4WD-ing Even with 4WD
Kelly brakes to a stop, gears the truck into park. I search his body language for any signs of nervous panic. But calmly, he scoots out of the driver’s seat and places his boots firmly on the ragged rocks jutting out of the dirt all around the truck tires. Eroded boulders and gullies too close to the road edge, and too near to cataclysmic catastrophes, foretell vehicles possibly losing tire-footing and rolling down the mountainside.
I slink down into the passenger seat and peek over my left shoulder at Remington circling around the extended cab seat behind me. Even when looking out the open window with his tongue dripping drool on to his doggie blanket, I doubt he has any idea of the looming danger. He finds his new spot and plops his girthy body down, happy to be on a road-trip adventure.
Kelly brakes to a stop, gears the truck into park. I search his body language for any signs of nervous panic. But calmly, he scoots out of the driver’s seat and places his boots firmly on the ragged rocks jutting out of the dirt all around the truck tires. Eroded boulders and gullies too close to the road edge, and too near to cataclysmic catastrophes, foretell vehicles possibly losing tire-footing and rolling down the mountainside.
I slink down into the passenger seat and peek over my left shoulder at Remington circling around the extended cab seat behind me. Even when looking out the open window with his tongue dripping drool on to his doggie blanket, I doubt he has any idea of the looming danger. He finds his new spot and plops his girthy body down, happy to be on a road-trip adventure.
These roads of the SW Colorado Alpine Loop Back Country Byway are no joke. 4WD-Low allows the truck to crawl, inch by inch, over the sixty-five miles of rugged one-lane roads winding through the San Juan Mountains. Over two 12,000 foot passes (the truck camper could make it over Cinnamon Pass, but even Kelly knew better than to try to take it over Engineer Pass). Along these roads, pristine views, hiking and biking trails, camping and solitude avail themselves.
These mountains offer a glimpse into the area’s mining history, connecting old mining towns like Lake City, Silverton, Ouray, towns much changed by current tourism. First used by 19th-century miners with mule-drawn wagons, these roads connected mining town sites hidden mines, some of which are available to the curious: seven ghost towns and historic sites like Animas Forks. Sculpted by volcanic forces and glaciers, the mountain geology afforded riches to the miners: silver, gold, lead, and zinc.
Even when pull-offs appear, widening the road for two vehicles to pass each other, the uphill vehicle has the right of way…mostly. Common sense for safety rules the road etiquette.
These mountains offer a glimpse into the area’s mining history, connecting old mining towns like Lake City, Silverton, Ouray, towns much changed by current tourism. First used by 19th-century miners with mule-drawn wagons, these roads connected mining town sites hidden mines, some of which are available to the curious: seven ghost towns and historic sites like Animas Forks. Sculpted by volcanic forces and glaciers, the mountain geology afforded riches to the miners: silver, gold, lead, and zinc.
Even when pull-offs appear, widening the road for two vehicles to pass each other, the uphill vehicle has the right of way…mostly. Common sense for safety rules the road etiquette.
Vehicles allowed comprise mostly OHVs (Off-Highway-Vehicles), dirt bikes and off- road motorcycles, 4WD jeeps with high clearance, pick-ups with high clearance, and a few like us—4WD pick-ups with small or larger campers on top, secured like the dickens to the truck bed with straps and braces. Kelly has put on extra thick-walled off-road tires less likely to puncture from jutting sharp rocks. He has a tire spare strapped on a rack on top of the camper, and bolted metal supports from the back end of the camper shell to the truck base. What is not allowed are RVs and pulled trailers. Signs warn off 2WD vehicles or those with low clearances.
Kelly constructs a plan for a route over and around the current boulder challenge along the road’s hairpin curve. I pull in the passenger side mirror close to the truck and stand half inside the truck, with my upper body outside the window so I can see the passenger side tires, rocks jutting out, and loose stone scree that might be slippery. He is also half in and half out for the same reason. I offer feedback—about a foot on this side if you want it….cut to the left now…straighten out the front tire for a gentler drop off the boulder. I have to trust his experience of having driven these kinds of mountain forest roads many times over his years—he’s been making the trek from Texas since he was a kid visiting grandparents who wintered here in the summers— his knowledge of what his truck can and cannot do, and his wisdom to make good decisions.
