FrostyWooldridge's Blog

By Frosty Wooldridge

 

Have you ever been accused of having too much fun?  Ever ride a motorcycle into a great adventure?  Ever felt like you’re so happy you can’t see straight?  “Well pilgrim,” John Wayne said, “it’s high time we rode over that mountain pass to see what’s on the other side!”

 

Last weekend, William, Rebecca, Jim, Lisa and Frosty connected at the cut on I-70 west bound.  Shinny bikes!  Lots of leather!  Smiling faces!  Great expectations!

 

“Do I know any of you strangers?” I asked while shaking hands. 

 

“Will we want to know you after this ride might be a better question?” Jim said, cracking a smile.

 

With a full sun rising over the eastern plains, we headed up the Interstate with great expectations.  We aimed our bikes west into the mountains.  Spring green popped up everywhere with aspens in full regalia.  Green shoots exploded out of the lodge pole pines covering mountain flanks like a luxurious blanket.

 

Up into cooler air!  Up into snow-capped peaks! Up over Loveland Pass through the tunnel.  Ten miles down into the valley over the Blue River!  Up again along a white water river out of Copper Mountain.  Up again over Vail Pass!  We powered our bikes into long sweeping serpentine curves with a hint of icy wind. 

 

Around us, amazing beauty with aspen, pines, rivers, rocks, hawks soaring and life pulsing in that green mountain majesty! 

 

We returned to the road on our way toward Glenwood Springs’ Strawberry Festival. 

 

After making our way through brilliant red rock canyons, we flew across several valleys until we entered rugged Glenwood Canyon along the Colorado River.  As we roared into it, the river boiled beside us with rapids and white-water raging from spring runoff.  Sheer cliffs rose vertically from the road. 

 

We cruised into the turns, throttled into the straight-aways and soared over the river like eagles!  So much beauty!  So many blessings!  I’ve traveled through that canyon hundreds of times in 35 years—never the same and always astounding!

 

Quick exit into Glenwood!  We ran right up on the beginning of the parade. We parked the bikes and stood with thousands of people waiting for the “Strawberry Festival”.  Wow! 

 

Clowns, small cars, antique vehicles, 57 Chevys, fire engines, marching bands, Ompa Bands, Miss Colorado,  Bob Shaffer running for US Senate shook our hands, El Jebel guys on their scooters, kids throwing out candy, babies crying, children laughing, “I love a parade”, and 4-H!   Way too much fun!

 

After the parade, we sat down at the famous “19th Street Diner” with Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, the Beatles, John Wayne and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” featuring Brando, Monroe, Presley and James Dean.  Inside, sparkling vinyl booths, milk shakes and a sign over the counter: “It’s all Good!”  Also, Monroe with her white dress flying up!  Another poster showing a 57 Chevy and a 58 Pontiac going in opposite directions side by side with a guy and girl poked out of the back windows to catch a kiss!  Classic!

 

Off to the antique car show at the festival fair grounds!  Yahoo! I loved the Corvettes, Jags, 58 Chevy Impala and 40 other ‘hot’ old cars along with 65 Mustangs and 34 Coups.  Amazing that your eyes remember your youth through the viewing of those old cars.  

 

We walked over to the tents with ‘things’ to buy as in jewelry, art, décor, paintings, photographs, eating, strawberry pie tasting, all you can eat contests, music, people and SO much more!

 

“Step right up and get your fortune read,” a lady said.  “See your future!”

 

Soon, we reached the burning desert of Utah. At Cisco, exit 214, we headed south along the Colorado River Canyon for a 35 mile ride into paradise.

 

In the meantime, we enjoyed stunning 1,000 foot red/tan vertical cliff walls rising up from the roiling Colorado River—red with dirt and heavy spring snow melt!  We felt like riding through a can of angleworms with not a 100 yards of straight pavement.  The road twisted, turned, dropped, jumped, dived, rose and fell at the whim of the terrain.  Giant spires shot skyward in front of us for more pictures to be taken! 

 

Soon, near sunset, we hit Moab, Edward Abbey Country!  We gassed up and hit a Mexican Café’ for a fantastic dinner with conversation about a fabulous day on our bikes.  “Good grub,” Jim said.  “I’m hungry.”  An hour later, we headed out to Canyonlands to find a campsite.

 

Around 10:30 p.m., under a starlit sky, we turned left and drove down two red dirt tracks to a special campsite on the edge of Canyonlands.  Overhead, a never ending night sky featured millions of stars. After we pitched our tents, we enjoyed a pumpkin-colored moon rise up over the canyon walls.

 

“How would you describe it?” I asked Rebecca.

 

“Fabulous, awe inspiring,” she said.

 

“William?” I said.

 

“Nothing like being out in the middle of nowhere,” he said, “and camp under a night sky like this.  Total wonder!”

 

Robert Service said of such beauty, “They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, they have soaked you in convention and comfort through and through; They have put you in a showcase;  you’re a credit to their teaching; but can’t you hear the Wild? It’s call you! 

 

“Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betides us; Let us journey to a lonely land I know.  There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s star agleam to guide us, and the Wild is calling, calling…let us go.”

 

Next morning, we found some picnic tables on the canyon rim and enjoyed a fantastic breakfast of oat meal, scrambled eggs, bagels, hot chocolate and conversation. 

 

Later, we took our time riding to the end where we stopped at “The Grand View.”  Wow! What an amazing sight!  Stunning rock formations stretched for miles. 

 

Later, we took more photographs and rode the bikes along the mesa.  Great valleys and canyons cut away from the road.  Every curve provided cactus, pinion trees, grasses, flowers and, above us, blue sky.  William and Rebecca powered their bikes into paradise.  I followed!

 

We sped away from Canyonlands with many memories as we headed our machines toward Arches National Park. 

 

We powered the bikes up a large snaking canyon road into Arches.  In the next two hours, we sped by “Park Avenue”; “The Three Gossips”; “Petrified Dunes”; “Court Towers”’; “Balanced Rock”; “Garden of Eden”; “Delicate Arch”; “Landscape Arch”; “Natural Bridges”, “The Choir” and other geological wonders.

 

Abbey, a ranger in the park in the 50s, said, “We need wilderness whether or not we ever set foot in it.  We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope; without it, the life of the cities would drive all men into crime or drugs or mental illness.”

 

Well into the afternoon, after many photographs, we faced a six hour drive back to Denver.  We gassed up not only with petrol, but with memories, of laughter, of good food, of sights seen, of the open highway and our two wheeled steeds.  We clicked the bikes into gear, let out the clutches, turned the throttles and headed into the wind.

 

“Engines roaring, faces smiling,

We travel that highway through time;

Wheels rolling, minds probing,

The answers there are to find.

My friends and I, we travel far,

A spirit shared by two,

By a glimmering fire or a shimmering lake,

The feelings felt are true.

With ups and down that come our way,

Like mountains high and valleys low,

Each we take with a smile because inside we know.

That open road gives us life,

IT blossoms in our minds.

Seldom do we ever shake,

Dear feelings that do not bind.

So, laugh my friends as our engines roar,

Along each passing mile,

And raise your head up to the sky,

And share with me your smile.”

By Frosty Wooldridge while on the road

somewhere in America.

www.frostywooldridge.com "MOTORCYCLE ADVENTURE TO ALASKA: INTO THE WIND" may be found at www.amazon.com and www.barnesandnoble.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Frosty Wooldridge

 

Our loaded canoe slipped easily away from the dock on the south end of Shadow Mountain Lake high in the Rocky Mountains.  Above us, puffy summer clouds skidded across the sky while swallows darted across the water in front of us.  One speedster snatched a floating white feather out of the air, lost it, then dove back to catch it again—then off to her nest.

 

We paddled toward three islands in the middle of the lake when an osprey swooped down in front of us.  Seconds later, it swept up to a branch in a dead tree. As we paddled past, the osprey watched us intently.

 

With each paddle stroke, swirling waters faded back along our ancient craft.  I watched Sandi dig into the water, pull back and hoist the paddle back out as it dripped with water.  She returned it forward until she sliced back into the clear lake water beneath our canoe.  Something magical about traveling slowly with the rhythms of nature!  Peace overcomes and spirit travels softer through the pores of our bodies. 

