Chapter Six
Within an hour of pulling out of Foss State Park, we’d crossed into the Texas Panhandle. I-40 West had served us well since Memphis, but by the time we hit Amarillo, we had to say goodbye. Getting into Colorado required a few zigs and one or two zags. We cut the corner through New Mexico using Hwy 87, then jumped on I-25 in Raton, about five miles from the border.
Ultimately, we were headed to Basalt, an old mining town, not far from Aspen. This was where my brother Sam’s ex-wife, Michaele, and my nephew Shaun, lived. It would be our Colorado “Base of Operations” for a few days.
But there were a lot of mountains we’d need to cross to get there, best tackled after some rest. We needed to find a place to camp for the night. And the area was brimming with options.
“Recreational vehicles” weren’t as ubiquitous in 1978. If you did have a travel trailer, truck camper, or a Class C RV, chances are you were staying at a KOA or similar commercial campground with amenities. Like electricity, water hook-ups, a snack bar, bathrooms with hot showers, dump station, a pool, badminton courts. (They also offer little to no privacy, nature, or wildlife…but again I digress.)
My point? It was June. And competition for campsites at public parks was non-existent, unlike today. We just pulled into a park and drove around until we found a nice, level spot we liked.
In some parks, there was an “honor box” near the front gate. If a fee was required, you’d just slip bills in the slot and go. Several “campgrounds” we stopped at were free…and generally worth every penny: Unpaved roads, no bathrooms, no picnic tables, no fire rings, etc. (These days, it’s referred to as “boondocking.”) We liked “free.”
The campground we found offered several postcard-perfect views. It was easy to see why so many people visit Colorado…and never leave.
The next day was the high point of our trip. Literally.
State Highway 82. Home of Independence Pass.
John and I hadn’t been on the road very long when we came along a rustic roadside bar/restaurant. Chances are, there would not be much to choose from up the road. So we stopped, sat at the bar and ordered a few Coors and some lunch.
(Note: For everyone east of the Mississippi, Coors was still a legendary “regional” treat in 1978. It wouldn’t be available nationally until 1981.)
We both made quick work of our beer and asked for two more. The bartender/waiter/manager set down the mug he was drying and walked over to us. “You boys are heading up toward Aspen?”
We nodded.
“Gotta cut ya off then. It’s more than two miles over sea level at the top. Air is thin. Two beers will feel like four.”
“Well then forget the beer,” I said. “How about a few shots?”
He didn’t laugh. We finished up our burgers and moved on.
At 12,095 feet above sea level, Highway 82’s traverse of Independence Pass is the highest paved crossing of the Continental Divide in North America, and the highest paved road on Colorado’s state highway network. The pass is closed during the winter months and reopens in May. It was easy to see why. Snow was still piled up along the shoulder. And it was steep, with a couple of switchbacks that were not for the weak of heart. This was a big test for the Toyota’s little four-banger and five-speed tranny.
Highway 82 was breath-taking, as promised. The scenery was truly amazing. But just hopping out of the truck at the scenic overlooks to take photos left us gasping for air.
We met up with Michaele at her workplace in “downtown” Basalt. There didn’t appear to be much beyond the main street. Figuring out which of the three dive bars she worked at, however, required the process of elimination. Her directions had left a lot to be desired.
We peeked in a few doors and found it on the second try. She was behind the bar. Shaun, my nephew, sat at a table in the back pretending to do his homework. He was about to turn 12. A handful of day-drinkers gave us a quick once-over, then went back to staring at their beer mugs. The juke box was playing something country.
Like, ‘Cayla had always, like, personified the 1960s “hippie chick.” Always wore low-cut floor-length peasant dresses. Wire frame “granny” glasses pushed down on her nose. Jet-black eyeliner. Big floppy hats. Shoes optional.
Last time I’d laid eyes on her was in Detroit. Early March 1972. She had stopped by the funeral home to say her last goodbyes to my brother, Sam. They’d only been divorced about a year. She hated his guts but obviously still adored him. She made a scene about having the casket opened. It was closed for a reason. The car wreck had been brutal. To avoid things getting uglier, they opened the lid. She leaned in, kissed him on the lips, swung herself around dramatically and walked out without making eye contact with anyone.
The lid was quickly shut behind her.
Six years later, crashing with ‘Cayla and Shaun was admittedly awkward. But they were family, and she had a shower and a sofa or two. We also got to see and do things we’d never otherwise experience on our own, an advantage we discovered from all of our crashes.
It was hard not to have concerns about Shaun. As his troubled life would unfold, it was important that I had the chance to visit with them when I did and saw the environment in which he was growing up. It gave it all context later.
His life has been blessed and cursed. An innocent victim of circumstance and DNA. But, ultimately, much of his pain has been self-inflicted. Yet, he’s a survivor. I’m proud of him for that.
The day after our arrival in Basalt, ‘Cayla took us on a tour of the area in her VW Thing. For the uninitiated, the Thing was basically a Nazi jeep. Built in Mexico. And pulled from the market after two years for being notoriously unsafe and poorly manufactured.
But the Thing was fun! The top was down, the sun was shining. Our heads were on swivels to take in the gorgeous scenery. Snow-capped mountains. The flickering leaves of the aspen trees. ‘Cayla gave us a running commentary as she negotiated the narrow wooden bridges spanning sparkling mountain streams. Up single-lane gravel roads cut into the steep sides of hills, down into deep gorges, and across dried creek beds. She looked at me in the rearview mirror and cackled at the look of terror on my face.
After our backwoods tour, ‘Cayla left for work. John and I headed to nearby Aspen. The slopes were bare but the town was bustling. We finally managed to find a place where we could afford to eat. John picked up a flyer near the hostess desk for a Colorado River white-water rafting experience.
He was all in. I was on the fence.
‘Cayla’s thrill ride through the Rockies was terrifying enough. Caroming through the Colorado River rapids in an inflatable rubber boat seemed like it would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I could afford to miss. But John and I had come too far for me to pussy out now.
We both survived the rafting trip, obviously. It was great fun. As we shed our yellow slickers came the pitch: “Purchase photos of YOUR white-water rafting experience right over here at the photo counter.”
We scanned through the prints. Found the shot of our boat with John clearly howling with glee. I looked scared shitless. But we didn’t care about the photo. We wanted to know HOW they managed to get a picture of us taken four miles upstream processed and printed by the time we got four miles downstream.
Keep in mind, kids. This was 1978. No PCs. No wifi. No internet. No cellphones. For two guys obsessed with figuring out how things work, this feat was nothing short of wizardry.
The answer: Air Mail. They strapped the roll of film on the leg of a carrier pigeon. I shit you not.
We had already said our goodbyes to our hosts that morning. The rafting experience was only a mile or two from I-70 West. And within a few hours, we’d be welcomed to The Beehive State.
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