Kelly constructs a plan for a route over and around the current boulder challenge along the road’s hairpin curve. I pull in the passenger side mirror close to the truck and stand half inside the truck, with my upper body outside the window so I can see the passenger side tires, rocks jutting out, and loose stone scree that might be slippery. He is also half in and half out for the same reason. I offer feedback—about a foot on this side if you want it….cut to the left now…straighten out the front tire for a gentler drop off the boulder. I have to trust his experience of having driven these kinds of mountain forest roads many times over his years—he’s been making the trek from Texas since he was a kid visiting grandparents who wintered here in the summers— his knowledge of what his truck can and cannot do, and his wisdom to make good decisions.
Sharp hairpin turns require backing up, pulling forward, backing up, where the road edge has washed out, and loose scree has rolled down the mountain. I stand outside the truck to the side and shout feedback as I see it from below. Even when the truck is turning on three tires only and the passenger front wheel is floating in the air, I hold back my breath and continue to lead him where he cannot see. We have to be a team.
Some folks passing us in OHVs just give him a look of awe that he is driving the truck camper over these roads and passes. Others comment, “Balls of steel, bud!” Kelly turns to me and smiles, “This is my jam!” He is super-focused, and totally pumped. My only requests: Come to a complete stop to pick up the phone for a photo, and more often than not, please, please, keep both hands on that steering wheel. Steering with one’s knee does not instill much confidence around safety!
BUT…one can only experience these mountain views from these roads. “Ride ‘em cowboy,” I think, as I grasp tightly to the overhead door handle, my knuckles white, and I turn my gaze away from the road edge if the drop off is on my side of the truck.
Some folks passing us in OHVs just give him a look of awe that he is driving the truck camper over these roads and passes. Others comment, “Balls of steel, bud!” Kelly turns to me and smiles, “This is my jam!” He is super-focused, and totally pumped. My only requests: Come to a complete stop to pick up the phone for a photo, and more often than not, please, please, keep both hands on that steering wheel. Steering with one’s knee does not instill much confidence around safety!
BUT…one can only experience these mountain views from these roads. “Ride ‘em cowboy,” I think, as I grasp tightly to the overhead door handle, my knuckles white, and I turn my gaze away from the road edge if the drop off is on my side of the truck.
Up In The Clouds
My first time in mountainous high elevations was in 1990 here in Colorado: Rocky Mountain National Park, then a five-day Four Pass Loop near the Maroon Bells in the Snowmass Wilderness Area. That trip was also my first time experiencing altitude issues: nausea, headaches, loss of appetite, labored breathing. I was 33 and resilient, so I force-fed myself bread, at least, to keep me going.
My first time in mountainous high elevations was in 1990 here in Colorado: Rocky Mountain National Park, then a five-day Four Pass Loop near the Maroon Bells in the Snowmass Wilderness Area. That trip was also my first time experiencing altitude issues: nausea, headaches, loss of appetite, labored breathing. I was 33 and resilient, so I force-fed myself bread, at least, to keep me going.
The Colorado mountain alpine landscapes surrounded me with oil-painting broad-brush view-scapes. I hiked through grassy, wildflower-splattered meadows, gazed into the vibrant blues of alpine lakes, and watched marmots and picas amongst the boulder-strewn hillsides. By the time I descended into lower elevation, I was ravenous for all food possible, and realized what I had just experienced in my body.
At the beginning of my third year-long trek around the United States during the summer of 2018, I had planned two five-day backpacking loops in the Wind River Range in Wyoming. With the internet available, I was able to research options for offsetting altitude sickness symptoms. A prescription drug referred to as Diamox on climbers’ forums offered me hope, and I made an appointment with my doctor to discuss my desire for a script for the drug.
At the beginning of my third year-long trek around the United States during the summer of 2018, I had planned two five-day backpacking loops in the Wind River Range in Wyoming. With the internet available, I was able to research options for offsetting altitude sickness symptoms. A prescription drug referred to as Diamox on climbers’ forums offered me hope, and I made an appointment with my doctor to discuss my desire for a script for the drug.
