Colorado Springs

This Land: Idaho

The Great “Hot Springs or Busk” Tour Rolls Back Downhill (Dispatch from Pocatello, Idaho):
So, like a clown car perpetually overflowing with misfortune, here we are again, loopers. Remember that meticulously crafted itinerary, the one that promised a triumphant northward march to the Canadian border? Yeah, about that. Turns out, fate – that sadistic ringmaster with a penchant for rusty hubcaps – had other plans. Rocinante, our trusty (usually) mount, coughed up a lung full of power-pack trouble, forcing a U-turn south towards Wayfarer Central in Colorado Springs. Parts, bless their slow-moseyin’ selves, would not arrive for a fortnight, so we chose to spend the downtime at homebase, Hays, KS where we could also get Rocinante’s windshield replaced and a running board added.

But hey, a scenic detour is a scenic detour, right? We shivered through a one-night stand in Bismarck after a stunning sunset stretch through South and North Dakota’s rolling countryside. Then Billings Montana offered a brief respite before hightailing it through Bozeman, then Cody Wyoming. Cody, bless its remote tourist-trap hide, is where we met up with some excellent friends who steered us towards Thermopolis – a haven of hot springs so numerous they’d make Bacchus proud.

Then, Idaho Falls, a land in need of some highway adopters, became our next pitstop. After that, Pocatello, where we nestled in the bosom of a decent public library contemplating the next leg – Salt Lake City, a place that holds… hmmm… let’s just say Ronnie Hays has some “post-9/11 baggage” with SLC (stay tuned for the glorious details).

But the real star of this show, loopers, was the stretch between Cody, WY and Idaho Falls. Yellowstone National Park, in all its technicolor glory, unfolded before our bleary eyes. Mountains that scraped the underbelly of heaven, meadows bursting with wildflowers, switchbacks that would make a pretzel shout in pain. Mammoth Hot Springs, a geological freak show that would make P.T. Barnum envious. And the wildlife, oh the wildlife! Foxes with mischievous glints in their eyes, Elk foraging with enormous racks, bison as big and grumpy as your grunting uncle Melvin, and bears – enough bears to staff a Russian circus. The only downside? No dang AT&T service. Talk about being stranded in the technological dark ages!

Speaking of stranded, it was right here, in the middle of Mother Nature’s art gallery, that Rocinante decided to shed a hubcap like a bad habit. Thousands of miles under our belts, and this is when she decides to play Hide the hubcap? Believe you me, loopers, we were sweating harder than a sinner in church. But fear not! Rocinante, bless her engine that could, soldiered on through the park, hubcap-less but unbowed.

So, Idaho, the state with the motto that sounds like a drunken Latin scholar’s mumbling (Esto Perpetua, for the curious). Rough translation, “It shall be perpetual”. And what have we learned? Well, for starters, hot springs are a national treasure here. And speaking of Hot Springs, Idaho covers the gamut, from redneck mud baths to swanky spas… a soak for every soul. And though the higher-ed scene may not be ivy, these universities offer a decent education without the heart attack-inducing price tag. And who knew Idaho was such a literary hotspot? Shakespeare under the stars, Hemingway’s ghost haunting cafes – it’s enough to make a bibliophile sue for custody.

The Idahoan Identity? Self-reliant, community-driven, with a healthy dose of fresh air and a side of “get off my lawn” thrown in for good measure. And nature’s playground? Yup! From the Sawtooth Mountains that could pierce the heavens to Yellowstone’s geothermal freak-out, Idaho’s got scenery that’ll knock your socks off (assuming you’re wearing any). And they have grown some famous loopers, from Aaron Paul (aka “Yo! Mr. White… Science!”), Papa Hemingway himself, and the silver screen siren Lana Turner. Not a bad lineup, eh?

The Bread and Butter, agriculture, tourism, and the service industry keep Idaho humming along. Relatively affordable housing, decent wages – what’s not to love? Plus, there’s always a mountain to climb or a river to raft, so you won’t get bored.

A land of contradictions. A double-edged sword. There’s a fierce sense of community, a rugged self-reliance, and a love for the great outdoors that would make John Muir weep with joy. On the other hand, there’s a whiff of insularity, a resistance to change that’s about as flexible as a petrified log, and pockets of militant social conservatism that could curdle milk at fifty paces.

But hey, that’s the beauty of this crazy mixed-up country, right? From the boiling cauldrons of Yellowstone to the necessary return to Wayfarer Central, it’s a never-ending carnival of delights and disasters. Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of Rocinante’s hubcap shedding saga!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

And now… another apology to Woody:

For fields of tubers…
And chaos preppers…
Idaho… spicy as a pepper…
You got your Shakespeare…
Pound and Hemmingway…
Esto … it will be … Perpetua!

