(Luke pictured below, cruising alongside the Poudre River)
Well, the whole trip everyone has been warning us of the vicious hills that will attack us with energy sapping climbs and steep grades. We got a hint of them as we left Ft. Collins, though they weren't nearly as bad as everyone has made out. Most of our ride has been through valleys with climbs that are nowhere near the extent of the mountains standing proud on both sides of us.
(Nick approaches the crest of the day's most difficult climb and Luke descends back into a valley, respectively pictured below.)
(The trio break alongside the highway; Luke sleeps while Nick studies map.)
A few miles after our roadside break we rolled into Livermore, a little town consisting of a restaurant. Outside on the picnic table was an inquisitive older fellow with three teeth. He was shocked that would ride our bikes so far and flat out told us we were wasting our lives. He could get us to Oregon in one day he says, and swears that we will regret spending so much of our young lives trivially pedaling across the West. He then explains that he's never been East of the Mississippi and asks us with a curious caution about what it's like out there in eastern mountains...We politely entertained him for a few minutes and went on our way.
A few miles more found us a lot farther away from Laramie, WY than we expected so we decided to call it a night in Virginia Dale, CO, the town closest to the border. Haha, we thought it was a town! Turns out it consists of a closed post office and two ranches set in the most beautiful and dramatic scenery we'd seen.
(Luke peddling into Virginia Dale with some pretty rocks behind him)
In search of land to lay down a tent (more in search of permission, there were thousands of vacant acres about us) we trudged down the road off the highway to the first of the two ranches in town. We kept trudging, and trudging, almost decided to turn back, but trudged some more, and finally got to the Table Mountain ranch entrance. "No Trespassing, survivors prosecuted", it said. So we put some skip in our step and hurried down to the next ranch.
(Table Mountain Ranch sign from the highway, path to the ranch, and forbidding ranch entrance pictured below.)
(Sam and Luke; puzzled and calling upon the mountain gods for advice.)
(Sunset in the mountains.)
On our way to the next ranch, we spotted a little house tucked away off the ranch access road. The owner knew the rancher well, and told us there was an old Stage Station near the ranchers house and that we could camp there. He called, told the rancher of our approach and gave us the go ahead. We made it to the old stage station by dusk (read sign in next picture for stage station description) got out of our sweaty spandex and started up our anchovie/tomato paste pasta.
(Virginia Dale, stagecoach sanctuary back in the 19 century)
Just before we got the tent out the rancher came to say his hellos. He was a bit cold though and asked us to where we were going tonight. "Ummm, here", we responded "the guy up the road called and you said we could camp here". He took a step back and explained that we ain't got permission to camp here and we best be on our way. Well damn. The sun had pretty much set and now we had to pack up and find someone else to let us camp amongst their countless acres of nothingness. I guess we looked pathetic enough though, cause the rancher gave in and let us camp in his cow pasture a mile back down the road.
An hour later, with annoyed cows mooing at us, we slipped into the tent and drifted into dreams of Wyoming at 8000 ft..
(The mustached three, primed and ready for bed)
mileage . 37
morale. an awestruck tired-perturbedness
No comments:
Post a Comment