Cliffside across Colorado

The Painted Wall, Colorado's highest cliff, above the Gunnison River

New roads change the complexion of any trip. The moment I turned onto U.S. 50 near Salida, every foot was new, even my eventual destination, Grand Junction, 16 years after the last stop. I knew little of the town beyond a cluster of hotels near the interstate, and intended the remedy the ignorance.

Aside from a stop to change from shorts to jeans – at Florissant the temperature fell below 50 and I refuse to run the car heater in August – I crossed Wilkerson Pass earlier that I thought possible, barely more than an hour. South Park was empty except for a few herds of cattle and a solitary balloon drifting toward distant peaks.

Soon the 14’ers weren’t distant. Mounts Princeton and Antero wedged upward to the west, then the road took me up to Monarch Pass, to the Continental Divide. The excitement built as the miles clicked off toward the pass summit, some 11,000 feet above sea level with steep drops on either flank. The descent was steep and seemed to take ages, a phenomena exclusive to the difficult portion of any new road.

Blue Mesa Reservoir

Below, every dimple on the landscape or creek squiggling through the grassland was new. Blink and you miss Gunnison’s main drag full of hotels, Colorado Western University and a few more blocks. The Gunnison River rolled out of town, crossing dozens of campgrounds/fishing spots/hiking trails that formed the Curecanti National Recreation Area.

Further up the river widened and spread into the Blue Mesa Reservoir, the first of three manmade lakes formed from the Gunnison. Encountering such a large lake, even a manmade one high in the mountains was unexpected (since I obviously didn’t check the map). But the rock walls that soared above the pristine water helped cement it as one of the more picturesque reservoirs I’ve crossed. After a bridge across the reservoir, the road took a sudden descent into a narrow, winding passage clutching the cliffside. Then everything smoothed out into more desert hills bereft of traffic. Hidden behind the mountains were two more reservoirs.

First view of the Black Canyon

Beyond them sat the Gunnison River’s greatest accomplishment, a gash in the rock deep and narrow enough to enough national park status, carved through millions of years of snowmelt, runoff and floodwaters. By the guard shack at Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, the anticipation mounted. What would it look like - Would the pictures do it justice? They did– if anything, the sunny day provided better pictures than any I had seen.

“Black canyon” refers to the depth of the canyon, and how its narrow walls only allow 30-plus minutes of sunlight to reach the bottom every day. No named trails extend down into the canyon, only dangerous paths suitable for rock climbers. There are a number of trails around the south rim, and while there are a number of canyon viewpoints with short trails, the Warner Point Trail at the road’s end offers the best views of the full canyon, as well as Montrose in the valley below and the San Juan Mountains on the horizon.

More Black Canyon

As a general rule, any “point” in a national park usually denotes a scenic vista, and Warner Point did not disappoint. The trail rolled up and down for less than a mile. I chatted with people at rail’s end, the highest point on the rim above the canyon, and a view for the ages. The Black Canyon’s trails are short but all end in unearthly canyon views. Lizards scurried over rocks heating up in the August sunlight. At one viewpoint, someone slept in the shade.

Warner Point, Black Canyon of the Gunnison

At every stop, the rocks rising from the rushing Gunnison below told tales of geological ages. The Painted Wall features the gneiss walls striped by pink pegmatite, the wall itself the highest cliff in Colorado at 2,250 feet above the Gunison. Leaving the Black Canyon, Montrose arrives in just 10 miles. By then Grand Junction is just 60 miles away.

At Delta, the last large city on the route, the desert has firmly set in. This is canyon country, with trees only growing near streams and rivers. The road lacked the dramatic flair of rolling mountains and curves hugging the cliffs. I simply rolled into Grand Junction, the Book Cliffs to my north, Grand Mesa to my east and Colorado National Monument to the west.

Large thatches of vegetation soared from the Colorado River plain. I had not seen the great river of the southwest since January 2017, when I stood on its bank in a quiet Yuma, Arizona park. I had not seen it in Colorado since I last saw Grand Junction, back in August 2003. I felt as though I knew the town after a decade of my day job’s interactions with one of the Grand Junction’s largest employers, Rocky Mountain Health Plans.

I quickly realized I knew almost nothing. Last time I saw Grand Junction, I was feeling the effects of 28 hours in the car and at the beginning of rocky western scenery. I didn't know my way around, just the cliffs on either side.

The cold temperatures of Florissant and Salida were long gone. Even with the Colorado River, the heat pounded Grand Junction. With lower elevation, the temperatures inched into triple digits. I checked into my hotel. A massive rock formation occupied the view the second-floor walkway. Colorado National Monument had already introduced itself, and I was oblivious. Any exploring had to include food, making Fruita the obvious stop.

The small town west of Grand Junction sat at one entrance to the national monument. Fruita had a character all its own, with people moving in the shadows along the main blocks. The blaring heat did not help my efforts to explore Fruita, so I hustled into Suds Brothers Brewing Company, a brewpub on the main drag, which had a sidewalk porch, a sheltered porch and a chilly bar area that felt entirely too good after a day of transit. I enjoyed a massive burger and small pours of orange honey wheat and their amber ale.

Across the interstate from Fruita stood the west entrance to the imposing Colorado National Monument, a red-rock plateau cut with fantastically eroded canyons that seemed more at place in Utah. But it was one of western Colorado’s landmarks, rising sharping on a winding road from the Colorado River to a 27-mile road atop the mesa.

John Otto, the man who stumped for national park protection, envisioned a road that would give people views normally reserved for soaring birds. The park services succeeded in honoring his vision. I wanted some wildlife, but first I wanted the solitude of a picnic area and campground by the visitor center. I strolled on the road, looking for a path down to the path along the canyon rim.

The viewpoint was already occupied. Along the railing, I spotted a pair of butts, the fur-covered rumps of bighorn sheep. I was on the slope of crumbling rock while they stood on the canyon-front concrete path. For once, I was sure-footed. Plus, they did not see me or move to flee. The path hugged the canyon rim so I move to flank the bighorns, hoping for a better photo than just their backsides.

Wrong monument

As I moved down toward the path, I heard them bolt. Five pranced by, sprinting maybe 100 feet into shrubs, their tan hides immediately masking their location. After a minute, they reemerged with a one-horned ewe in front, the youngest behind her, then a second female, an older juvenile and a ram taking up the rear. He appeared noticeably larger than the two ewes and his horns sports a deeper curve. They trotted along an unofficial path in the desert plants, disappearing quickly despite an easy pace.

Few moments enrapture me like wildlife encounters. This one defied the odds – I could see the visitor center the entire time I watched them, and a half-dozen cars pulled into the picnic area only to turn around. I just stood and watched the trot of the bighorn sheep, soaking in what little time we shared in these red rocks high above the Grand Valley.

Just the bighorns and me