US 8: High Plains to the Rocky Mountains

The storm we’d seen moving up from the South West, arrived in town about an hour after we did; and it was spectacular. Naphtha flashes lit up the entire town in brief snapshots of sporadic daylight brilliance while thunder boomed and rumbled across the thirsty plain and rattled the windows in the diner as we ate. And then, we heard the rain approach as it hammered across metal roofing from the far end of town. Hopefully the storm would be gone well before we got back on the road from the High Plains to the Rocky Mountains

Storms make me nervous

I hadn’t experienced a storm like that since, as a small boy, I’d sailed with my father as he plied waters off the north coast of Papua New Guinea. In those days, storms would mesmerise and frighten me with their sound, fury and pyrotechnics; there is truly nothing quite like a storm to put the arrogance of mice and men into perspective. You can’t manage a storm, you can only try to be prepared; to be flexible; and, to ride it out the best way you can.

But somewhere in the night the storm had exhausted its fury; or maybe, it had just continued its march across the High Plains to the Rocky Mountains. When I slipped quietly out into the pre-dawn, the sky was almost completely clear. The morning star was beginning to pale as the first hint of dawn lightened the sky behind the mountains in the east.

Early coffee

Almost immediately, I noticed that lights were on in the little diner down the road on the corner; and, a light at this time of the morning held the promise of an opportunity to replenish my caffeine. I postponed my first cigarette for the day – always more satisfying if you can have it with coffee – and wandered off down the driveway and along the street towards the light.

The door was open, so I stepped inside.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be open at this time of the day.’

A thirty something woman turned around and smiled.

‘Good morning sir . . . we’re actually not open yet, but will be in another hour – we open at 5.30, for the teamsters [truck drivers].’

‘OK, I’ll come back then,’ I said as I turned to step back outside.

‘No, wait. What can I get you?’

‘No need to do that . . . you’re busy, I’ll come back at five-thirty.’

‘Sir, we’re in business and I’m here, so let’s do business.’

OK, if you’re sure it’s no trouble. Could I have a . . .’

Black is good

And before I could finish, she said:

‘You’ll be wanting a coffee, strong, black and probably without sugar.’

‘So, you not only make coffee, you read minds as well – that’s a pretty cool trick.’

‘No trick. You’re Australian right? So, you like your coffee strong and black and, I’m guessing, without sugar.’

‘Bingo,’ I said, and laughed.

‘You’ve got a nice smile,’ she said. ‘You ought to use it more often.’

‘Really.’ 

‘Yup . . . watched you in the mirror behind the counter as you came in. You can look like a pretty mean mother, you know – but not so much when you smile.’

She turned away and started work on my brew.

‘So,’ I queried, ‘ how’d you get to know about Australians?

‘Worked as a ski instructor in Thredbo back in the day. Got to like the way you guys have your coffee too.’

‘That’s bloody fantastic,’ I enthused. ‘I struggle a bit with the coffee here in your country.’

‘Yeah, I bet you do . . . so, it’s strong and black with no sugar, right?’

‘Absolutely!’

Samira

I eased myself into an old wooden chair at a worn oak coffee table. These days trendy folk tend to refer to this kind of furniture as distressed. But this was no artificially aged furniture; it had been marked and polished smooth by years of bums and elbows that had rested there while generations of customers had their coffee and cake or hamburgers. I checked my cell for messages and then trolled through Facebook to click ‘Like’ on Mel’s posts. With any sort of luck, he’d have forgotten to turn off the sound on his cell and it would be pinging away like an alarm.

The young lady behind the counter finished her work and walked to my table. She put down two steaming cups of black coffee and said, as she pulled out the other chair:

‘Mind if I join you?’

It wasn’t really a question and so, I nodded.

‘I’m Samira . . . most people call me Sam.’

‘A pleasure Samira, Lester,’ I said.

‘So, what brings you to Green River?’

Personal stuff

I told her about the road trip; how far into it we were; and how we planned, that day, to head across the High Plains to the Rocky Mountains. And, I told her about my Dad, because he was the real reason we were on this trip. I talked about my two girls; the one still with us, and the one we lost as a result of an aircraft accident in Kakadu. And, I told her about our four grandchildren back in Australia. It’s interesting isn’t it? We share intimate details with complete strangers that normally we wouldn’t discuss with anyone.

‘You don’t look old enough to have four grandchildren,’ she quipped.

Now that, right there, was the nicest thing anyone had said about me in a very long time. I thanked her for the compliment but asked how long it had been since she’d had a thorough eye examination. Then, we both laughed.

