Saturday, October 5, 2019
It was pure luck that I got to see Cathy.
When I arrived at dad's on Wednesday evening (ok, night) she was up on the mountain guiding a horseback hunting trip for a pair of husband and wife doctors who'd recently bought a spread in the area. The hunt plan started before, and ended after, the two days and change that I'd be in South Fork.
The plan was abruptly truncated by immediate success. The elk fell 45 minutes after the hunt started, a deer not long after. The hunt was over and it was just a matter of hauling the meat out, for which an ATV was employed.
Cathy called dad to let him know she was on her way back. We were waiting for her to show when he got another call. She'd given one of the group the key to her Jeep for some reason, but after accessing the vehicle he hadn't stashed the key where instructed -- she'd arrived at the trailhead to find herself locked out. So dad and I drove up the Rio Grande valley, met Cathy and her locked Jeep, and we all hunted around trying to find the key. After giving up the search she used the spare key dad had brought and we headed back to South Fork.
Cathy expressed concern we'd be willing to appear in public with her having come straight off the trail. She might even have been serious, but as someone who regularly dines wearing clothes peppered with smashed bugs...
It was my first visit to Mountain Pizza and Taproom, the establishment of which probably added a double-digit percentage increase to the number of restaurants in South Fork. Excellent brick oven pizza, and you prepay to charge up a fob that tracks how much beer you pull for yourself from the bank of taps. I forget exactly what I drank, but from the picture and my standard tendency I'd guess it was a local-ish brown ale. I do recall being entirely satisfied with it, but hey it was Colorado, which has my personal and by no means parochial, untraveled, inexperienced, or unsophisticated vote for Best Beer Scene In The World, so duh. I don't recall trying a second tap.
It was pure luck that I got to see Cathy.
When I arrived at dad's on Wednesday evening (ok, night) she was up on the mountain guiding a horseback hunting trip for a pair of husband and wife doctors who'd recently bought a spread in the area. The hunt plan started before, and ended after, the two days and change that I'd be in South Fork.
The plan was abruptly truncated by immediate success. The elk fell 45 minutes after the hunt started, a deer not long after. The hunt was over and it was just a matter of hauling the meat out, for which an ATV was employed.
Cathy called dad to let him know she was on her way back. We were waiting for her to show when he got another call. She'd given one of the group the key to her Jeep for some reason, but after accessing the vehicle he hadn't stashed the key where instructed -- she'd arrived at the trailhead to find herself locked out. So dad and I drove up the Rio Grande valley, met Cathy and her locked Jeep, and we all hunted around trying to find the key. After giving up the search she used the spare key dad had brought and we headed back to South Fork.
Cathy expressed concern we'd be willing to appear in public with her having come straight off the trail. She might even have been serious, but as someone who regularly dines wearing clothes peppered with smashed bugs...
It was my first visit to Mountain Pizza and Taproom, the establishment of which probably added a double-digit percentage increase to the number of restaurants in South Fork. Excellent brick oven pizza, and you prepay to charge up a fob that tracks how much beer you pull for yourself from the bank of taps. I forget exactly what I drank, but from the picture and my standard tendency I'd guess it was a local-ish brown ale. I do recall being entirely satisfied with it, but hey it was Colorado, which has my personal and by no means parochial, untraveled, inexperienced, or unsophisticated vote for Best Beer Scene In The World, so duh. I don't recall trying a second tap.
While at dad's I took advantage of his professionally-equipped shop to give Therese a complete oil change, using filter and various consumable parts and a very application-specific formulation of Castrol motor oil I'd had shipped ahead, and my preferred flavor of Castrol gear lube that I'd assumed would be easy to find locally but dad had to drive all the way to Alamosa, some forty-odd miles away, to obtain. He needed to do some banking there, for financing their solar roof project, so it wasn't particularly inconvenient.
On Saturday morning Cathy cooked me a hearty breakfast, and I departed for Telluride.
The first leg is a route I'm sure I've ridden more than any other in Colorado, and it's one of my favorites. CO-149, the "Silver Thread", starts in South Fork, winds north through Creede, past the headwaters of the Rio Grande, over Spring Creek and Slumgullion passes. Then down and though Lake City in the looming shadow of Colorado's sixth-highest and worst-named mountain, Uncompahagre "next time it's personal" Peak. A gorgeous set of delectable curves hugs the Lake Fork of the Gunnison River along a canyon with place names like Stony Cut, which looks exactly like it sounds. Toward the north end fast sweepers roll over and around high open country above Willow Creek, past some phantom burg called Powderhorn, along the shore of Blue Mesa Reservoir, and across the Gunnison River where it ends after 115 gloriously serpentine and scenic miles at US-50 a few miles west of Gunnison.
