Colorado to Wyoming

Between eastern Colorado and the enormous cities that lie in the shadows of the Rockies exists a simple life. Fields of crops only extend so far as the irrigation systems which sustain them, the occasional small town only exists in a rare space unoccupied by the prior.

To the Northeast of Boulder, CO, lies Mead. More suburban than rural, the eastern outskirts of the town are a balanced mixture of the two. Resturants such as The Red Rooster, where I would soon eat breakfast, serve those in dirty blue jeans and leather boots right amongst those in sneakers and pressed khakis.

For breakfast I ordered the breakfast burrito with bacon, and upon the advice of my pleasant waitress, a coating of green salsa and sausage gravy. As I write, I know better, but perhaps you do not.

It is a combination that is not easily defeated.

Right next door to The Red Rooster lies a so store so eloquently named (THE MERC) that you might just walk back to your car and ignore its existence.

That would be a mistake.

It is always an overwhelming experience walking into any business that is in a new environment. The culture, though you are still in America, is always vastly different. Unfamiliar words, unfamiliar expectations.

Anyhow, I venture (wander?) in. This store is two parts — deli, moreso a butcher, and a bakery or cafe. My first stop would be the far more attractive bakery, staffed by two young ladies and a more mature baker, whom I had the opportunity to speak to.

If I remember correctly, this shop was only established a few years ago, around 2019. Everything edible is created in house. Coffee is roasted, cinnamon rolls are, as the name suggests, rolled, and sandwiches are elegantly stacked.

Though options are nearly limitless, and I was nearly coaxed into a zucchini chocolate chip muffin, I went for something more familiar; the cinnamon roll. One of the young ladies offered to heat it up, and I obliged. I received something one could easily mistake for the Holy Grail — glowing warmth, holy presence. It would soon be devoured.

I continued to the back, where I would purchase six slices of bacon. I am always aware of what I consume, preferring raw milk to that which is pasteurized, searching for pastured eggs, corn and soy free pork, and grass fed and finished beef. Unfortunately the gentleman working the counter could not say what this pork was fed, but being as I was out of bacon, and he had some on display, the equation seemed to be quite in his favor. It was delicious anyhow.

From The Red Rooster and The Merc, we move westward into Estes Park, Colorado.

I would arrive to Estes Park (the town at the foot of the Eastern side of Rocky Mountain National Park) just after noon. My first course of business, aligning with one of my primary goals of this adventure, was to visit the Estes Park Museum.

The history of the area is fascinating; originally, all of the trails were game trails, and as the game began to be hunted by Indians, the trails quickly became Indian trails. As the Indians and Westerners began to trade, all of these trails became trade routes, and then a few became wagon routes, and those are now the highways in and out of town.

The first homesteader — Joel Estes — stayed for a few years. When the first difficult winter arrived, he promptly abandoned the site. Can you blame him?

Car camping is highly discouraged in the Town of Estes Park. Signs and fines are rampant, and the police do not hesitate to give a knock or two.

This results in two options: you either drive 30 minutes or an hour to the nearest national forest land, or you pull off on the side of the highway just outside of town limits.

I would successfully attempt both.

My first evening in town was quite uneventful. Entry to the park is limited to ticket holders, which one must get in advance. The alternative option — there is always a way — is to get into the park before they begin checking tickets, either 5am or 9am depending on destination.

With that in mind, I made a quick jaunt to one of the many park visitor centers and then off into the national forest for the night.

The next morning, I went up Trail Ridge Road for sunrise.

The sunrise was of course scenic. The altitude would be a contributor. Something I had not considered at any point, though, was altitude sickness. Hiking throughout the Alps a few years back, 13,000 feet was no issue. The Cascades, The Alaskan Range, so on and so forth.

Yet this morning, it was different. At over 12,000ft, my hands were numb, and with windchill it was well below 30f. I was attempting to make a bagel, and I did so. The first thing I noticed was that I quickly became exhausted, my eyes desired nothing more than to close. I walked to the drivers seat, and sat. It was only then that I quickly realized what I was experiencing.

My lips went numb. I closed my eyes. Something in my mind clicked, I knew I was beginning to experience hypoxia. Perhaps I had gained too much altitude in too little time. I jumped out of my truck and threw everything I had been cooking and eating with in the cab. I drove down as quickly as I could. It genuinely felt as though I had had a few strong drinks, but my options were quite limited. My vision was not blurred, moreso wavy. The double yellow center line came and went. Thankfully it was early morning and the road was empty, and I am even more grateful that I made it down safely.