She was what you would probably call a handsome woman. In, what I guessed to be, her early thirties, she was attractive rather than pretty; tall and athletic with only the faintest hint of softness. She had high cheek-bones, sculptured features, and eyes that were as dark as her head of raven hair. Her complexion suggested a hint of the Middle East or perhaps of Native America. She had, she said, been born and raised in Green River and had also been married and divorced there. She’d attended university in Denver and graduated with a business degree. Then, rather than settling into profession life, she’d gone traveling.

A chamois and a cigarette

At a little after 5.30am, the first regular customer of her day’s trade came through the door. She excused herself, hung out the ‘open’ sign, and repaired to the counter. I wished her a great day and said that the coffee was the best I’d tasted for a long time; a lie, but only a very small one. It was very good coffee, just not the best for a very long time. As I stood and headed for the door, I said that I’d be back later with my brother for breakfast. I paused to hold the door for the next customer and then, stepped into the street and headed back towards the Comfort Inn.

The deferral of my first cigarette for the day had been much more extended than I’d planned. So, I sat on the verandah and gave attention to what is usually my first order of business on any day. The cigarette was so good, I allowed myself the luxury of another one.

During the night the rain had been sufficiently torrential to flush our motorcycles free of the road grime, dirt and bugs of yesterday’s three hundred and eighty miles. I stubbed out my second cigarette and then fossicked through Mel’s saddlebags for the chamois. When I’d finished, the paintwork and chrome of our two ten-year-old machines, sparkled in the early morning light; they looked as though they’d just come off the showroom floor.

A red BMW

After wringing out the chamois, I returned it to the saddlebag and looked up just in time to see her step out of her room. At the far end of the verandah, a petite lady stepped down and walked to a new, very red cabriolet sport car. Clearly the owner of that highly polished, fire-engine red ride backed up against the other end of the motel verandah. She opened the trunk, retrieved her chamois and set about wiping down her magnificent Aufect, Melcher and Grossaspach BMW. When she stopped to wring out water, she scanned the horizon, looked at our Harleys, and then at me – and waved.

I waved back and called out, ‘Morning . . . great day.’

‘Beautiful!’ she said, and then went back to wiping down her car.

Now, at that point, I had a decision to make. Do I just sit and have another cigarette or stroll up, look over the car and have a chat. The car didn’t look as though it had been on the road long enough to even get dirty; and, anyway, I hadn’t seen one up close and personal before, so I headed up towards the car.

‘Now that, right there, is one magnificent automobile,’ I said.

‘Thank you, Sir. I picked it up a week ago,’ she offered. ‘Is one of those motorcycles yours?’

‘Yes, mine’s the Softail Deuce. The other one is a Lowrider – my brother’s ride.’

She continued smoothing off the water that had beaded on the deeply glossed red but then stopped, turned and asked:

‘Where are you from?’

‘Australia,’ I replied.

‘Oh really, I’ve always wanted to see Australia. So, what brings you to Utah?’

‘My brother and I are on a road trip,’ I said

‘Wow! She exclaimed. ‘So am I – sort of. Where are you headed?’

And, for the second time that day, I proffered details of our road trip and probably a lot of other personal stuff that she didn’t really need to know about. But, what’s the harm right? There was almost no chance that, once we left Green River, I would ever see these two ladies again. 

Freedom . . . but at a price

In return she’d told me that her husband, a doctor, had recently passed away. She’d sat at home and stared at the walls, she said, for a couple of weeks after the funeral. Then, she’d gone down to the local BMW Dealership; bought the car she had always wanted; put a few things in an overnight bag; tossed it on the back seat; and, drove away to . . . well, she said, to go pretty much wherever the spirit moved her.

‘Way to go!’ I said, in absolutely sincere admiration.

She’d clearly decided that she was not just going to stay stuck and wallowing in her grief. Instead, she said, she had decided to focus on the one thing that she’d never had before: freedom. While her long partnership with her husband had been a happy one, she’d never really experienced the freedom to decide things for herself; there was always the ‘other’ to consider. Now, she said, her life, her decisions, her directions were all open questions; questions to which she fully intended to find answers.

An Irish blessing

In the end, I offered her my contact details, just in case she ever decided to come to Australia, and the old Irish Blessing; well, the part I could remember anyway:

May the road rise to meet your feet, and the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and the rains fall soft upon your fields.

and, may your God hold you in the palm of his hand.