I first rode the Silver Thread with Laurel on pillion, some time in the mid 80's, maybe on Nada One but I think on Nada Two. I do recall vividly the first time riding over Spring Creek Pass I felt like I was living in a BMW ad. I still feel the same way, every time.
I don't know how many times I've ridden the Silver Thread; after dad and Cathy built the house in South Fork, I've gone there as often as possible. When I get to dad's the Silver Thread is my backyard, a personal playground I now know very well indeed -- and anywhere along the length of which I can drop Cathy's family name when I want to pass myself off as a local, or at least locally knowledgeable.
The Silver Thread is one of those great nowhere-to-nowhere roads, and so twisty that Googlemaps declines to recommend it as a route even if you input start and end points precisely at each terminus. Thus it's always free of any significant traffic; truckers know better than to go anywhere near it unless they've made the mistake of an obligation to provide local delivery.
Today, just as I'd hoped, just as I'd even (gasp!) planned, the mountains were ablaze in autumn glory.
Yadda yadda.
On Saturday morning Cathy cooked me a hearty breakfast, and I departed for Telluride.
The first leg is a route I'm sure I've ridden more than any other in Colorado, and it's one of my favorites. CO-149, the "Silver Thread", starts in South Fork, winds north through Creede, past the headwaters of the Rio Grande, over Spring Creek and Slumgullion passes. Then down and though Lake City in the looming shadow of Colorado's sixth-highest and worst-named mountain, Uncompahagre "next time it's personal" Peak. A gorgeous set of delectable curves hugs the Lake Fork of the Gunnison River along a canyon with place names like Stony Cut, which looks exactly like it sounds. Toward the north end fast sweepers roll over and around high open country above Willow Creek, past some phantom burg called Powderhorn, along the shore of Blue Mesa Reservoir, and across the Gunnison River where it ends after 115 gloriously serpentine and scenic miles at US-50 a few miles west of Gunnison.
I first rode the Silver Thread with Laurel on pillion, some time in the mid 80's, maybe on Nada One but I think on Nada Two. I do recall vividly the first time riding over Spring Creek Pass I felt like I was living in a BMW ad. I still feel the same way, every time.
I don't know how many times I've ridden the Silver Thread; after dad and Cathy built the house in South Fork, I've gone there as often as possible. When I get to dad's the Silver Thread is my backyard, a personal playground I now know very well indeed -- and anywhere along the length of which I can drop Cathy's family name when I want to pass myself off as a local, or at least locally knowledgeable.
The Silver Thread is one of those great nowhere-to-nowhere roads, and so twisty that Googlemaps declines to recommend it as a route even if you input start and end points precisely at each terminus. Thus it's always free of any significant traffic; truckers know better than to go anywhere near it unless they've made the mistake of an obligation to provide local delivery.
Today, just as I'd hoped, just as I'd even (gasp!) planned, the mountains were ablaze in autumn glory.
Yadda yadda.
Some mountains were ablaze, anyway. Others had been consumed in actual flames a few years back. They'd burned because, as now, whole mountainsides were entire forests of standing deadwood, withered under the onslaught of invasive and voracious bark beetles that are destroying pine forests across the west; on this day much of that devastation had been converted to clear cuts.
I'll spare you those heartbreaking images.
At the US-50 junction I arrived barely in time to take the left fork and use Therese's best attribute to launch myself westward ahead of a long train of vehicles emerging from the canyon to the east. I was definitely at the front of the line then; it was quite a while before I encountered any traffic ahead of me, and for the next hour rarely more than one or two cars at a time.
The weather remained perfect, the pavement was smooth and curvy, the Bose system kept on rockin' my free world.
As Colorado scenery goes it was slightly less than awesome, but I reminded myself I'd be thrilled if I could find anything even a tenth as good where I live most of the year.
The road winds gracefully along the sparkling reservoir of the Gunnison River where it's bottled up behind Blue Mesa Dam. Were I to cross that dam and ride just a few miles along another of my favorite Colorado roads, I would witness some of the most amazing scenery in the world, sheer canyons of marbled rock thousands of feet deep.
I considered a brief detour but it was too easy just to keep rolling, and I was willing to trade off a few glimpses of the abyss for more dwell time at my destination.
I'll spare you those heartbreaking images.
At the US-50 junction I arrived barely in time to take the left fork and use Therese's best attribute to launch myself westward ahead of a long train of vehicles emerging from the canyon to the east. I was definitely at the front of the line then; it was quite a while before I encountered any traffic ahead of me, and for the next hour rarely more than one or two cars at a time.
The weather remained perfect, the pavement was smooth and curvy, the Bose system kept on rockin' my free world.