 

A slight breeze picked up while we slipped between two islands toward our favorite Pacific White Pelican viewing spot.   Another 500 hundred paddle strokes later brought us to a magnificent colony of 25 pelicans perched on logs with more standing in two inches of water.  Some slept while others preened! 

 

With five foot wing spans on pure white plumage, those birds shock a bird watcher when their black wingtips appear as if by magic.  Their tangerine-colored beaks stretch eight to 10 inches long.  Under their beaks, a big pouch flaps when they raise their heads and ‘clap’ at the sky in what looks like they talk to the clouds.  Bright yellow surrounds their eye sockets.

 

Once finished with their ‘do-dadding’, they turn their heads 180 degrees, point their beaks along the spine on their backs, bury it into their feathers—and fall asleep.  We watched various activities for two hours from our anchored position 30 yards away.  Every once in a while, a big pelican glided toward the group, dropped his wings and skidded into the water.   Their majestic wingspan inspires amazement.

 

Peace poured over us like maple syrup over pancakes as we watched those big birds.  My favorite woodsman John Muir said, “How many hearts with warm red blood in them are beating under cover of the woods, and how many teeth and eyes are shining!  A multitude of animal people, intimately related us, but of whose lives we know almost nothing, are as busy about their own affairs as we are about ours.”

 

We pulled away from our anchor for another 500 paddle strokes to a point near a cove loaded with cattails.   We beached the canoe in time to see a female moose glaring right at us through thick underbrush.  We enjoyed a picnic table and fire spit for an afternoon of reading, writing, relaxing in our camp chairs—and preparing dinner. 

 

Hot chocolate steamed as the sky lit up in radiant red glows from the snow-capped peaks behind us to the western sky in front of us.  Mayflies danced in the air above the cattails while the sun back-lit their bodies.  Red-wing black birds flew from cattail to cattail.  Several fish jumped out in the water. 

 

All the while, the sun sank low while swallows raced through splendid gray/red/pink colors flashing off cloudbanks high above us.  To our west, shadows rose up mountain flanks—filled with brown beetle killed lodge pole pines—along with new green growth nudging its way toward the sun. Further east, eternal snow-capped peaks glowed pink against a strawberry sky.

 

All the while red-winged black birds sang their melodies while several hummingbirds buzzed over our spot.  A yellow finch stopped by for a perch on our picnic table. Out in the water, Canada geese honked with the dying light. Must have been 100 of them swimming past in a grand gray/black/white parade!    I looked around me at the grand scheme of nature—water lapped the shore, mallards floated past, geese honked, new cattails shot green shoots skyward and nature proved its magic. 

 

How peaceful that moment with nature gliding effortlessly from day to night.  Each creature in the air, under the water and upon the land commenced its business, its life process.

 

What’s so special?  We sit her in our chairs watching this grand color parade ebb and flow—and we take heed and appreciation.  At this moment, a line of clouds resembling a piano keyboard blazes pink in the western sky.  Yet we see it slowly evolving to gray/red and opps, it turned black in a moment as the sun set!

 

We ate a fabulously tasty dinner and gorged ourselves on Raspberry Crumble dessert!

 

Later, we jumped into the canoe to paddle across the lake in the gathering darkness. A ¾ moon bounced a line of light off the bow of our ancient craft.  Glass-still water allowed us to cut through it like a knife.  I watched Sandi dig into the water as we cut a straight shot toward the distant shoreline. I pulled my own paddle hard through the water.

 

We hit the shoreline, pulled the canoe into the woods, and pitched our tent in the moonlight.  Magic!  We dove onto our air mattresses with moon light playing on the fabric while trees creaked above and a few birds chirped their last song as we fell asleep.

 

As the sun cracked the mountain peaks east of us, we piled our gear into our canoe.  Mist swirled off the glass smooth waters as we launched our craft. 

 

Another 1,000 paddle strokes brought us to the boat docks in Grand Lake.  A bowl of tree-covered mountains surrounded us in that peaceful place.  We tied up while several early birds threw their fish lines into the water.

 

We walked over to the Fat Cat Café’ run by an English woman. Wow! What an amazing breakfast buffet array of European-style cooking.  WE walked into a quaint log cabin interior with rustic seating.  On the food tables, she offered a display fit for royalty: quiches, scrambled eggs, griddled hot cakes, cookies, fruit slices, sweet breads, French toast, hash browns, lemon pie, strawberry pie, chocolate pie, banana cream pie, cherry pie, English sconces and mouthwatering cinnamon rolls.  Then, ham, bacon, hevos rancheros, corn beef hash, poached eggs, coffees, teas, hot chocolate—and so much more!    

 

After breakfast, the weekend moved slowly forward. We hopped into our ancient craft for 2,000 paddle strokes to our take-out.  Along the way, osprey flew, gulls danced on the wind, a mule deer hopped through the woods and life carried on its magic while the white pelicans preened themselves under a Rocky Mountain Blue sky. 

 

Life doesn’t get much better than that!

 

Books by Frosty Wooldridge at www.amazon.com and www.barnesandnoble.com or www.frostywooldridge.com

..

By Frosty Wooldridge

May 2008

John Muir said, "When you pick up a rock, you discover that it's hitched to everything else in the universe." Chief Seattle worded it this way; "All things are connected."

On this motorcycle journey into the desolate beauty of Canyonlands, Utah – Sandi and I mingled with the past while we enjoyed our iron steed in the present. You might say we enjoyed a visual delight of "Desert Dessert."

Riding on I-70 west from Denver, Colorado provided a sense of watching our cares fade in the rear view mirrors as we gained altitude. When we reached 8,000 feet, an expansive bridge with no center struts--framed aspirin-white mountain peaks jutting into blue skies.

"This is already a beautiful ride," I said to Sandi.

We powered the bike through thinning traffic. At lower elevations, fresh green aspen leaves brightened the woods where dark pines blanketed mountain flanks. Sharp valleys led to snowy summits high above us. Every mile provided another white-capped peak surrounded by azure sky. Above us, 10 elegant, white pelicans with six foot wingspans flew in formation toward their Canadian nesting grounds.

"Look at those birds," Sandi pointed.

"Beautiful!" I said.

Georgetown, Colorado

The road wound its way toward historic Georgetown at 8,400 feet. We stopped off for lunch. Along Main Street, buildings featured dates of 1887, 1890 and 1896. The town's Victorian architecture dazzled visitors. We walked up the street to visit a train shop with paintings of old trains, gem jewelry shop and a photo shop. We met Gary Raines, a local photographer with a beautiful array of landscapes from around the USA.

At the visitor center, we watched a movie of historic Georgetown with its mining and railroad past. Truly a fantastic journey from the early years of Colorado! On another ride, we will again climb aboard the steam-train for a ride on the Georgetown Loop.

Red-Tan-Orange Sandstone in Brilliant Sunshine

Back on the road, we sailed through the Eisenhower Tunnel and glided over Vail Pass… more than two miles above sea-level. Soon after, we rolled through Gypsum where blazing red sedimentary rocks glowed in the sunlight. We seemingly watched an I-MAX movie--except we powered our motorcycle through it--in person!

Soon, we rolled along the mighty Colorado River through gorgeous Glenwood Canyon. Steep, vertical rock cliffs changed shapes and presented every kind of angle, spire and ledge for adoring eyes. We curled the bike through the beauty as we danced around the curves. Not much traffic! Nice!

"19th Street Diner" in Glenwood Springs.

Hungry as all “git out,” we stopped at the "19th Street Diner" in Glenwood Springs. Talk about a blast from the past! Elvis sang! Marilyn Monroe's white dress flared over our table! James Dean, Elvis, Brando and Monroe sat at a diner with the title: "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." Another poster featured the Beatles… with their signatures.

One big picture showed the front end of a '57 Chevy alongside a Pontiac going the other way. The Chevy driver watched as the girl in his back seat poked her head out the window and kissed the driver of the Pontiac. Classic shot! A sign over the counter read, "It's all good."