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XVI (back on the road)

So… just as things start heating up here in the land of Oz, Rocinante’s lucky stars begin to align. Yesterday the windshield repair was completed and as soon as we pulled away from the repair shop, a FedEx email dropped letting us know the power-link recall parts were enroute to Colorado Springs. All that’s left is scheduling an appointment with the local electrician to complete the install, and we’re back in the saddle, ready to resume the 48-state tour.

Next stop… either Oregon or Minnesota, whichever direction will keep us out of Satan’s armpit. These triple-digit temps are for. the. birds. This was the original aim… to stay away from extreme weather. Here’s an example of a travel route that accomplishes that aim.

So far, this summer has defied conventional wisdom, and as luck would have it, we’ve been in a perfect place this last couple weeks. It has been… glorious. 80s in the day, 60s at night. I’m almost reluctant to get underway, but forecast calls for upper 90s, so i guess it is time to go.

I’m starting to grow accustomed to the slower pace here at home port. I’ve been able to set aside large blocks of time for the kind of guitar practice i should have gotten out of the way as a juvenile delinquent… lol. Oh well, Ronnie Hays always says, “sometimes redemption requires discipline.” Happy to put in the time when i have it, but i fear, once back on the road, there’ll only be time for travel, scoping out viable boondocking sites, personal hygiene and provisions, research and writing This Land posts, sleep, and that’s about it. We’ll see, but that’s kinda how it all rolled before we got hit with repair needs.

Anyway, we’ll probably just head North once Rocinante’s power link is repaired. We’ll decide which direction to choose from there. Washington, Oregon, or Minnesota… we shall see.

In the meantime, please enjoy this little ditty…

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Colorado

So, we hit the dusty trail for the Centennial State, land of legendary proportions (according to the brochures at least). “Nil Sine Numine” their damn motto brags – that’s Latin for “Nothing without Providence” to the fancy, “Nothing without God or Jesus” to the Latin-challenged loopers, and “Nothing without a decent hot spring” to yours truly. Speaking of which, the pickings between Colorado Springs and Fort Collins are about as slim as a supermodel’s patience at a buffet. But hey, that’s a story for another sleep-deprived rant.

The High Life (and Cost): Denver’s got colleges galore, from fancy-pants Metropolitan State to the University of Colorado Denver. But who needs fancy degrees when you’ve got mountains to climb and brews to guzzle? Speaking of brews, Denver may not be a literary hotspot (no Hemingway haunts here), but the Tattered Cover bookstore keeps those bookworms in hard-cover contraband.

Now, let’s talk about the locals (they can be a smug lot): All Lululemon and kale smoothies, bragging about their 14ers (mountains, you squares) and epic hikes. Hitting those trail heads, however, can be like trying to score tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, only sweatier and with less glitter.

Famous Loopers and Fickle Weather: Colorado has produced its share of famous people. Buzz Aldrin moonwalked on the damn thing! Tim Allen makes us laugh (sometimes). Wes Anderson… well, he makes movies that look like paintings. But don’t forget Molly Brown, the “Unsinkable” one, who chilled at the Brown Palace Hotel after surviving the Titanic (spoiler alert: the hotel wasn’t named after her).

The weather here’s a crapshoot. Tourists love the sunshine, but locals know it can turn on a dime, throwing a May blizzard or a windstorm your way faster than you can say “Rocky Mountain High.”

The “Green Solution” (and Everything Else): Tourism’s a big deal here, along with Maryjane, aerospace, and energy (both the fossil fuel kind and the new-fangled renewable stuff). It’s a land of opportunity for upwardly mobile yuppies: beautiful scenery, killer jobs, and a chance to wear yoga pants every damn day. Just be prepared to shell out some serious bucks for that privilege. Living here costs more than a Kanye West rant.

The Beer Olympics (and Ronnie’s Redemption): Now, Ronnie Hays, bless his hop-soaked heart, could deal with all the downsides because of one glorious event: The Great American Beer Fest. One day a year, he’d adorn himself with a pretzel necklace the size of a Texas T-bone and sample the finest craft brews the nation had to offer. It was a communion of hops and happiness, a bacchanal of barley, a… well, you get the picture.

The Vox Populi That Fizzled: We tried, folks, we really did, to get the lowdown on Colorado’s state motto from the local loopers themselves. But alas, the Fort Collins library was more interested in actual library things than our “vanity project.” We did finally confab with some born-again loopers offering “free bible lessons” on a park bench. Maybe it’s a sign, huh? Maybe Colorado leans more “God-fearing” than Ronnie initially thought.

