Both Bill and I did considerable fretting during the night about today’s ride over Red Mountain Pass. Several people we’ve met along the way (none of them cyclists) warned of steep drop-offs, narrow shoulders, and blind curves, and that was without factoring in Labor Day weekend traffic. On top of all this we were looking at two consecutive days with 60% chance of thunderstorms. I mentioned on Facebook that we were here and friends who had driven the pass gleefully posted their horror stories. One involved a white-knuckled driver literally damaging his wedding ring with all the clenching. Yay, this is gonna be awesome.
It rained during the night and the morning looked dark and hazy. In the occasional break in clouds I could see new snow on the mountains. Maaaan, now the road will be icy on top of everything else? We’re gonna die.
During the time I did manage to sleep I had a performance anxiety dream. This is typical on these trips, as my subconscious apparently feels some guilt about taking all this time away from my bassoon. The other night I dreamed that Michael Cohen (Trump’s lawyer) helped me catch up to the orchestra when I missed a flight. In last night’s, I was again late, scrambling backstage to figure out how to assemble my instrument —there were extra parts, which was confusing — and then one of my colleagues got sick and puked all over my reeds.
Since the weather looked so grim we delayed a bit at a coffee shop, but eventually decided to give it a go. Bill tried to be reassuring, saying things like, “if it’s really bad, just pull over and stop.” Pull over where? Sounds scary if it’s these steep drops people keep mentioning.
I include all this not to humble-brag but to represent our trip as accurately as I can. We were both nervous even though virtually every time we feel like this, the anticipation is way worse than the actual event. (The one standout horrible memory wasn’t even cycling, but when I nearly fell into the sea hiking in Hawaii. On that one the warnings we’d gotten about a scary trail were spot-on.)
This morning’s quote from the “We Croak” app which encourages you to contemplate your own death 5x/day was “I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived” — Willa Cather.
OK, let’s do this mother fucker.
Heading out of Silverton. This mountain is red, but apparently is not THE red mountain. So far so good, not much traffic, roads are wet but it’s stopped raining.
So much weed, so little time.
We haven’t even started climbing and it’s already proving to be a beautiful sunny day. All that anxiety, wasted.
Politics was too much on this day so instead of Rachel Maddow I put on an episode of Double Reed Dish (“a podcast for oboists, bassoonists, and the people who love them”). The interviewee was Nancy Goeres, another cycling bassoonist whom I’d just seen at Aspen. She was talking about mindful practice just as I rode past the first of many mining remnants. This whole bike touring experience is about mindfulness (present moment and all), so it seemed to fit. I made “minefulness” jokes for the rest of the day.
So... weather cooperated. Traffic wasn’t bad. There was ample room to pull to the side and let bus-sized RVs pass when necessary, though it usually wasn’t. The grade wasn’t steep at all. Those mountain roads in India were way worse than this! Pfffft. None of the things people said about this pass came to pass, other than the part where it was stunningly beautiful.
Plenty of room on that shoulder!
Mine! Mine! Mine!
We made it, we didn’t die! Bill insists he jumped but we didn’t time it right. I’m impressed i could get that much air in my bike shoes, so I’m keeping the pic.
Apparently Bill had a wardrobe change before Take Two
Aspens are turning. It’s autumn already! Still like a thousand degrees back home in DC.
More minefulness. This display was about how they are trying to clean up the mess created by all the mining.
Looking back toward red mountains. Turn out there are quite few of them. They have poetic names such as Red Mountain #1, Red Mountain #2, etc.
The approach to Ouray was really amazing. Check out the color of that river.
Stopping to admire scenery. Even at biking speed it seemed a shame to blow through this landscape.
Nice view of road cut.
About ten minutes before we reached Ouray the rain came, so we went, drenched, to the local brewery and had some warm soup (and beer). We asked the waitstaff about campgrounds and were directed to a place just a few blocks away, where we were turned away because they were full. This never happens! We’re just a little tent. The owner was immovable but directed us to another campground we’d passed before the town. It was two miles, all uphill, and I had to talk Bill into continuing. Then when we got there, campground full! At least one of the Labor Day Weekend predictions was coming true. This time the campground host took pity on us and let us set up in a small area usually used for ranger talks. He asked for ten bucks for it, which we suspect he pocketed since the next morning he wanted us gone before the rangers got there and found us camping illegally. He wore a cowboy hat and reminded me of the Catheter Cowboy from John Oliver.
Here’s a view back to town en route to the campground so you can appreciate our awesomeness riding back up that damn road. We also did it later that evening, in the dark.
The rain let up again and it was still early afternoon so we decided to ride back into town, check out the Box Canyon, go to the hot springs, and get some non-camp food for dinner. The westerny place where we had dinner had a live pianist who also reminded me of the Catheter Cowboy. They’re everywhere.
Box Canyon. (We are not standing in that water.)
![Opera House. There was a pianist playing a program of “Berstein [sic] and Friends.”](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5ab95d7036099be814392e4a/1536463166274-0U15848U1OZJHATFPKIF/FullSizeRender.jpg)
Opera House. There was a pianist playing a program of “Berstein [sic] and Friends.”
Light blue is the hot springs (water diverted from near box canyon to various man-made pools).
Next morning we decided to spend some more time here and ride the easy 20 miles to Ridgway later in the afternoon. We packed up at the urging of Catheter Campground Host and rode to the info center to ask about an alternate route I’d discovered in a magazine, then left our bikes while doing an amazing hike that circles the town. I think I want to move to Ouray.
This is as much of an exposed edge as anything we rode yesterday and people had their kids and dogs on this hike! I’m convinced that narrow curving roads seem way scarier in a car than on a bike.
This is just a little better than the hikes in Rock Creek Park in DC. I couldn’t get Bill to pose for another jumping pic, but this is pretty celebratory.
Now it’s raining, but it didn’t last long.
Back in town. if I did that pass in a Radio Flyer I’d definitely brag about it. But those “I survived” memorabilia are designed for people in cars and that makes us awfully smug.
We took a combination of side roads and bike paths to Ridgway. The landscape changed and it rained most of the way but it was still gorgeous.
bike path
When we got to the campgrounds past Ridgway they were full too, but the host found us an empty site right next to his RV. He locked our food up in a storage room for us (we’d stashed it in the outhouse in Ouray) but as always I had questions about the bear protocol:
ok, fair enough but...
A wide open container of cans with sticky sweet soda and beer odors? And we’re supposed to store our toothpaste? I don’t get it.