Day 33 - The Sangre de Cristo Mountains: Where Do I Drink?

When Pueblo ends, it just ends and nature takes over. The pre-Rockies part of Day 33 was a cycling romp through Lake Pueblo State Park, a slow climb out of civilization (i guess i'm referring to innumerable gas stations, chain restaurants and stores, truck stops, and a massive hailstorm as "civilization") into wilder Colorado with its spiky brush and rock formations dotted with vegetation that was so perfect it looked illustrated. I was trying not to stop too often to take pictures (so i could get the day going, knowing i had my first major climb in the Rockies coming right up), but i couldn't help myself. Whitey Jackson posed for a few with the scenery as a backdrop.

Soon enough the ascent became steeper, but what i'd heard from other cyclists was true: the mountain pass, though long, wrapped around the mountain, rather than going straight over at the steepest grade which is how it felt in Kentucly and Virginia. Or maybe it was the excitement of a new challenge; it just didn't seem too bad. The day was cloudy and cool, so that helped too, and after a while i found myself at the day's highest elevation (and the highest of the trip thus far) of approximately 9,100 feet. I didn't know what to expect with the whole high-alititude thing. Was i going to get short of breath? A headache? Would my lips turn blue? How the hell would i know if my lips were turning blue anyway? I kept a sharp eye on the base of my fingernails to ensure that a bluish tint did not creep upon them. A couple of times I thought that they just might, but i maintained an appropriate level of oxgen in my blood, i supposed.

However, at the summit, or actually a little bit after, i saw a snow-capped mountain peering through the purple mountains that had been looming closer and closer since leaving Pueblo. Just the white-tip brightly reflected by the glare of the sun (behind the clouds). I rode a little further, maybe about a half-mile, as the road curved, and i was presented with the most awe-inspiring and majestic vista of the entire trip. I wept. Seriously, you know i'm a sensitive person and all that, but i've never witnessed scenery that made me cry. It was stunning. I was stunned. The tears were perhaps a feeling of pride at making the climb. It was one of the moments of the trip when i felt so alone and small in the shadow of such enormity, yet powerful, a conqueror. But it also occurred to me that maybe the alititude was causing a little loopiness. I ate some cashews, drank some electrolyteenhancedbeverage, and breathed deeply just to ensure that enough air was getting to my lungs and my lips were not turning blue.

The trip down, however, was the first disappointment of the Colorado Rockies. I'd heard and read about for months leading up to my departure all about the wind in Kansas. "Oh, you'll fly through Kansas as long as you don't have a headwind" etc etc. And as we all know, i experienced both the benefits and the frustrations of winds in Kansas. But why didn't anyone mention the wind in the mountains?! (And as i write from the future, i can tell you it's a challenge in Utah as well). I though i was going to sail down the mountain at top speed, deservedly after making the climb up. Entitlement issues can sometimes muck up an afternoon, as in: "it's not fair! i rode up that friggin' mountain, had a life-affirming emotional experience, and now i have to fight to get down?!" As it turns out, again, Mother Nature isn't concerned about my needs; she does her own thing. So after an initial mile or two of speed, i rode into a wind that seemed to want to push me back up the hill. Donwhill at 11 miles per hour, pedaling, is a disappointment.

And it made me hungry. I stopped in a little storybook Western town called Westcliffe. Or was it Silver Cliff? They kind of run into each other. Really pretty places. With oddly pretty people. I ate a huge turkey sandwich at a pizza place (with avocado, by the way, my first sliver of that delicacy since leaving California) and marveled at the fit outdoorsy people. It was almost like i was a guest-starring stranger in Fox's new series "Westcliffe" (or "Silver Cliff" - you decide). I felt closer to California than mid-America - and i liked it!

The remainder of that day's ride was along the lively Arkansas river (in Kansas i also crossed this river several times, i think - and they call it Ar-Kansas rather than Ar-kansaw - i bet they do in Colorado as well). I actually take that back: "lively" isn't the right word. The Arkansas was rafting- and canoeing-ready, so it was certainly more than merely lively. Most of the water i'd seen in previous states (except for the Ozarks) was very muddy and stagnant, so the Arkansas was refreshing for sure.

I stopped for the night - a 94-mile day - in Howard which wasn't much of a town. The Broken Arrow Campground-RV Park-Hotel-Restaurant was the chosen destination. I paid my 10 bucks to Glenna, the owner, for the campsite and began the task of pitching the tent in 25 mph winds. But I was determined to camp and rustic Colorado, weather be fooled; i climbed a mountain, godammit! Someone shouted something to me from the doorway of his RV. He was smiling, so i assumed it was supportive. But i realized he was pointing to the darkening sky and having a good laugh at me in my cycling get-up and my flimsy tent i was trying to control in the whipping wind. After i smirked a "thanks a lot, buddy," he went back inside. I waited a perfunctory 10 seconds or so and went back into the office to ask Glenna for a room (only $22 bucks more). Good thing too, since about five minutes after i rolled Whitey into the oddly furnished but suitable room, the thunder started and the sky puked buckets of rain for several hours. Not sleeping outside in that. No how.