Mountain Musings

A conference opened the door to Denver, and once it finished on Wednesday evening, I kicked it wide open. The wine at the closing reception didn't hurt my cause.

With a bellyful of Thai food and Great Divide American Pale Ale, my first destination remedied a missed opportunity from my last trip outside Nashville.

After missing them twice in Chicago and once opening for Blitzen Trapper in Nashville, I finally caught Fleet Foxes at a sold-out show at the Oriental Theatre. They reproduced their earthy sounds without a glitch, the four-part harmonies rich and resonant. Just hearing the vocals-only “Sun Giant” segue into “Sun It Rises” in person made the show worthwhile - they don't suffer lots of songs about the sun.

This great little theater that rarely drew national acts, according to the staff I met outside. Unfortunately, the full schedule for Thursday meant missing the end of the show. But the Foxes will tour again, and what I saw left me hungry for another show. They just won't book such small venues.

Breakfast in Cheyenne
The thought of waking up at 4 p.m. is often so unpleasant that I must play tricks on myself . I accidently set the clock ahead an hour, and scrambled to pack up for fear I'd blown my schedule. I hadn't.

Departing from the hotel around 5 a.m., the first inklings of sunrise shoved up from the plains near Fort Collins. I barreled across the plains, with the everpresent Rockies to my left for the 112 miles between Denver and the nearest state capital, Cheyenne.

Around 100 miles out, a cowboy’s silhouette announced the Wyoming line, home of Dick Cheney and the nation’s least populous state. Anytime I can knock off an new state, I’ll take it.

Cheyenne was quaint little cowboy town with historic neighborhoods, a business block with hotels and facades preserved with an 1880s atmosphere and the two biggest attractions at the same end of Capitol Avenue – the beautiful state capitol building and the old Union Pacific rail station.

The capitol’s cupola shone against the sunrise, which broke as I arrived. As the relentless sun pounded the capital, I hunkered down at the Plains Hotel coffeeshop for some eggs and the state’s finest coffee. Their sign boldly stated so, and there can’t be that many coffeehouses in Big Sky Country.

Tracing the prairie

With breakfast out of the way, the long haul to Rocky Mountain National Park was under way. Rather than jump back onto the interstate, I found a route through the Shawnee National Prairie that took me through Greeley, a straight shot to the park.

At the Colorado border, I passed a strip club and could not guess who it served – in the next 50 miles down to Greeley, few trucks rumbled past. And I’m guessing none of the women at that remote outpost resembled the shapely silhouette on the sign.

The towns along the route - Nunn, Pierce, Ault and Eaton – barely qualified as such. Anyone who took the advice of the water tower reading “Watch Nunn Grow” might be in for a long century or five.

Greeley itself a college town with a well-manicured main drag, but I barely gave notice, as the time to turn west approached. Through Greeley and Loveland the progression was suburban and slow until the road fell to two lanes between the craggy peaks.

Big Thompson River flowed swiftly over over frequent boulders. Entering its canyon just after Loveland, daylight nearly vanished on the winding road sharing it with the river. Signs urged motorists to get to higher ground if flooding occurred – it wouldn’t take much rain or melting snow; the guardrail sat flush with a tiny bank.

When the road widened at the canyon’s end, I was tempted to reach into the freezing water to see if I could pull out a six-pack of Busch, but decided such treasure had been removed long ago.

Besides, 11 a.m. neared, and I needed some quality mountain time – or so I thought. RMNP followed the template of Joshua Tree and the Grand Canyon – it was relatively remote and reached by winding highways. The land flattened for a moment at Estes Park, then curved toward the 14’ers.

Above 9,000 feet, a short walk along the observation point brought back every cigarette I ever smoked, received second-hand smoke from, or looked at. At two miles above sea level, the thinner air drove me to gasp as the wind shoved me back no matter how firmly I stood. Taking pictures at the second lookout, I felt its relentless push forced me against the guardrail, and urged me to try my chances further up, past the sign that warned of rapid, violent changes in weather ahead.

With more to see, I called it quits at the first major stop above the timberline, the lookout onto Forest Canyon. Without any trees to obstruct, the canyon and its companion mountains, speckled with light snow and populated only by lichen, created a new ecosystem.

Here my nerve wore out – I could go higher, but this was not a leisurely solo drive. It just produced trembling hands, an inability to look down and a healthier respect for geologic might that sprouted the Rockies. On the flight home, my row buddy assured me that driving through RMNP was not something he would consider, so getting above 11,000 feet was an accomplishment.

Upon the descent, I lounged around Sprague Lake, partially frozen in October but an avian sanctuary among the mountains. An attempt to hike run up against the thin air’s assault on my lungs. Even short uphill distances left me gasping.

A herd of male elk lounged in the share net to a small fenced area for the females, ensuring everyone entering tasted a little wildlife.

Tea time

After a gorgeous drive to Boulder along the winding U.S. 36, the only stop that would suffice after a day in the mountains needed an afternoon tea time. Fortunately, my iterinary passed close to the Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse. The only Tajik teahouse in the Western Hemisphere, I wouldn’t pass this chance for tea and some Middle Eastern cuisine. The Persian chickpea kufteh was as sublime as the surroundings - Boulder's hip and progressive character was on fully display.

After idling through rush hour, I made it down to Susan and Tres' house in Littleton. Littleton doesn’t rate a mention in the guidebook I bought, and no one remembers at as the home of South Park’s creators, just the location of Columbine High School. We chilled out over take-out and New Belgium that night, as the long day left me ragged and eager to turn south in the morning.

Gardening for fossils

Just outside of Colorado Springs, I hiked through Garden of the Gods, the massive red-rock formation just north of town. When traveling around Pike’s Peak, Manitou Springs seemed like the hippest spot to grab a room. The nation’s largest historic district sits immediately next to Colorado Springs and has a completely different character than its highly conservative neighbor.

Thirty-five miles later, on the other side of Pike’s Peak, I turned off the road in the tiny subsistence town of Flourissant to check out Colorado's redwood forests - or their remnants, at least. From the Flourissant Fossil Beds, excavations have produced dozens of fossilized species extinct for 30 million-plus years, plus fossilized stumps from an ancient redwood forest on the banks of Lake Flourissant. Covered by volcanic flow, the stumps survived.

I skipped Cave of the Winds and the Cripple Creek mining camp for a little time in downtown Colorado Springs – a city of nearly 400,000 must be accompanied by a happening downtown, right? Well, downtown Colorado Springs was easily the most vanilla place I encountered on the Front Range – three blocks of Nunn had more character. After a drive through the U.S. Air Force Academy, I found the highway and returned to Littleton for our night on the town.

Susan and Tres decided on the Sushi Den, which flies its specials in daily from Japan. This was by far the best sushi I ever sampled. I doubt I can ever grab a California roll from the grocery again.

We popped Downtown to the Cruise Ship Room at the Oxford Hotel, a narrow martini bar recalling a 1930s-era bar aboard the Queen Mary. There the red-coated bartender talked me into a Coors product sold only in Colorado, Herman Joseph's Private Reserve.

Produced by the stand-alone AC Golden Brewing Company, this crisp golden lager sparkled, the hop and malt mix almost on par with a Bohemian Pilsner. As it warms slightly in the glass, it takes on a gentle citrus taste that mingles well. Unfortunately, they only bottle 200 cases from each batch. If they bottled any more than that, Private Reserve might start to taste similar to the swill I expect from Coors.

A trip where even the Coors beer tastes awesome? Yeah, that was Colorado.

Now I'm left to scrounge for another conference out in Denver.