We sat on duct-taped (repaired) sparkling vinyl booth seats while a 70 year old Clairol blond waitress who could have been Elvis' mother, walked up – "Ya hungry?"

"Yes ma'am," Sandi said. "We'll have two strawberry milkshakes, veggie burgers and fries."

When she brought our food, I asked, "Ma'am, I'm curious…why aren't you retired?"

She replied, "I livin' to be one-hundred and I need lots of money to p-a-r-t-y! I can't kick up my dancing shoes if I ain't got no money…unless you want to start supporting my lifestyle."

On the road again… heading west toward the Utah desert

After gorging ourselves, we jumped back on the bike, gassed up and headed west into traffic.

We rolled through Grand Junction on our way into the quiet desolation of the Utah Desert. At Cisco, Utah, we headed south on Route 128. The sun, drifting lower in the sky, created a long shadow for our bike and us. I powered the machine through many curves until we again reached the roiling waters of the Colorado River.

Just before sunset, we found a campsite near the river's edge. We pitched the tent, watched the sun go down and enjoyed several rafting parties gliding downstream toward Moab. Off in the bush, wild turkeys gobbled for an hour as we fell asleep—to a sprinkling of rain.

Ceaseless eye-candy

Next morning, we broke camp and hit the road as the morning sunrise danced on the 1,000 foot cliff faces above us along the river canyon. We crossed over the Colorado River and wound our way down the canyon fenced by red/tan blazing sandstone burnished with warm rays from the rising sun. Fresh green trees and bushes decorated the banks while wide-eyed kayakers paddled their way along the edges of the river.

Soon, towering spires pierced the sky while rock mesas blazed in the fresh sunlight of a new day. I dare say not a 100 yard stretch of straight pavement existed on that road toward Moab.

As Henry David Thoreau said,

"We need the tonic of the wilderness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground."

In Moab, we hit the Jailhouse Café for breakfast!

We sat down with two other Harley bikers and enjoyed a great conversation. Matt and Rebecca proved delightful new friends. He enjoyed his med-tech job and she studied to be a physician-dentist. Both very sharp and delightful folks!

After filling our tummies, we topped the tank on our bike and headed toward "Arches National Park" for a view of what several million years of erosion can do for nature's artwork.

"Arches National Park"

After showing our National Parks pass to the cordial ranger, I leaned the bike into a giant "S" curve that carried us past a wall of gargantuan rocks resembling a red-tan version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. As we gained altitude, we reached high plains where picturesque rocks dominated the landscape. It might be described as nature's Disneyland… with visual rides like no other place on earth.

Looking to our left, walls of sandstone formed shapes like a baker's muffins turned upside down. Off to the right, we witnessed "Petrified Sand Dunes" frozen in place. Further out, giant doughnut holes in the rock inviting blue sky to show through.

We stopped at "Park Avenue" where we walked along a canyon that resembled walking down a skyscraper-lined street in New York. Towering red spires shot into the sky with creative shapes and visual elegance. Edward Abbey said,

"There's a kind of loveliness of loneliness in Arches."

We pulled the bike away from "Park Avenue" on our journey toward "Balanced Rock." On top of a seemingly thin rock pole, a 50 ton rock balanced precariously… as if it would fall over any moment.

"Sandi, hold your hand as if you're holding up Balanced Rock," I said. "Yeah, that's it!"

Sandi made a muscle and held up the rock with a grin on her face.

Garden of Eden, Delicate Arch, and Landscape Arch

Later we rode through the "Garden of Eden" where many rocks formed doughnut holes big enough to drive a truck through them. Tall red/tan spires pierced the sky like so many arrows. We powered the bike through a rock garden built via a million years of wind, water and ice erosion.

The hike to Delicate Arch proved glorious and a bit of a labor. The arch stands out on the side of a 'toilet bowl-like' rock foundation. Some say the arch looks like the bottom half of a cowboy with chaps from the waist down. Others say it's shaped like a puffy doughnut cut by a third and welded into the base. For certain, it's a beautiful piece of nature's artwork.

Later, we checked out "Landscape Arch" after a mile walk-in.

"That's phenomenal," Sandi said. "It says here it's a 103 yards long of rock bridge. It could collapse at any time under the weight of thousands of tons of rock."

"At some point, it will," I said. "Nature creates… and nature destroys."

We filled up the water bottles and lingered before taking off again.

By now, lots of motorcycles scattered around the parking lots. We met New Zealanders Jean and Malcolm Gibbons riding around the magnificent USA. Surprisingly, we met Mike Gordon the architect of Boettcher Hall in Denver.

A Harley rider named Jim said, "I'm on a three month vacation for my retirement…I'm going to see the whole country!"

We angled the bike back through all the curves, past the big rock walls and down the giant "S" curve before exiting the park.

"Canyonlands National Park"

"Let's camp out in Canyonlands," I said to Sandi as we headed west.

"Suits me," she said.

Canyonlands receives one-third as many visitors as Arches, but from the ride toward the entrance, I'd say mile for mile, Canyonlands equals anything and any park in the USA. We powered the bike up winding curves through stunning rock scenery. Again, the sky dominated with its vast spread from horizon to horizon.

John Muir said,

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop of like autumn leaves."

Canyonlands proves a remarkable replica of viewing the Grand Canyon, but with a difference! When you view the Grand Canyon, you see it from the north or south edge. By riding into Canyonlands, the mesa and road take you on a winding path through the middle of it. You curl the bike toward the cliffs on one side and then, you carve through the curves to see the other side.

Canyonlands; what do you see? "Stunning beauty," Sandi said.

On each side, spire cathedrals reach skyward from a foundation a thousand feet below. Astounding vacant canyons – blazing red, dapple tan, dark brown and filled with jagged rock cliffs – astound a visitor. Atop the mesa, delicate pinion trees grow out of rocks while hawks soar on the updrafts. We followed the serpentine road all the way to the end where the road stopped at a cliff edge: The Grand View!

As we neared the edge, Sandi said, "This looks much like a moonscape… Barren, broken, mystical and so beautiful!"

"Look here," I said pointing to the sign. "It says there are three levels to this canyon. We're on the top level while one-thousand feet below the white rim stone held off erosion and another thousand feet below that the Colorado and Green Rivers carved out those deep canyons."

"All of those levels reveal stunning beauty," Sandi said.

International, breathless appreciation

We heard motorcyclists from France speaking in their language.

"Bonjour, ca va?" I greeted them.

"Bonjour monsieur," one spoke back. "Ca va bien! La vue, tres belle!"

We chatted for a bit with their broken English and my fractured French! Lovely group!

As the sun sank lower into the sky, we hopped back on the bike for the ride out of the park. Once we exited, we saw a long dirt path leading away from the pavement. Perfect! I turned the bike onto the gravel. After bumping along, we found a quiet spot for camping near the edge of canyon. The wall dropped 1,000 feet.

We pitched the tent and cooked dinner atop the precipice.

Ah, nothing so savory as Lasagna followed with blueberry cheesecake!

While we sat on a couple of rocks, brilliant golden sunrays splashed over sections of the canyon— lighting them up in various tones of red, tan, bronze and beige. Horsetail clouds swirled and danced above us with multiple gold and purple tinges at the edges--while gray/white tones created a mosaic painting in the sky. In front of us, the fire licked the cooling night air. As the sun made its final blazing descent below the horizon, we crawled into our tent for a quiet night's sleep.

Next day, we headed south on Route 191 toward Monticello, Utah, which, in Italian, means "Little Mountain." Unlike Thomas Jefferson's Monticello at 800 feet above sea level in Virginia, this small town perched at 7,000 feet of altitude! From there, we turned east toward Cortez. On route 491, we rode through farm country with green pastures, tractors, barnyards, cows, horses and chickens.

In Cortez, we headed east on Route 145 toward Ridgeway, Colorado. We wove our away along a cascading river that curled into deeper canyons. From verdant green spring leaves bursting from aspen trees, we gained altitude with bare trees still unaffected by the onslaught of summer. After leaning the bike back and forth through endless curves, we sailed over Lizard Head Pass. Stunning snow-capped mountain peaks greeted us at the top!

