Pulling that loaded trailer up those hills had my Suburban’s engine and transmission screaming at me, and then cursing. Onward and upward I went, but not very quickly.

I’d been debating with myself for the last eight hours about my ultimate route over the Continental Divide – would it be Berthoud Pass, that Python of a roadway that climbed to 11,000 feet before snaking back down into Winter Park and on another 35 miles to Hot Sulphur? Or would I go the longer route over Loveland Pass on I-70, a slow, steady steep straight up, followed by a log flume ride straight down through the Eisenhower Tunnel to Dillon and the Blue River Valley, then north on the flat but crooked, narrow and windswept Highway 9; for whatever reason I opted for the straighter, longer route on I-70 over Loveland Pass.

No sooner did I pass the Highway 40 turnoff for Berthoud Pass and headed for Loveland Pass, than it began to snow hard; I suppose you’d describe the weather conditions as ‘blizzard-like’. It was a very wet, heavy snow; the kind that accumulates faster on your windshields than your wipers can manage. I wanted to pull over and cry, but we were so close to our destination; this was for certain a classic example of “always darkest before the dawn.” The Coloradans who shared the road with me flew by as if nothing was out of the ordinary, seeing a look of terror on my face and probably saying, “poor bastard…not only is he from Kansas…he’s pulling a damned U-Haul.” If they only knew our ultimate destination and eventual purpose, they’d know that pulling a U-Haul over Loveland Pass in a blizzard would be the easiest and most enjoyable part of our 2-year journey.

To Be Continued……….