But me being me, I also found my way to a homeopathic remedy for altitude, and decided to try that first, since it was less invasive to the body. I started the first hike about 9,000 feet of elevation on the outskirts of Pinedale. Within a quarter mile, I dropped my pack, ending up on all fours on the trail edge trying to throw up. So much for that idea. But out in the wild places, people take care of each other. We figure next time it might be us. Luckily, two long-distance hikers (Popsicle and Dirty Spoon—trail nicknames given by others along trail distances) chanced by and Popsicle recognized symptoms similar to the ones she is challenged by. She offered me her fix: the prescription drug used by cancer patients to offset nausea during treatment. One per day, twenty minutes to get into the body system, eight hours of nausea-free hiking. On my second week long trip: I started the Diamox two days prior to the hike as prescribed, and two days into the trek. I still had low appetite and labored breathing, but those issues were workable.
All of this history allows me to be here in southwest Colorado, between Lake City and Silverton, along the Alpine Loop. From the American Basin trailhead at 11, 400 feet, Kelly, Remington, and I hike a mile and a half through open alpine meadows to the alpine Lake Sloane at 12, 800 feet.
Whipping wind blows through our layers of clothing, and we pull hoods over our heads. Remington steadfastly pushes into the wind between us. The heavy breathing causes us to stop often to rest and acclimate. Rem lays down low to the ground, and the wind flows up and over his now areo-dynamic body.
One thing I learned living in New England my whole life: There is never bad weather, just bad clothing choices. We have plenty of layers, none all that fashionable, but certainly functional to keep us warm.
Three hours up. One hour, ten minutes down. Longest mile and a half ever! Worthwhile? Absolutely.
Sizzle
Flames and smoke wisp along the fire ring’s edge. Kelly’s fresh-caught rainbow trout sizzles on the round wire grill we brought with us. There are plenty of downed tree limbs scattered about this forest road campsite to burn. Other times, we had to stop to pick up side-of-the-road random limbs and branches for the hoped-for campfire later on.
The golden aspen leaves settle down into the slight breeze now stilling for the night. The deep green of the interspersed lodgepole pines dot the golden hillside as the sun sets over a parallel ridge line to the west. We have not recently been this lucky, or comfortable, in our free, dispersed national forest-road campsite choices.
We like being in these wild places, away from the highway buzz of motors, craving the quiet ending of the mountain road days. But the whipping wind has followed us over the last week, shaking the truck camper through the night, swirling our campfires into chaos. I would give up and find wind respite in the camper; Kelly would bundle up in defiance against the wind and fan the flames with lighter fluid. Remington would curl up on his dog pad near enough to the warmth of the flames.
Sizzle
Flames and smoke wisp along the fire ring’s edge. Kelly’s fresh-caught rainbow trout sizzles on the round wire grill we brought with us. There are plenty of downed tree limbs scattered about this forest road campsite to burn. Other times, we had to stop to pick up side-of-the-road random limbs and branches for the hoped-for campfire later on.
The golden aspen leaves settle down into the slight breeze now stilling for the night. The deep green of the interspersed lodgepole pines dot the golden hillside as the sun sets over a parallel ridge line to the west. We have not recently been this lucky, or comfortable, in our free, dispersed national forest-road campsite choices.
We like being in these wild places, away from the highway buzz of motors, craving the quiet ending of the mountain road days. But the whipping wind has followed us over the last week, shaking the truck camper through the night, swirling our campfires into chaos. I would give up and find wind respite in the camper; Kelly would bundle up in defiance against the wind and fan the flames with lighter fluid. Remington would curl up on his dog pad near enough to the warmth of the flames.
Damn that wind. Clear Lake. Alta Lakes. Trout Lake. Too windy for Kelly to fish. And what about that Alta Lakes sleet, hail, and three inches of snow overnight—elements not expected by the weather forecast, yet always possible in elevation over 11,000 feet.