As Colorado scenery goes it was slightly less than awesome, but I reminded myself I'd be thrilled if I could find anything even a tenth as good where I live most of the year.
The road winds gracefully along the sparkling reservoir of the Gunnison River where it's bottled up behind Blue Mesa Dam. Were I to cross that dam and ride just a few miles along another of my favorite Colorado roads, I would witness some of the most amazing scenery in the world, sheer canyons of marbled rock thousands of feet deep.
I considered a brief detour but it was too easy just to keep rolling, and I was willing to trade off a few glimpses of the abyss for more dwell time at my destination.
As expected, my low fuel warning had long been aglow when I pulled into the first gas station on the approach to Montrose.
I won't make that mistake again.
Therese let me know immediately that she wasn't in any way happy about what I'd just fed her. At the first stoplight after departing the station her engine stuttered, RPMs suddenly rough and erratic. She nearly stalled, and surely would have quit if I hadn't revved her up enough to keep running. The syndrome deteriorated at each successive intersection; at low speeds crawling through the center of town she became almost unrideable. I swung into the Ace Hardware parking lot and she died the instant I relaxed the throttle.
I was disgusted. This was a real disappointment. Months earlier, Therese had developed a similar problem of occasionally, and eventually frequently, stalling at stops. I'd solved it via an expensive tank of ethanol-free race gas and multiple double-doses of Techron fuel treatment. This seemed to have been successful; since then all problems had vanished. The experience supported the theory she's very sensitive to gasoline quality that's not up to DIN standards, which is to say almost anything now commonly available in the US. While I've always tried to fuel at "top tier" stations, that alone is clearly not good enough -- and sometimes, out in the remote places where I like to ride, there's not much choice.
But I certainly had enough range that I could have made it less than another mile to the Shell station, and I surely will in future.
It seemed clear I'd gotten a batch of pretty bad stuff, so bad I should probably return to the station and lodge a complaint, but I decided to complete my errand and see how she behaved on restart; sometimes the computer figures out what's going on, or perhaps it's simply the reboot itself that corrects the problem.
I'd stopped at Ace because I needed a fastener for the heat shield that covers the joint between exhaust pipe and muffler. In 2016 I'd had to manufacture a small adapter plate as a consequence of modifications I'd made to install a much better set of saddlebags than the original equipment. The saddlebag upgrade had been a fantastic success, but the screw into that plate has always had a tendency to automatically extract itself. This hasn't been a big deal because it's one of three such screws and the other two stay put, but now I was looking to permanently correct the problem by using a longer M5 screw and a locknut.
I'd also need to swing through the tool aisle; that nut would be the only fastener on Therese needing an 8mm box end wrench, which my tool kit therefore didn't currently include.
I also wanted a new tool roll, because Therese's was beginning to disintegrate.
The stainless steel fasteners and a Craftsman wrench were easily obtained; a suitable tool roll, unfortunately not.
The next planned stop was my first opportunity for a high-grade Thai fix since I'd left Phoenix. But there was first a question of whether I needed to return to the gas station instead.
Therese started and idled smoothly as if nothing bad had ever happened. I rode around the parking lot enough to convince myself she wasn't going to flake out in traffic, then headed for Chang Thai.
I won't make that mistake again.
Therese let me know immediately that she wasn't in any way happy about what I'd just fed her. At the first stoplight after departing the station her engine stuttered, RPMs suddenly rough and erratic. She nearly stalled, and surely would have quit if I hadn't revved her up enough to keep running. The syndrome deteriorated at each successive intersection; at low speeds crawling through the center of town she became almost unrideable. I swung into the Ace Hardware parking lot and she died the instant I relaxed the throttle.
I was disgusted. This was a real disappointment. Months earlier, Therese had developed a similar problem of occasionally, and eventually frequently, stalling at stops. I'd solved it via an expensive tank of ethanol-free race gas and multiple double-doses of Techron fuel treatment. This seemed to have been successful; since then all problems had vanished. The experience supported the theory she's very sensitive to gasoline quality that's not up to DIN standards, which is to say almost anything now commonly available in the US. While I've always tried to fuel at "top tier" stations, that alone is clearly not good enough -- and sometimes, out in the remote places where I like to ride, there's not much choice.
But I certainly had enough range that I could have made it less than another mile to the Shell station, and I surely will in future.
It seemed clear I'd gotten a batch of pretty bad stuff, so bad I should probably return to the station and lodge a complaint, but I decided to complete my errand and see how she behaved on restart; sometimes the computer figures out what's going on, or perhaps it's simply the reboot itself that corrects the problem.