The Duke, in Ridgeway, CO – "True-Grit Café

Long sweeping curves carried us into Ridgeway – where Dennis and Gerry Weaver's EarthShip guards the entrance. We accidentally stopped at the "True Grit Café" – with John Wayne's pictures and movie posters watching us from every wall. Why? He earned his only best actor Oscar trophy for portraying a grizzled one-eyed lawman in "True Grit"— filmed right there in Ridgeway, Colorado. It's like a journey back through time. Great food, too!

Six Harley riders walked in and sat down while we walked out. "Howdy gents," I said. They nodded.

We hit the road for the easterly ride back to Denver.

Around us, shimmering aspen leaves fluttered in the breeze. Crows flew through blue skies while Canada geese paddled across mountain lakes. From desert dessert to mountain majesty!

As John Muir said,

"How deep our sleep last night in the mountain's heart, beneath the trees and stars, hushed by solemn-sounding waterfalls and many small soothing voices in sweet accord— whispering peace! And our first pure mountain day, warm, calm, cloudless— how immeasurable it seems, how serenely wild!

"I can scarcely remember its beginning.

"Along the river, over the hills, in the ground, in the sky, spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm, new life, new beauty, unfolding, unrolling in glorious exuberant extravagance, --- new birds in their nests, new winged creatures in the air, and new leaves, new flowers, spreading, shining, rejoicing everywhere."

The engine sang a lullaby; the white lines flew by, the pavement led upward into another curve. As I glanced into my rear view mirrors, I remembered that poster in the "19th Street Diner" that read, "It's all good!"

 

Enjoy "MOTORCYCLE ADVENTURE TO ALASKA: INTO THE WIND--A TEEN NOVEL" BY FROSTY WOOLDRIDGE www.amazon.com ; www.barnesandnoble.com Fun read for teens and adults who love motorcycling adventure.

SWEATING UP MOUNTAINS THROUGH SNOWBANKS AND BLUE SKIES: AN AMAZING BICYCLE WEEKEND!

By Frosty Wooldridge

The first official bicycle tour of the Rockies commenced this past weekend with a starting point in Frisco.  We hitched the panniers to the bikes, slapped on sunblock, packed on all the gear—and headed up the cycle path toward Copper Mountain. 

Within minutes, at 75 degree temps, sweat poured down my brow!  A warm sun and melting snow proved glisteningly beautiful under a blue sky.  Beavers cut through many aspen along the river route.  Gray jays, crows and robins sang their songs.  A few finches and blue birds gave us special visual delights!

Along that route, water cascaded down the mountain in rapidly flowing waterfalls.  Also, we could hear rushing water everywhere along the bike path.  The first spring buds burst from the underbrush, but the big aspens remained dormant at 9,000 feet.

We passed several frozen lakes that showed water around the edges.  We passed one cyclist who stopped us, “You ain’t goin’ much further.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“About 500 yards ahead, it’s deep snow,” he replied.

“Thanks,” I said. “Maybe we can cross over the bridge and get back on 70.”

“Good luck,” he said.

About another half mile, two foot snow piled up, but another cyclist about 100 yards away slogged through the snow bank on his way toward Frisco. 

“What the heck,” I said. “Let’s bust our butts through this ice cream pie!”

Ten minutes later, breathing a little harder, we pulled the bikes through and made our way to Copper Mountain.  One guy stopped and asked about our touring loads.  He toured with his wife last year from Vail to Virginia.  Right after him, a young kid came up asking questions about the flags.  He rode back from Vail last year after the ski season and he decided to repeat it again this year because he enjoyed the ride so much.  He definitely decided to hook flags onto his touring bike. 

As I talked to those other riders, more ideas came to my head for writing the safety article on flags.  A bunch of photo ideas popped into my head.  I wrote them down once he took off down the road.  I always ‘catch’ ideas immediately as they flow through my head.  I write them down so they can’t escape!

Back on the road, I crossed over the road along the golf course in Copper Mountain. The big ski runs remained with lots of snow, but the city reminded me of a ghost town.

“Is the pass open?” I asked a fireman on his truck.

“Sure is,” he said. “They plowed it last week.  You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Within minutes, I cranked my bike Condor along the path toward Vail Pass.  However, as I sweated like a race horse, I pedaled through three foot snow banks on both sides of the path.  Funniest feeling being cooled by the snow from the side while being burned by the sun above, and sweating at 9,500 feet! All around me, aspirin-white snow blanketed the terrain with the river growing in noise and power. Up I pedaled toward the 10,000 foot pass.

Only five other cyclists raced back down toward me. On a summer’s day, it’s usually a hundred or more. I enjoyed the quiet and scenery.

At the top, wow, yes, freedom and joy!  Now, for the long ride down the mountain into Vail!  Life doesn’t get any better than that! Yahoo!  Yippee ki yea and git along little doggie!  What a freeing feeling from a long down-hill coast with gravity power doing all the work for you!

Through Vail, we rode along the bike trail pass million dollar homes and glorious statues.  Such beauty and architecture!

On route 24, we crossed over the river on our way to Minturn.  Sandi met me at the Turn-Around Café where the railroad used to feature a large round platter that turned the big locomotives around.

“I starving,” I said.

“Me too,” Sandi said. “Do you want to get pictures for your article after we eat?

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s get some great shots going up Battle Summit Mountain Pass.”

After watching a little train chug around the edge of the ceiling five times, we finished lunch.  Before we left, we walked into the memorabilia room to see Elvis singing with his guitar and Marilyn Monroe with her white dress flaring out as she stood over a ground vent in New York City.  Famous shot and we got to see it again!

Back on the road, Sandi took shots of my flags flapping and traffic passing.  She shot some from inside the car and along the highway. 

She drove ahead to set up camp in Hale Valley along the river at our favorite spot. 

Several other cyclists rode with us up Battle Mountain.  One guy guided tours all over Tuscany, Italy for two summers.  He told me half dozen stories of his adventures. I told him a few of mine pedaling through Tuscany and the walled city of Volterra.  Many great memories for both of us! 

About an hour later, with six percent grade, we made it to the top.  His girlfriend chattered the whole way. She skied Vail for five years and instructed beginner classes for kids.  Nice lady! One heck of a pair of legs!  I couldn’t keep up with her!

At the top, they turned around.  Within seconds, the incline dropped and we flew down the other side, over the European-style green arched bridge.  Below the river sparkled in the afternoon sun and the sky remained blue with a few clouds.  Sweat cooled my skin while I stopped  to put on a jacket.

Soon enough, I picked up Sandi reading in the car. We pulled off the road next to the river and set up our tent. 

“What would you like for dinner?” I said, boiling water for hot chocolate.

“Potato/broccoli with cheese,” she said, tossing me a freeze dried bag of Mountain House cuisine.

She pulled out a loaf of homemade brown bread and butter. 

“Oh my gosh,” I said, as I stuffed the tasty potatoes, cheese and veggies into my hungry mouth.  “This is delicious!”

Later, we boiled more water for “Raspberry Crumble” desert.  Once we mixed all the ingredients, we waited for eight agonizing minutes.  Then, we dove in!

“Umm, umm, good,” Sandi said.

“Mouthwatering!” I said.

We cooked up more hot water for hot chocolate as the sun settled over the mountains and shadows played across the river.  Several birds chirped, coyotes howled and squirrels chattered like machine guns in the trees overhead.

Later, we crawled into the tent for a good night’s sleep.

Next morning, a hummingbird buzzed by the tent.  Several robins chirped.  Ice clung to the tent flaps.  That first rush of cold air filled our lungs with excitement!

We ate breakfast as the sun warmed the air.  Within an hour, back on the road again.  We traveled through Hale Valley where 10,000 soldiers trained for combat in the Italian Alps during WWII. 

By the time we hit the incline for Tennessee Pass, it warmed  enough for T-shirt riding.  Then, more sweat all the way up to the top of Tennessee Pass.  At the top, three guys pulled in for a picture.  We all talked about bicycling. One guy, Bob, from Colorado Springs, said, “I used to be a paperboy and hauled papers on my Schwinn.”

“Me, too!” I said, remembering my newspaper days.