Forest road dispersed camping is another type of adventure—one I would often seek out when traveling solo as well. Here in this part of Colorado, many forest roads vein away from the main artery of the Continental Divide. Branching out and up into canyons, gullies, landscape bowls. When referring to a hiking and backcountry road topo map, we can see if the roads dead end or continue through somewhere. See them snaking around the mountain edges. Sometimes we don’t have the specific map for an area and have to take a chance to see what treasure sites we chance upon. We search for a flat spot for the truck camper to level out. Look for a view. Privacy. On a random forest road, north of the town of Dolores along highway 145, just shy of 9,000 feet, we have it all.
Licks of fire wiggle their way around the stack of twigs crumbling in the fire ring, and Kelly pushes more burning coals under the grate and fish, flips them over with a couple of sticks. I scoot my chair closer to the ring until the fish is cooked. Once on the plate, I pull the trout flesh off the bony spine as taught to me by Kelly, melt some butter over the fish flakes, and sprinkle on salt and pepper. Kelly tosses some flakes, still with small bones, onto Remington’s pad, and Rem inhales the treat.
Forest road dispersed camping is another type of adventure—one I would often seek out when traveling solo as well. Here in this part of Colorado, many forest roads vein away from the main artery of the Continental Divide. Branching out and up into canyons, gullies, landscape bowls. When referring to a hiking and backcountry road topo map, we can see if the roads dead end or continue through somewhere. See them snaking around the mountain edges. Sometimes we don’t have the specific map for an area and have to take a chance to see what treasure sites we chance upon. We search for a flat spot for the truck camper to level out. Look for a view. Privacy. On a random forest road, north of the town of Dolores along highway 145, just shy of 9,000 feet, we have it all.
Licks of fire wiggle their way around the stack of twigs crumbling in the fire ring, and Kelly pushes more burning coals under the grate and fish, flips them over with a couple of sticks. I scoot my chair closer to the ring until the fish is cooked. Once on the plate, I pull the trout flesh off the bony spine as taught to me by Kelly, melt some butter over the fish flakes, and sprinkle on salt and pepper. Kelly tosses some flakes, still with small bones, onto Remington’s pad, and Rem inhales the treat.
In Memoriam
When a journey begins, one expects experiences, but never really knows what will happen along the hours and miles. Awe. Grandeur. Serendipity and synchronicity. Bumps in the road. Crises. Heartbreak….and grief.
We did not expect that October 11th would unfold in quite the way it did. I sat in the waiting room of the Kanab Veterinary Hospital in southern Utah while Kelly had Remington checked out by a veterinarian. We had hoped whatever it was that was ailing Rem would be an easy fix: maybe just an infection that needed a doggy antibiotic. Increasingly over two weeks, Rem got weaker, losing ten pounds. He vomited some kind of yellow ick, vile, even bile-ish. He stopped eating and spent a few nights in the nearby bushes wherever we camped, lethargic and shivering. We covered him with blankets, and rubbed his ears. He was not well.
In Memoriam
When a journey begins, one expects experiences, but never really knows what will happen along the hours and miles. Awe. Grandeur. Serendipity and synchronicity. Bumps in the road. Crises. Heartbreak….and grief.
We did not expect that October 11th would unfold in quite the way it did. I sat in the waiting room of the Kanab Veterinary Hospital in southern Utah while Kelly had Remington checked out by a veterinarian. We had hoped whatever it was that was ailing Rem would be an easy fix: maybe just an infection that needed a doggy antibiotic. Increasingly over two weeks, Rem got weaker, losing ten pounds. He vomited some kind of yellow ick, vile, even bile-ish. He stopped eating and spent a few nights in the nearby bushes wherever we camped, lethargic and shivering. We covered him with blankets, and rubbed his ears. He was not well.
I grew up with dogs in my family. Early on, it was Duke the Duchess—someone missed the correct gender identification. Dog gender fluidity wasn’t a thing in the 1960’s. When punished for some family rule infraction, I would be banished to the corner of the living room for a time-out. But Duke was always there with me. Or maybe, I dragged her over to the corner with me. She was my distraction, my confidante, my therapist. She was a great listener of my childhood woes…as long as I kept petting her.
Then after she was gone from this planet, my father brought home a terrier mutt being abused by a co-worker. De-wormed and acclimated to the family care, Rags became my next confidante and therapist. I did not consider myself a dog-whisperer, but our dogs became Gail-whisperers.