I'd stopped at Ace because I needed a fastener for the heat shield that covers the joint between exhaust pipe and muffler. In 2016 I'd had to manufacture a small adapter plate as a consequence of modifications I'd made to install a much better set of saddlebags than the original equipment. The saddlebag upgrade had been a fantastic success, but the screw into that plate has always had a tendency to automatically extract itself. This hasn't been a big deal because it's one of three such screws and the other two stay put, but now I was looking to permanently correct the problem by using a longer M5 screw and a locknut.
I'd also need to swing through the tool aisle; that nut would be the only fastener on Therese needing an 8mm box end wrench, which my tool kit therefore didn't currently include.
I also wanted a new tool roll, because Therese's was beginning to disintegrate.
The stainless steel fasteners and a Craftsman wrench were easily obtained; a suitable tool roll, unfortunately not.
The next planned stop was my first opportunity for a high-grade Thai fix since I'd left Phoenix. But there was first a question of whether I needed to return to the gas station instead.
Therese started and idled smoothly as if nothing bad had ever happened. I rode around the parking lot enough to convince myself she wasn't going to flake out in traffic, then headed for Chang Thai.
Ah, that's what I needed.
I rolled on to Ridgway and hung a right. Today's ride over this part of the route was rather more pleasant than the last time I'd been on it, which had been with Gary on his KTM and L&J in a rented Cadillac, travelling in the opposite direction under gloomy skies that ultimately disgorged torrential rain laden with forest fire ash, and lightning bolts of highly concerning proximity.
Today, by contrast, the weather could not have been better, and I was able to enjoy yet more autumn color splayed across the various mountain ranges and river valleys I passed by, over, and through.
I rolled on to Ridgway and hung a right. Today's ride over this part of the route was rather more pleasant than the last time I'd been on it, which had been with Gary on his KTM and L&J in a rented Cadillac, travelling in the opposite direction under gloomy skies that ultimately disgorged torrential rain laden with forest fire ash, and lightning bolts of highly concerning proximity.
Today, by contrast, the weather could not have been better, and I was able to enjoy yet more autumn color splayed across the various mountain ranges and river valleys I passed by, over, and through.
Telluride has long been one of my very favorite towns. Since I'm far from unique in having acquired that predisposition, I'd actually made reservations at the Victorian Inn weeks earlier. Once unloaded into my room, I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, strolled up the block, around the corner, and down the main street.
I've never been much for souvenir shopping. I typically restrict myself to liberating beer coasters, which aren't fragile, consume minimal luggage space, and involve no need for a decision. But there's something about Telluride that makes me want to bring home a little more. I like my iridescent sapphire blue snowboard-shaped bottle opener, and on this day was considering replacing the pint glass that I broke a couple years ago -- not that I need yet another pint glass. What caught my eye this time was a felt fedora. The saleslady at Overland assured me it would return to shape if crushed, but I wasn't going to take that bet and had her ship it home.
The glittery scarf I bought for Laurel, on the other hand, would pack quite nicely.
That business done, it was time for dinner -- even though I wasn't really all that hungry after the pile of gang gai I'd enjoyed, not all that long ago, in Montrose.
The Wood Ear Whiskey Lounge & Noodle Bar struck me as quite an odd concept. But I've always liked noodles, and have more recently developed a taste for Jameson, so it seemed worth exploring. I descended into the subterranean venue, was conducted to a table, ordered a boutique whiskey of a label I've since forgotten.
The glittery scarf I bought for Laurel, on the other hand, would pack quite nicely.
That business done, it was time for dinner -- even though I wasn't really all that hungry after the pile of gang gai I'd enjoyed, not all that long ago, in Montrose.
The Wood Ear Whiskey Lounge & Noodle Bar struck me as quite an odd concept. But I've always liked noodles, and have more recently developed a taste for Jameson, so it seemed worth exploring. I descended into the subterranean venue, was conducted to a table, ordered a boutique whiskey of a label I've since forgotten.
After deciding on and consuming a gigantic bowl of ramen soup, I set up my laptop and resumed writing whatever egregiously overdue dispatch I was whittling on at the time.
And ordered more whiskey.
Eventually they kicked me out so I went across the street to the Last Dollar Saloon and drank Jameson and wrote more dispatch until they kicked me out.
Then I staggered back to the Victorian and set up my GoPro file transfer and kicked it off and expected to just pass out but instead didn't sleep well for no particular or obvious reason but one quite likely root cause because I woke up the next morning wishing I'd exercised more restraint in my whiskey consumption.
And ordered more whiskey.
Eventually they kicked me out so I went across the street to the Last Dollar Saloon and drank Jameson and wrote more dispatch until they kicked me out.
Then I staggered back to the Victorian and set up my GoPro file transfer and kicked it off and expected to just pass out but instead didn't sleep well for no particular or obvious reason but one quite likely root cause because I woke up the next morning wishing I'd exercised more restraint in my whiskey consumption.
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