After they split, I pulled on my jacket for the ride down the back side. As I turned the corner, a brilliant white chain of mountains including Mt. Elbert, Mount Massive and others jutted into the azure morning sky.  Took my breath away!  I pedaled down through snowfields, cascading waterfalls and bulging streams growing by the hour as the warm 75 degree temps heated the land.

A straight shot across farming land showed century old buildings still being used for living and ranching.  With the glowing white mountains in the background, pedaling became incidental to the beauty around us.  Another couple passed going the other way.

In Leadville, at 10,200 feet, Sandi took a few pictures showing the visual effects of safety flags. 

We pedaled through the valley up to Freemont Pass at 11,318.  Great ride, hot weather and long pull up that pass!  On the other side, yow, 15 miles coasting downhill along a raging whitewater river to Copper Mountain. 

Not wanting to drag the bike through the 100 meters of snow again, I broke down the panniers, threw the gear into the car and locked my bicycle onto the roof rack.

“Let’s grab a Quiznos sub in Silverthorne,” Sandi said.

“You’ve got my attention,” I said.

We rolled into the I-70 traffic stream on our way back home.  In our minds--beauty, serenity, wildlife and wilderness!  Couldn’t help remembering the taste of wonderful Raspberry Crumble desert!  Oh what a sweet life and a grand weekend pedaling through paradise in the Rocky Mountains in the spring of 2008.

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Frosty Wooldridge has bicycled six continents and six times across the United States coast to coast and border to border. He is the author of: HANDBOOK FOR TOURING BICYCLISTS; BICYCLING THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE: SLICE OF HEAVEN, TASTE OF HELL; BICYCLING AROUND THE WORLD: TIRE TRACKS FOR YOUR IMAGINATION. He lives in Westminster, CO www.frostywooldridge.com

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By Frosty Wooldridge

"Time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. It reminds us to

cherish each moment, because it will never come again. What we leave

behind is not as important as how we have lived." Captain Jean Luc

Picard, Starship Enterprise

In a blink, the spokes, once reflecting the dawn's early light in the

"Land of the Midnight Sun' in Norway fall silent in the garage after

covering 3,500 miles from the highest city in Norway to Athens, Greece.

My bike, Condor, is back at his usual spot hanging on the ceiling

awaiting the next great ride. My friends Gary, Denis, Bob and I rolled

our bicycles across the European Continent this summer in one of the

great bicycle rides on the planet. All is quiet upon our return.

However, the memories and 3,500 pictures remain fresh in our minds. How

can you describe so much laughter and amazing moments?

I can still see all four of us meeting in Alta, Norway on a cool evening

at the airport. Laughing, smiling and enjoying great expectations! We

unpacked the bikes and wrenched them together and locked on the panniers.

The next two weeks saw us riding with a never setting sun through the

incredible mountains and fjords of Norway. Our campsites included some

amazing moments up high or down low and always near a snow field or

waterfall. One night down on the beach of a fjord, we parked all four

bikes on both sides of an old oar boat. Then, cooked dinner under

soaring snowfields blazing white in the evening sun. We rode through

reindeer land, Viking territory and in the land of the cuckoo bird. That

crazy bird became our morning alarm clock, "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo."

After two weeks of perfect weather and exquisite moments, rains hit and

for seven days, we rode in rain, cold rain, wet rain, and miserable rain.

We suffered, well, not suffered, yes, the more I think about it, we

suffered, but didn't die suffering, but it wasn't that much fun! At one

point, I saw the look on Bob's face, a novice at long distance riding,

and despair glommed all over his countenance. He was soaked from head to

foot, nose to toes, front to back, butt to feet, up to down--as we all

were. He said, "Just shoot me. Just take me out of my misery and shoot

me." Well, we didn't shoot him and he pedaled onward. In fact, he got

to liking the rain, and as time wore on and the rain drops splattered

everywhere, he said, "I love the rain, I want more of the rain, just give

me rain so I can ride in it." And, so it rained. Bob cried and none of

us smiled in the face of that daily rain and the pounding on our tents

at night. But then, the rain stopped. Amen! We rode south never to

see another drop of rain for the next two months. But no wonder the

Vikings were so tough because it rains all the time in Norway.

Denmark runs flat as a pancake with windmills and wind turbines, farmland

and nice people. We stopped into a 150 year old, still operating,

windmill that stood along the road. Man, it smelled of history and

ghosts from the past. Gary ate his way through the pastry shops of

Europe, and Denmark, by far, is the world's best pastry provider! Every

pastry shop included eclairs, doughnuts, chocolate to die for, cakes,

cookies, and an unending presentation of fabulous baked goods. We

stuffed ourselves andburned it off as we pedaled down the highway. We rode the North

Sea Cycle Route and then, into Germany.

Well, it's all flat and very nice and neat and clean and a lot of people

and the feudal system and castles and amazing rivers and people. We

followed the Rhine River and enjoyed our friends Uwe and Claudia, and

Hans and Erika. We discovered 3,000 year old cities, 2000 year old

churches, fantastic wines and food, and well, so much fun. Thanks to Uwe

and Claudia for their taking us to old churches and Eslingen. Hans and

Erika showed the best of Karlsrhue and Weingarten and lakes and music and

concerts and, well, Erika entertained us with her songs and playing her

accordion. Hans took me swimming in his favorite lake and we met their

friends. Way too much fun.

We pedaled to the source of the Rhine River at the Bodensee and into the

Alps of Switzerland where we once again climbed high mountain passes.

Oh, and never to forget the most amazing 35 kms down hill of Splugen

Pass which is like riding down through a can of angleworms with so many

twists and turns and tunnels and we met and rode with Anneke, Jan and

Marlose from Holland and laughed and danced on the highways where

history sprinkled wars, crusades and cathedrals of ancient times. We

passed dozens of touring riders from all over the world. We met Anja and

Harold. We loved our new friends on recumbents who proposed marriage on

the top of Splugen Pass...bravo Kors Jan and Ada! Thank you Pat and

Gunnar for your hospitality during the storms in Norway.

Chiavenna, Italy started our tour in Italia as we moved through the Roman

Empire in Venice and Florence with their statues and paintings and

exquisite architecture. We saw where Da Vinci worked, played and created

as well as Michael Angelo Buonorotti and we visited my brother in law

Bob and Pierina where he is an artist. Michael Angelo's David is as

fantastic as One can imagine. We visited Volterra and other walled

cities. We walked in the canals of Venice and the gondolas. We tried to

prop up the leaning tower of Pisa. We pedaled into Rome and saw the

pope and visited St. Mark's amazing cathedral and all the statues and

buildings and the Roman Forum. We walked where Caesar walked and Alexander the

Great and visited where St. Mark was killed and where Caesar was cremated. We sat at

the Fountain of Trevi and threw a coin over our shoulders and made wishes. We stood in

the Cistine Chapel to see where Michael’s man reached forward to touch the finger and

breath of life of God.

We visited the Coliseum where one million men lost their lives in 200

years of gladiator games all quiet now and mostly non violent tourists

visit that 60,000 seat structure. We walked on the one road, Via Sacra,

that led into the heart of Rome and we walked where all the great

historical figures walked. We walked where Caesar, Brutus, Pilot, Aurelius and other

Roman greats walked. Pretty heady experience to read about them and

then, walk where they walked 2000 years ago. And finally, in Rome, I was

able to see Gian Lorenzo Bernini's 'Rape of Persethanie' a piece that I

saw in the Humanity Books in college and finally, I got to see it and

touch it in the Borghesse Galleria in Rome. Truly, I felt so blessed to

see such a fantastic work of art along with so many other great pieces of

art.

We will always remember as we ate lunch in a park in Cremona, Italy

across from the Teatro Bar and Grill that two Italians walked across the

street with a tray holding bucket of ice and a chilled bottle of wine and

glasses and they uncorked it and said, "Welcome to Italy." You know, it

was one of those 'moments' that remains in your heart forever and, gives

hope for the future of humanity. We enjoyed many such moments like that

all across Europe.