Remington and I bonded immediately upon meeting last winter, which warmed Kelly’s affections towards me. I have an animal-loving dear friend who reminded me to watch how Kelly treated his dog, and I would get a sense of how he might treat me. Remington was well loved, and I felt at ease getting to know this man…and his dog companion.
Then after she was gone from this planet, my father brought home a terrier mutt being abused by a co-worker. De-wormed and acclimated to the family care, Rags became my next confidante and therapist. I did not consider myself a dog-whisperer, but our dogs became Gail-whisperers.
Remington and I bonded immediately upon meeting last winter, which warmed Kelly’s affections towards me. I have an animal-loving dear friend who reminded me to watch how Kelly treated his dog, and I would get a sense of how he might treat me. Remington was well loved, and I felt at ease getting to know this man…and his dog companion.
Kelly opened the door of the hospital room, tears dripping over his cheeks. “Do you want to come in and say goodbye?” he asked me.
Remington was not young…he was in his last years for sure. Without expensive tests and scans, the vet could tell that whatever it was, cancer or a failing organ or fluid entering the stomach from somewhere else, that there was no return from the ailment.
It was a difficult, heart-wrenching, but humane decision that Kelly had to make in that moment. Continued suffering was not an option. We sat on the floor of the treatment room, holding and petting Kelly’s longtime canine companion. The sedative shot was administered, but Rem did not want to sleep. He was not ready to go.
Although Rem’s eyes were getting heavy toward sleep, his will kept him as alert as possible. Whether he knew this was the end, or whether he just did not want to miss any adventure time with Kelly and I, we won’t ever know. The vet checked in on us a few times, then made her decision. Rem’s passing was quick after a second sedative, and the added shot that stopped Rem’s life energy. Time stopped as well, and the rest of that day felt surreal.
I want to think that Rem knew what was coming, even before we left Texas for Colorado. That he rallied, held out, held on…for every last minute to be with Kelly on this last adventure. I want to feel that all dogs are human-whisperers, and that Rem knew that Kelly needed to be with him at the end. Yes, for Rem, but also for Kelly. That Kelly would know how their physical connection would end, and not regretting not being there at the end if a friend was doing dog-care during the trip. A surprise and dreaded phone call one day.
The trip’s rituals around Rem have been many, and each continued day of the rest of this trip punctuate the loss. The dog bowl, the pad, the food prep for dinner, stopping to let Rem out for bathroom needs during a long day of driving. My compadre of calm along the anxiety-producing mountain roads. If Rem could stay calm, I could too. As I do now in his memory.
Remington was not young…he was in his last years for sure. Without expensive tests and scans, the vet could tell that whatever it was, cancer or a failing organ or fluid entering the stomach from somewhere else, that there was no return from the ailment.
It was a difficult, heart-wrenching, but humane decision that Kelly had to make in that moment. Continued suffering was not an option. We sat on the floor of the treatment room, holding and petting Kelly’s longtime canine companion. The sedative shot was administered, but Rem did not want to sleep. He was not ready to go.
Although Rem’s eyes were getting heavy toward sleep, his will kept him as alert as possible. Whether he knew this was the end, or whether he just did not want to miss any adventure time with Kelly and I, we won’t ever know. The vet checked in on us a few times, then made her decision. Rem’s passing was quick after a second sedative, and the added shot that stopped Rem’s life energy. Time stopped as well, and the rest of that day felt surreal.
I want to think that Rem knew what was coming, even before we left Texas for Colorado. That he rallied, held out, held on…for every last minute to be with Kelly on this last adventure. I want to feel that all dogs are human-whisperers, and that Rem knew that Kelly needed to be with him at the end. Yes, for Rem, but also for Kelly. That Kelly would know how their physical connection would end, and not regretting not being there at the end if a friend was doing dog-care during the trip. A surprise and dreaded phone call one day.
The trip’s rituals around Rem have been many, and each continued day of the rest of this trip punctuate the loss. The dog bowl, the pad, the food prep for dinner, stopping to let Rem out for bathroom needs during a long day of driving. My compadre of calm along the anxiety-producing mountain roads. If Rem could stay calm, I could too. As I do now in his memory.