Life is bigger out west

MONTROSE, Colo. – Here is this week’s travel tip: when flying out of an airport with only one gate, there is really no need to arrive two hours early.  That’s why this report is being written in the terminal area of the Montrose, Colorado airport instead of my home.  At least I can see mountains from here.

The last five days have been a whirlwind of activities for Your Faithful Correspondent.  I have been running breathlessly around the southwest region of Colorado, ostensibly on assignment from a national magazine but in actuality, having too much fun on someone else’s dime.  Hopefully, the editor of the magazine doesn’t get this newspaper in the mail.

Use of the term “breathlessly” is more than simple poetic license.  I quickly learned that a rural Indiana boy who lives at 600 feet above sea level should not rapidly climb to nearly 10,000 feet and then attempt to participate in strenuous physical activities such as walking.  During the first day, I tripped on my tongue several times.

The base of operations for this western outing was Montrose, Colorado.  The town sprawls along the Uncompahgre River in a high desert valley, surrounded by some serious vertical terrain that includes the impressive San Juan Mountains.  The town itself sits around 5700 feet while my work location was perched around 9800 feet.  At this height, two feet of slushy snow still carpeted the thick forests of aspen trees.

Because I am a practicing “Easterner,” I have never spent any time frolicking among the 13,000-foot peaks, broad alpine meadows and 20,000-acre cattle ranches that typify this region.  Looking at all the five digit numbers used in the former sentence, it should be obvious that life out west is definitely bigger.

While outdoor activities were not the primary reason for my visit, there was plenty of time to roam the mountains.  Most of the exploring took place via four-wheel-drive vehicle as most of the roads in this backcountry are posted “travel at own risk,” something that my buddy Rob took to heart.

As host, driver and major domo for this trip, Rob is a good friend, a fine fellow and a homicidal maniac behind the wheel.  For instance, he casually admitted to having been involved in “around 40” motor vehicle accidents at the same time we were hurtling along a rough gravel road that ran within a few feet of the edge of the planet.  I am convinced that we still might be falling, perhaps towards Jupiter, if our vehicle had rolled over the edge.

The Deathmobile

Rob’s truck is both amazing and a bit alarming.  The black diesel Ford Excursion has undergone a series of major surgeries that has rendered it so terrifying that it won second place in a local Joan Rivers look-alike contest.  The vehicle body has been lifted at least 12 inches to accommodate giant military surplus tires but the crowning touch is an enormous custom steel bumper the size and weight of a large front porch.  In a rare triumph of good taste, he declined to add the deer-killing spikes that the fabricator had wanted to install.

On alleged roads that looked like the aftermath of a Balkan civil war, Rob and I crashed through the high country in his black road warrior while gazing upon extraordinary mountain scenery.  I tried to work out a deal wherein Rob watched the road while I watched the passing landscape but he was not interested.  I later became dehydrated, possibly from the thin mountain air or perhaps the copious sweat from my palms as I clung, white-knuckled, to the dashboard grab bar like a treed opossum in a windstorm.

As a professional wordsmith, I tried to come up with sophisticated and erudite observations to describe the snow-capped summits and spectacular vistas but the only word that repeatedly came to mind was “Wow.”  This simple utterance became the mantra for the trip and I’m sure Rob never wants to hear it again.

Among other things we made a short visit to ultra-hip Telluride, home of America’s largest collection of white people with dreadlocks.  These are known locally as “Trustifarians,” Rasta devotees who live simple yet fashionable lives off the proceeds of their trust fund.  We also explored the Black Canyon of the Gunnison where I spontaneously uttered a bad word after peering over a sheer 2,700-foot drop into the river below.  I assume that my lower abdominal tingling will stop in a week or so.

Now that I have experienced “real” mountains, I am changed.  Now I have daydreams about climbing tall peaks, casting for trout in a high basin or watching the alpenglow of a Colorado summer sunset.  I might even buy a John Denver CD.

I have to go back.

Maybe Rob can pick me up at the airport.

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