At one point, we visited a mass grave site in Italy near Anzio of soldiers from America and

Britain who died in WWII. Most of them were 19 to 24. I wept at the tragedy. We slept

above the cemetery that night. That morning, I thanked all of them and then, it hit me to

invite them to ride with me that morning in the early sunshine in the hills of Italy. So, I led a

group of 520 spirited bicyclists out of their graves and onto a morning ride. And you know,

they yelled and cheered at what fun they were having on that special morning. I cried a lot

that day.

As you can imagine, we pedaled through the past. We rode our bikes

through Tuscany. We pedaled up and down the vineyard covered hills

and sweated across rivers and camped on cliffs above valleys. One

particular village stood on a high hill and was walled off over 1200

years ago. It is absolutely amazing riding into a city that is hundreds

of centuries old with people still living in brick houses from so long

ago. As I labored into the village and past the walls, I came upon a

fountain. I poured water from the fountain onto my head in the hot sun.

Amazingly, a tall church stood behind me when I heard children singing.

I walked up the steps and walked inside a fabulous church 1200 years old

with a children's choir singing. I sat down in a pew that was sat in by dozens of

generations and listened to the songs rise to the rafters of that old church. I can't begin to

tell you how touched I was by 'spirit' that day in that cathedral on a hill.

We loved the Italians who cheered us and applauded our journey, and,

well, I could write a book about the ride, and in fact, stay tuned. We

left Rome filled with history and grandeur and hit the coast and caught a

ferry from Ancona to Patras, Greece. We rode though the dry, hot, olive

grove-covered mountains to the Oracle of Delphi and that was amazing.

Their culture stands as magnificent in the times of Socrates, Aristotle

and Plato. We were SO touched by history in those buildings and statues

and museums. We pedaled on to Athens where we walked on the Parthenon

and discovered ancient ruins and visited the museums and ate Greek food

in a restaurant overlooking the Aegean Sea. Greece is the cradle of

thought. I now have statues of Hercules on my memory shelf along with

the leaning Tower of Piza and a gondola and other memories.

Now, back home, our lives pace to the humdrum of life, the daily grind,

the 'normal' deal of work and movies and friends. But for the

summer of cycling, we carry extraordinary moments in our hearts and minds.

And, boy oh boy, do our legs feel like we could power up a mountain

leading all the way to the moon!

I thank Bob, Gary and Denis for sharing this amazing adventure.

For 2009, we shall bicycle the entire profile of the ‘boot’ of Italy! Yahoo!

Frosty Wooldridge has bicycled 100,000 miles across six continents and six times across the USA. You may enjoy his books: "HANDBOOK FOR TOURING BICYCLISTS"; "BICYCLING THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE: SLICE OF HEAVEN, TASTE OF HELL" and "BICYCLING AROUND THE WORLD: TIRE TRACKS FOR YOUR IMAGINATION" www.frostywooldrige.com

By Frosty Wooldridge

Watching the flames lick the night air beneath clouds skidding across the sky at sunset—slows down the mind.  Gazing at the white smoke curl into a peaceful, quiet stillness—mesmerizes the soul.  What kind of magic would we encounter on our three days climbing magnificent mountains?   The answers lay ahead at the tops of these majestic peaks and the people along the way.

Jerry sat across from me soaking in the warmth of the embers.  His peaceful face reminded me of a poem from many years ago:

Have you ever sat by the campfire,

When the wood has fallen low;

And the embers start to whiten,

Around the campfire’s crimson glow.

With the night sounds all around you,

That makes silence doubly sweet;

And a full moon high above you,

That makes the spell complete.

Tell me were you ever nearer,

To the land of heart’s desire;

Than when you sat there thinking,

With your face toward the fire?

Something about the glow of a campfire and good friends sitting around it--their eyes moved by the spirit of the flames and a peaceful tranquility that all is right with the world.  As we sat there under a magnificent sky tucked between two massive mountain peaks on either side of the valley, we settled into the wilderness at our base camp at 11,000 feet.

Our goal?  We aimed to climb Wetterhorn at 14,009, UnCompahgre at 14,309 and Handies at 14,100 feet into the clear blue Rocky Mountain High Country. Could we do it in three days?  Yes, if the weather held.  We had been chased off the mountain two years ago from snow.  The quest remained in our minds!

Nothing like curling into our sleeping bags as the fire burned low and the evening grew late. Below us, the roaring white water of the unnamed river flowed along its rocky path.  Ever hear the ‘white music’ of a river rushing over the rocks on its way to the sea?  Nothing more beautiful and peaceful for one’s spirit. 

We slept like babies cradled by Mother Nature’s night sounds from the last bird chirp of the night, a few crickets and that magic from the river singing through the night.

Up at 5:45 AM.  Quick! Cook up some oatmeal. Yes, it warms the soul and sticks to the ribs. 

Grab the packs!  We threw in food, water, rain gear, lights, compass, mole skin, knives, sweaters and survival goodies to make our trek a safe one.  Let’s face it, you can get killed climbing a 14,000 foot peak, so it’s best to be prepared to live. Preparation is 9/10ths of success in any life endeavor.

We slung the packs over our backs while heading up a rocky trail covered in deep grass and flowers awaiting the morning sunshine.

Not far up the road, we ducked under a rail at the trail head.  Ahead, deep pine forest awaited along the rushing white water river.  We moved along it with springs in our steps.  Not far along, we watched a few birds fly away.  Two deer glanced at us while bounding away in a second.  We crossed over a blue colored river that had turned the rocks blue/gray. Really wild to see blue/gray water running over rocks as if through a tunnel of green grass and white flowers!  Nature astounds and stuns us with its creative power!

We broke out of the trees along the river to see a wide open valley with a long ridge in front of us. We took the left trail route that led across the river and up into the woods.  We splashed along a stream that covered the trail. Wildflowers abounded with pink paint brush, purple lupin flowers, yellow daisies, white daisies, blue bells and tiny white tundra flowers.  We took a few shots.  We trekked higher into the mountain along that river.

Soon, we saw another pair of climbers across the way. We saw from our topo map that we needed to move to the right and down a valley to catch up to the right trail.  That carried us up through dense green forest and undergrowth.

We broke out into the valley with the sun blazing across a line along the western slopes of high peaks. Couldn’t imagine how far it was, but snowfields filled the crevasses high above us.  A few hawks soared overhead to tell us that this wilderness area belonged to the animals.

The trail picked its way until we crossed another steam.  The trail cut further to the left up the valley. We hiked under blue skies and magnificent high peaks above us.  Just can’t begin to share with you the sights within our eyes’ grasp!  Rock gray summits stood like sentries around us while green tundra covered, like a blanket mantle, up the sides of the mountains.

“Gees, this is beautiful,” Jerry said.

“Can’t argue with you on that one my friend,” I replied.

“You see that peak ahead on the left,” Jerry pointed.

“Looks like a dorsal fin on a bass,” I said.

“That’s Wetterhorn,” he said.

“Good God! It looks more like a jagged tooth cutting upward into the sky,” I said.  “Good grief, it looks like it will take us two days to reach the top.”

“Let’s go,” Jerry said.

Not far along, we crossed over another  stream while we watched many water falls cascading white water down the gray rocks until they splashed into green mountain tundra.  They resembled the silver ear rings of a movie star at the Oscars. 

The trail moved slowing upward.  We labored under the thin air as we climbed.  Good to take a rest at intervals. 

We kept moving until we reached a quarter mile stretch of what could only be called a High Country Rock Garden.  We curled our way into the rocks to discover amazing stands of Colorado’s state flower the purple/white Columbine. Not only that, we witnessed the rare Albino Columbine bursting toward the sunshine and blue sky.  Around it, red paint brush flowers abounded while yellow mountain daisies competed for our attention.  The rock garden continued as we snapped picture after picture. 

Ah, too much beauty! Let’s move our bodies toward the gray rock past the treeline.  Yes, once past the trees, we gathered ourselves to reach higher with each step.  Within a few minutes, our journey began in earnest as we stepped onto rocky trail, ever bigger steps upward as we labored up switch backs.

Just before we began our final assault two hours later, we met two women who had climbed Mt. McKinley.  All of a sudden, we enjoyed conversations from a couple of serious climbers.  Jen and Christy found one of my lost camera cards on the trail.  “Thank you ladies,” I said.