This whole experience, though, was a lesson. It turns out preconceived notions can be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a sauna bath. We met some lovely loopers (bless you, Larry and Jan Johnson!), but mostly, well, let’s just say these Colorado transplants aren’t exactly into non-mission-critical chatter.

The Ballad of Ronnie Hays and the Silent Transplants: So, here’s the takeaway: this little odyssey, fueled by personal experience, questionable research, and a handful of, uh, colorful encounters, has brought forth a new verse for Woody Guthrie’s classic:

In Colorado…
You might come empty…
When seeking confab…
With the local gentry…
You have to dig in…
The nooks and crannies…
Transplants…
Are freakin’ everywhere.

Stay tuned, folks, for the next stop on the H.S.O.B. (Hot Springs or Busk) Tour! We’re heading out with a renewed sense of wonder and a thirst for… well, you can probably guess. Next stop: Nebraska!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Hot Springs or Busk (chapter VII): Rocinante’s Maiden Voyage

And so, our mongrel of the rueful countenance takes another step closer to his post-retirement vision quest (hot springs or busk). Unlike Don Quixote’s rusty armor, helmet, and spear, he dons camo shorts, Tevas, and Hawaiian shirts blending gloriously with the avocado floor of his newly outfitted camper van. He christened her “Rocinante,” a nod to the famous 17th century novel and a little inside joke to himself. Seemed fitting for a slightly unhinged adventure like this. Luckily he’s traveling with a couple equally bent family members, we’ll call them Dawnareeno and Crazy Carter.

The first stop on Rocinante’s maiden voyage was Colorado Springs, where some savvy outfitters promised to turn Rocinante’s insides into a rolling studio apartment. Ronnie threw caution to the wind and was not disappointed, the outfitters turned the van into a true vagabond sanctuary. While waiting for the workers to finish the job, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, and Crazy Carter took in a few of the local attractions, and while exploring, stumbled upon a vintage motorcycle shop… you know, the one with the cryptic “help wanted” sign in the window. It was practically tailor-made for a gearhead like Crazy Carter, and we all got a chuckle from the words on the sign: “Wanted… mechanic to work on vintage motorcycles. Prefer a retiree with their own tools and plenty of time on their hands.”

Right on time, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, Crazy Carter, and Rocinante tilted towards the plains, bound for their home town where mom still lives (call her Sassy Salgal). Visiting that tiny windswept Western Kansas town made these intrepid travelers feel nostalgic for their flaming youth. But if the wind didn’t shake the vans to pieces that night, well, that would be a minor miracle. It howled like a banshee on a bender, giving their rolling domiciles an unnerving sway that had them contemplating the merits of Dramamine pills.

One more overnight. This time somewhere near the Choctaw Nation, they boondocked in a nearly empty truck stop parking lot, nearly empty because the place had closed for the night in order to upgrade their IT setup. Dinner under the golden arches, then up bright and early for the final stretch to Savannah with its sweet tea, Spanish moss, and symphonies of croaking frogs like drunken choirs of mutant crickets. It was Mother Nature’s lullaby and that night our intrepid travelers slept the sleep of the dead. The frog chorus was as loud as those relentless Kansas winds, which is saying something. Savannah has a ghostly charm, and Ronnie’s travel companions, back in their element, served up a delicious bowl of eggs, grits, and salsa. Just the rib-sticking ticket for the long journey back to Hays America.

A stopping point on the return trip, Nashville, very nearly did him in. The traffic was a biblical swarm of 18-wheelers and urban assault vehicles piloted by rage-filled maniacs who seemed personally offended by the very existence of camper vans. Our hero sweated bullets, the beginnings of a stress ulcer gnawing away in his gut as he navigated potholes big enough to swallow Rocinante whole. Between the craters and the belligerent rat race, he was about ready to cash in his chips and take up residence in a roadside ditch.

But like all things, even Nashville’s particular circle of hell came to an end. St. Louis passed in a blur, then a welcomed ice cream break with his two boys and a special friend in Kansas City, and then… the long, lonely expanse of I-70. The wind returned for one last hurrah, a farewell slap to remind him who was really in charge out on the prairie. Ronnie gritted his teeth, visions of sugar-coated mood gummies and his home bed the only thing keeping him sane.

And then, just like that, there was Hays America again. Rocinante, despite the indignities suffered, pulled into the parking lot with a weary sigh. Ronnie, a little grayer, a little more wrinkled, and sporting a newfound respect for the sheer chaotic power of the American highway, stumbled out. He was home, and damn, if it didn’t feel good. He might not be the world’s greatest adventurer yet, but as he patted Rocinante’s battered side, he grinned. “We’ve only just begun,” he said. There are 50 states in the good ol’ USofA, and Ronnie with Rocinante plans to busk them all then relax in their natural hot springs along the way.

Onward… through the fog!