I would spend the rest of the day doing nothing. Even in such a busy park, there are secluded areas. I drove quite a ways away from the crowds, down a dirt road, and found myself at a small picnic area. Nearby, a river flowed. I made a true breakfast — eggs, rice, bacon — and spent the remaining hours reading Assimovs “Foundation.” A fantastic book that sucks you into another world. Though it isn’t as if I wanted to leave this one.

That evening, I would drive back up Trail Ridge Road for sunset. I was given some info on a short hike that would result in a vast overview of the range. It was so.

I would drive back down to 9,000ft or so through the dark, and find myself in a small highway pulloff just outside of town limits.

The following morning I drove into the park at 4:30am. I was to hike Emerald Lake, and to do so requires either getting a timed entry ticket, or entering before 5am.

I chose the former, and I’m of the belief that it was the correct choice.

The remainder of my time in the National Park and Estes would consist of work stream-side and under a warm sun. I would again spend the evening not more than five feet alongside a two lane highway just outside of town.

I had planned to spend the weekend working my way towards the small Wyoming town of Encampment, though you and I both know how plans go in life — especially on a trip such as this.

Instead, I camped just east of the Snowy Mountains in southern Wyoming. A place of unmatched beauty, and bones.

As the sun began to surrender behind the mountains to my west, two objects of near equal illumination began to rise from the east — the Full Moon and a sheriff deputies auxiliary lights.

At first, I attempted to ignore the latter disturbance. With time, this became more and more difficult as his pace began to increase. From right to left, he would drive across this gravel lot at speeds far above that which were permitted. Upon his return to my right, he would drive increasingly slow, perhaps four or five miles per hour. But it was not until he began to draw his spotlight and flashlight that I truly began to worry.

I began to wander the half mile or so from the comfort of The Whale to the unknown of his 2021 Chevy Tahoe. What I began to make out were the words “Sheriff” pasted in red along the length of the doors, and “Albany County” above.

By the time I was within a few feet, all I could see of the deputy himself was a flashlight yonder. Down the embankment, towards the lake. Combing the beach in a zig zag pattern. Now I was truly concerned,

and for good reason.

As he slowly works his way up the berm, his far more powerful flashlight blinds my eyes. I return the favor with all I can muster — my iPhones flash. Now we are both in a struggle for illumination, for no specific reason other than to try and identify each others purpose in this area;

“Hey, I was just camping over there and saw you running back and forth. I started to get concerned and just wanted to see what was up.”

He replies, “Sorry man. I didn’t mean to scare you,”

With a pause that lasts no more than the length of time it takes to regain your breath after climbing up a small, sandy hill, while carrying a bulletproof vest, he continues, “Somebody called and said they found some bones. I was just looking for them.”

While I am quite positive those words were meant to reassure, they did anything but. The words that followed continued the general theme (of further convincing me I should leave), when he says, “I found some shards but I’m not good with bones, I have a detective coming to look.”

I suppose that should’ve been my queue, but given the interest I now held in this situation, I stayed. In thirty or so minutes, a second deputy rolls up (the response time of law enforcement in rural America can be explained in hours and half hours, not minutes). I am back near my truck, though the night is cold and silent, so I can hear the outlines of their words but not much else. Times continues on, my curiosity is heightened even moreso, and I decide to return to them for a quick questioning. All I remember is this second deputy saying,

“Yeah, the guy who found the bones took them home. I went to go get them.”

An hour or so after our initial conversation, the detective arrives. I have returned to my steed and now can only make out a few faint words, such as;

“I can’t say for certain,”

“That fucking guy at the crime lab.”

And not two minutes later, the original deputy speeds off, his red and blues capable of being seen for miles in this valley. Minutes later, the detective rolls out, presumably heading back to his bed,

and the retriever of these bones is left to stand guard through the night.

My best guess?

The ongoing drought in Albany County, Wyoming has resulted in the water levels to drop heavily in this lake. Meaning someone was likely submerged, until they weren’t.

I did in fact spend the night there, as did the second deputy.

When I woke, I headed westward — into the Snowy Range. A land of unparralled beauty, high mountain wilderness, and frozen mud holes and slippery rocks. Here I would finally put my new Yotamafia suspension kit to work, consisting off SPC Upper Control Arms, Bilstein 6112 front coilovers and 5160 rear shocks, and an Icon add-a-leaf pack. No surprise, such a setup kept The White Whale planted with all of her 381 horsepower hitting the ground — no matter the terrain.

I would make it to my campsite by two or three in the afternoon, though I think such a beautiful place deserves to open next weeks log. As of now, Bryce has travelled from

Ridge to Ridge.