From there, we breathed harder while we climbed higher.  About 500 feet from the top, we got into some serious, muscle work.  We climbed on all fours as we reached up from one rock to another along something that resembled a vertical bowling alley.  Just hoping the pins didn’t come tumbling down on our heads!

One hand on one rock!  One foot on one ledge!  One body breathing and living and crawling up gray rock!  There, looking at us stood a marmot! “What are you two humans doing?” he seemed to say.

“Jerry,” I said. “A marmot!”

“He must think we’re the same characters he sees every summer up here,” Jerry said.

We kept looking at the rock as we climbed it and made sure of every hand and foot hold.  The ladies climbed right along with us.  Great gals! Strong too!  Anybody that climbs Denali ranks in my book as a pretty tough cookie.

At that point up ahead of me out of sight, Jerry yelled out, “I’ve got some good news and bad news.”

“Oh heck,” I said. “What’s the bad news?”

“My altimeter says we’ve got a thousand feet to the top,” he said.

“What’s the good news,” I said.

“My altimeter is one thousand feet off,” he said. “I’m standing on the summit.”

I scrambled out of the bowling alley toward the higher rocks until, at last, I saw Jerry standing on the peak smiling. 

We walked around the card table top-sized peak for 20 minutes. We looked over the edge on our bellies to see a drop for 2,000 feet. “That’ll take your breath away,” Jerry said.

We shared lunch, talked with Jen and Christy, walked around, and gazed at the mountains around us.  We had climbed many of them before. Each brought a memory back to us.

Across from us, a mountain that looked like the Titanic loomed in the distance.  “That’s Uncompahgre,” Jerry said.  “It’s 14,309.”

“We’re going to climb that monster?” I said. 

“It’s waiting for us,” Jerry said.

We descended through the craggy rock face until we reached green tundra.  We retraced our steps back to base camp.  We packed our gear and headed back to Lake City.

Once in that quaint, “Mayberry RFD” town, we strolled through fabulous art shops.  Finally, we came to the local town museum.  In it, we read the history of the Alfred Packerd, the guy who ate his buddies to keep alive in 1870s.  Also, a guy named Jack Hinsdale, back in 1874, climbed UnCompahgre, but he also climbed it with a 50 pound bicycle strapped to his back and bicycled around the top of the peak!  Then, to show his prowess, he bicycled 1,800 miles from Colorado to somewhere on the East Coast. 

Amazing how one man enjoyed a zest for life and another ate his buddies for dinner!

Later in the day, we stopped by the Italian restaurant in town.  As soon as we walked in, we greeted the Italian hostess.  Jerry sat at a nice gingham clothe covered table with candle.  I talked to the hostess, Eva, who had come to America from northern Italy to help Angelo since his wife died. I excitedly told her about my plans to bicycle from the northwest tip of the boot of Italy all the way down the coast to the toe, then, to Sicily, then back onto the boot, up under the arch, around the heel and up the entire coast along the Adriatic side of the boot to the northeast tip of the boot. Along the way, I would photograph all the old Roman ruins and talk to people after having learned Italian.  I shared with Eva that I would write a book, “BICYCLING THE OLD ROMAN EMPIRE” and add pictures of all the Roman ruins.  She was thrilled!  I gave her a kiss on each cheek and sat down.

As Jerry and I ate a scrumptious lasagna dinner, with Italian bread, she came over with two glasses of wine, “On the house,” she said with a glow in her heart.

“You are so dear, gratzi,” I said.

We sped away toward our second task in the late evening. We found a campsite at 11,000 feet, set up tents in rainy mist under large pine trees.  We fell asleep with rain slamming hard on the tents.  It poured all night long! 

Next morning, we hit the trail before sunrise. We followed a work crew up the mountain toward our target of UnCompahgre.  Two deer hopped into the treeline as we approached.  We talked with other hikers heading toward the great mountain in the distance.  We trekked along a foot path that had been worn down one foot into the tundra from the thousands who hiked before us.

We crossed a wide stream, then several small ones as we made our way past the treeline and up into the treeless tundra.  Massive peaks loomed as the sun lit up the green sides of the peaks and further upward into the gray rock.

Hours later, we reached the base of the roughest part of the climb.  We scrambled up solid rock, scree rock and along difficult foot paths on our way to the top.  Finally, we dropped our packs, made a quick scramble to the top and crested a windy, cold summit where that guy rode his bike over 100 years ago.

One woman, 52, a bit plump, finally made it to the top. We praised her for her courage and determination. She was astounded that she made it and relieved, because she wasn’t sure she could climb it.  Another guy, climbed up in his bare feet only protected by his Berkenstocks!  Another gal made her first and only climb of a 14er before moving to Oregon next month.  Everybody shared a story as they munched on their lunch.

We climbed down.  We packed camp.  We rode back to Lake City.  We ate lunch at Charlie P’s. 

Later, with six hours of sunlight, we drove to American Basin for our final assault of Handies.  Oh my God!  Jerry drove us over eyepopping cliff faces.  As we drove along, my eyes widened to the size of fried eggs sunny side up!  As he drove, I gazed down upon eerie, vacant all consuming canyons thousands of feet below.  If he made one mistake, we’d better sprout wings on our way down.

An hour later, at 11,400 feet, we reached base camp in the fabled American Basin where wildflowers bloom in a rainbow of colors that make Denver’s botanical gardens look like a drab display of wannabees.  We jumped out of the car while gazing at snow-capped peaks that rose into pristine blue skies.  Snow-fields streaked white through green tundra.  Gray rock dominated.  In the back of the basin, white water plunged downward through gray rock to hit green fields filled with mind bending floral displays.  Mother Nature! Take a bow my dear!  You astound, mesmerize and flabbergast all at the same time.

We pitched camp right beside an acre of multiple-colored flowers designed to bring an eyeful of joy, heart full of beauty and an abundance of spiritual appreciation.  Jerry set up a chair out in the middle of the flowers while I took a picture.  Around him, millions of yellow petals from mountain daisies, bumblebees making their rounds, pink and red paint brush, purple lupin, white daisies, blue bells and more than 80 other flowers dominated the acre of color.

From there, we took a stroll up the river fenced with colors.  If you ever take a trip into Colorado High Country, head into the American Basin for a visual feast and spiritual treat that blows your eyeballs out of their sockets—make the trip around late July for maximum flower power.

That night, we cooked up dinners with hot chocolate while the campfire blazed beneath a beautiful night sky.  While Jerry enjoyed spoonfuls of Stroganoff, I ate curried rice and veggies. 

Above us, two deer walked quietly into the forest from the tundra.  Very cautious!  Lovely to see!  John Muir said, “How many hearts with warm red blood in them are beating under cover of the woods, and how many teeth and eyes are shining!  A multitude of animal people, intimately related to us, but whose lives we know almost nothing, are as busy about their own affairs as we are about ours.”

At that time, as we sat there talking about other moments in life, about our own lives and experiences, just imagine the peaceful joy upon our spirits as we sat in the cradle of nature.  We conquered two other great peaks.  We sipped steaming hot chocolate.  Can you imagine? Peace. Quiet. Stillness. Bliss. Visual joy.

As the campfire died, rain began.  We jumped into the tents for another night under a monsoon! Two inches fell by morning. 

Next day, we jumped out of the tents to see white cloud banners lit with yellow/gold from the rising sun stretching across the sky like horsetails on the run. Sweet, wet, green grasses glistened across the tundra.  The stream beside us jumped five inches from the rain fall.  Everywhere, flowers burst from their dark hiding places as the sun lured them into full bloom.

“My God,” Jerry said. “We’re camped in paradise!”

“Can’t argue,” I said.

We spread peanut butter on our sandwiches, gulped some water and headed up the path toward our final destination.  The rocky trail led through acres and acres of flowers.  Several committed photographers near the stream awaited the perfect moment where the sun might hit the flowers and the water at the same time.  Other climbers raced ahead of us and behind us.

Within a half hour, we reached a high mountain lake. It reflected the gray rock, snow banks and blue of the sky like a mirror.  We stood on its shoreline in total astonishment. You know, when you’re walking through such an amazing landscape, you’re filled  with awe, wonder and gratitude.  This window of life spans 70 odd years and how you fill it determines how you feel at the end of your ‘moment on earth’.  That day, we filled our lives, in fact, those three days could be deemed the three most perfect climbing days of our lives.  Jerry agreed.

John Muir said, “Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity; and that the mountains run with rivers that create fountains of life.”

Funny, but we saw people a thousand feet above us and a thousand feet below us.  Each of us, on our own journey, stepping forward with a mate or friend and some alone--and all of us on our own quest through life.  Jerry and I enjoyed that moment.  We celebrated our good fortune.  We talked of past events and future climbs.  No question that friendship makes life a grand blessing.  I know what going alone means from my solo travels to remote places in the world.  Better to share with a friend!

We climbed for another hour while taking short breaks.  The sun rose in the sky as we crested a ridge. Beyond, gapping canyons thousands of feet below us!  Some mountains featured white/purple/gray/yellow rock that swept down like someone had spilled a paint can filled with many colors.  Up, up, still further into the sheer beauty of our surroundings and fresh, clean air refreshing our lungs with every breath!  Below our feet, tiny purple, white and yellow tundra flowers no bigger than the tip of your little finger burst in patches along the trail.  A marmot gave notice to us that he lived there.  Another pika rodent gave a chirp.  Several hawks circled in the distance.

We climbed dozens of switchbacks until, yes, we summitted Handies for a glorious view for 100 miles in all directions.  What does it mean to climb a 14,000 foot mountain?  You’re invited on the next trip to find out for yourself.

My friend John Muir said, “Camp out among the grass and gentians of the glacier meadows, in craggy garden nooks of Nature’s darlings. Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.  Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.  The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”

Imagine two friends standing on a majestic 14,000 foot peak in the middle of summer while below-- millions of wildflowers lift their colors to the sun. Above, blue sky rages across the heavens while wispy clouds move in from the West!  Like all adventures, we stood at the top for a moment in time; but like all moments, we must let go the instant and move toward our lives.  With us, in the summer of 2007, we climbed down from that mountain with our spirits soaring high in the heavens.

For Frosty’s world bicycling and adventure books: www.frostywooldridge.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 By Frosty Wooldridge

                           

                                 "Courage is one thing.  A sense of

                                  purpose another.  When you put them

                                  together in one human being, the

                                  world can be changed."   

                                                       
              John Brown

 

 

          That first summer bicycle tour, I pedaled through heavy traffic for the beginning of my coast to coast bicycle adventure.   The Los Angeles smog choked me for 100 miles into the Mojave Desert.  After crossing the Colorado River, I breathed easier when the ‘Brown Cloud’ flowed south toward Phoenix.  I pedaled into cleaner air in the mountains.  Climbing steep grades took hours while coasting down the backside took only 30 minutes. 

          In New Mexico, I crossed the continental divide and descended into the desert on Route 380.  With a blazing sun overhead, I struggled along the two-lane pavement.  Sweat dripped from my face and arms.  Every breath crowded my mouth with what felt like dry, hot cotton balls.  Heat waves rippled over the pavement as I descended further into the barren landscape.   Boulders and cacti stood like indolent sentries guarding the land from intruders.  The thermometer hit 103 degrees by the time I pedaled to the outskirts of Roswell, New Mexico. 

          Ahead, a lone figure walked along the left side of the road.  I found it difficult imagining anyone walking down the highway in that torrid temperature.

          "I wonder what that guy's doing walking in this heat?" I muttered to myself.  "Looks like he's got a dog with him, too."

          A minute later:

"That isn't a dog," I gasped, doubting my eyes, and straining harder to make out what I saw.

          It was another man walking on his hands.  Within a few seconds, I found out why.  His legs were missing!

          Less than forty yards away, the lone figure walked and read a book while the other man walked on his hands.  A camper van was parked on the shoulder a half mile ahead.  I rode up even with them.  Something inside made me stop and drop my bike in the gravel. 

          I couldn't help crossing the road, knowing that whomever this man was, he possessed inconceivable courage.  What was he doing out here walking on his hands in the desert?  He saw me and stopped.  He lowered his body down to the ground, resting it on a leather pad that covered his two severed legs just below the groin.  His Paul Bunyan upper arms led down to his hands, which grasped two rubber pads.  Sweat soaked his T-shirt.  His dark hair framed a tanned, round face punctuated by a pair of clear brown eyes. He flashed a beautiful smile.

          "Hi, how ya' doin'?" I said approaching with my hand extended. "My name is Frosty."

          "Glad to meet you," he said shaking my hand. "I'm Bob Wieland."

          "Pleasure to meet you," I said. "I gotta' tell you Bob, I'm more than a bit curious seeing you out here in the desert."

          "The same could be said about you," he said. "What are you doing out here?"

          "I'm riding my bicycle across America."

          "That makes two of us," Bob added. "I'm walking across.  I'd bike but my legs are too short for the pedals."

          I laughed.  His humor proved natural.  We bantered a few minutes about the weather.  Bob gave me a short history of his journey.  He started in San Francisco and climbed up to Yosemite National Park.  He crossed over many 6,000 to 8,000 foot passes.  His friend fixed meals, but often, people asked them into their homes for the night.   If no one offered a night’s lodging, both men slept in the back of the camper pickup.  His friend drove the vehicle ahead and came back to walk with him.  His companion read a book while guiding Bob down the left side of the highway.   Bob lost his legs in combat.  I asked him when he had started.

          "I've been out 19 months and have completed 980 miles," he said. "At my speed, I can finish this adventure in three more years, maybe less."

          "Why are you doing it?" I asked.

          "There's a lot of adventure out here on the road.  I suppose I could sit back and get fat watching TV for the next fifty years, but I want to do something with my life.  I want to make a difference.  I have to make do with what I have left.  You know the saying, you only go around once."

          "You have my greatest admiration," I said, shaking his hand again.

It was one of those moments where you don’t quite know what to do or say.  I just met the most incredibly courageous man in my whole life who was looking up at me from the pavement.  His legs were gone.  He was a man, but he stood only three feet high.  His hands had become his feet.  That gray leather pad belted to his bottom like a baby diaper.  Those rubber pads on his hands gave him wheel tread for his arduous journey. I gasped inside myself at the enormity of his quest.

"Guess I better get moving,” I said, reluctantly.

          "Take care," Bob said. "Have a good ride.  I'll get there one of these days."

          “There’s no doubt that you will reach the Atlantic Ocean,” I said.

          While turning away from that amazing human being, tears filled my eyes.  I started crying half way across the road.  What he was attempting staggered my imagination.  My friends thought I was nuts taking a transcontinental bicycle trip, but they had no understanding of how easy I had it compared to Bob Wieland. 

After crossing the highway, I pulled my bike out of the dirt.  I took a swig of water.  I stepped onto the pedals.  I pressed my iron steed eastward into the hot morning sun.  I cried for miles at the senselessness of war.  I cried for Bob and I cried for humanity.  Miles and years down the road--that moment colors my mind as vividly as the day it happened. 

          Most human beings possess handicaps in one way or the other--physical or psychological.  Most importantly, it’s how they handle their limitations.  He concentrated on what he could do, not on what he couldn't do.  Instead of giving up, Bob pushed forward into the unknown not only determined to succeed, but expecting to succeed. 

          George Bernard Shaw celebrated people like Wieland when he wrote, "This is the true joy of living, spending your years for a purpose recognized by yourself as a right one...to be used up when they throw you on the scrap heap of life.  To have been a force of nature instead of a selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."

          Bob Wieland pushed himself through 3,400 miles of hardship that few people could comprehend.  He gutted his way up mountains, sweated his way across deserts, and fought through raging storms.  Every labored breath drew him closer to his goal.

          Two years later, I listened to NPR radio while eating breakfast one morning. Bob Wieland reached the Atlantic Ocean thus succeeding in his quest to walk on his hands coast to coast across America.  It took him three years, eight months and six days.  In 1996, he completed a 6,200 mile bicycle circuit, using his hands, twice across America.  In 1994, Pe