I had no idea whether or not she was religious; and, I was something of a failure in the religion stakes anyway. But, it seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances. We had shared some of those secret things – the ones that we hold close to our hearts. And, that meant our conversation had been intimate in a way you can only afford be with strangers.

She held out a multi-ringed hand and presented me with a problem. A  handshake seemed a bit cold and formal, given the intimacy of our conversation. On the other hand, a kiss on the cheek was way too personal. So, I took her hand by the fingers and held them briefly while I inclined my head towards her. Then turned and headed back to the safety of our motorcycles.

A would-be matchmaker

She completed her work and disappeared into her unit. And just then, the door to our room opened, and Mel emerged looking decidedly second-hand.

‘Good Morning Mate!’

‘What’s good about it?’ he muttered darkly.

‘Try missing a few.’

‘Damned phone,’ he grumbled, ‘kept pinging at some ungodly hour . . . had to turn it off in the end.’

I grinned.

‘Was you, wasn’t it? You’re a prick!’

‘Hey Mate, I’ve got two pieces of good news for you.’

‘Really? What?’

So, I told him about my conversation with the owner of the red BMW Sports.

‘I reckon we ought to wander up for a yarn – I’ll introduce you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, she’s got a really nice ride; she’s single and clearly pretty well off; and’ she’s at the start of a road trip. Just your type of lady Mate.’

‘See,’ he replied, ‘that’s what happens when you get up early – you dream up stupid ideas!’

‘You’re missing a good opportunity Mate.’

‘What’s your other piece of good news?’

Breakfast and coffee

I told him about the diner down the road and about the other lady I’d met; the one who knew how to make good coffee.

The coffee was good and breakfast much more than adequate. Half jokingly, I tried to get him to reconsider the opportunity that the lady with the BMW presented – but he was having none of it.

After breakfast, we walked up the road for a bit, but then quit. There wasn’t a lot to see that you couldn’t see in a hundred other towns across the US – or Australia for that matter. It was also starting to get warm, so we headed back to our accommodation; packed and loaded the bikes; checked out; and, headed down the road in search of the on-ramp for Interstate 70 East.

The High Plains

Once on the freeway, we had to ramp up our cruise speed to stay ahead of the eighteen wheelers. We were riding into a harsh, arid landscape reminiscent of the terrain in the Mojave; a desolate, inhospitable plain bordered by craggy slopes and escarpments. In the distance, softened in outline by haze, lurked what I thought were probably the lower ranges of the Rocky Mountains. Although the day was warming up quickly, we knew that once we started our climb into the Colorado Rockies, the temperature would drop in inverse proportion to the altitude.

Having made the decision not to visit Arches National Park, we continued past the off-ramp to US 191. We pushed on through Thompson Springs, Cisco, Agate and then, crossed Bitter Creek just before crossing the Colorado State Line. Because we were still riding an open plateau and looking at the ranges in the distance, it was tempting to believe that we were at sea level. But, we were, in fact, a little over five thousand feet above sea level and riding the High Plains.

The Interstate we’d been riding since Green River is, in fact, a transcontinental highway that spans almost the entire continent. Starting in Baltimore, the I-70 traverses Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado and runs right through to Cove Fort in Utah. Of course, on this road trip, we were only riding one very small part of the great road. We’d entered Colorado from Utah on a plateau, but just over the State Line, began a descent into the Grand Valley; a valley formed by the Colorado River and its tributaries.

Now, when you’re ripping along, helmet free, over flat land through the desert, you tend to take the freeway for granted because it’s usually pretty straight except for some long sweeping curves; it’s not exciting riding. But, as the I-70 headed into the mountains, we began to develop a whole new appreciation for the engineering vision and expertise that its construction must have required.

Into the Rocky Mountains

Shortly after crossing the State Line, we skirted the northern edge of McInnis Canyons National Park and pushed on past Fruita towards Grand Junction. Although we didn’t go downtown, we did take the off-ramp and called in to a service centre. It was time to refuel, the motorcycles and ourselves, and to stretch our legs.

The name, Grand Junction, implies some sort of meeting, and there is a logic to the nomenclature once you realise that the city is actually situated at the confluence of the Colorado and Gunnison Rivers. The ‘Grand’, in the name, refers to the fact that the Colorado at this point was originally known as the Grand River; it was renamed the Upper Colorado in 1921. Grand Junction is located at the midpoint of a thirty mile [48 km] arcing valley and, amongst other things, is a major fruit-growing region. 

On this part of our road trip into the Rocky Mountains, we’d become aware of progressive changes in the environment and vegetation. The alps towered in grey-green livery and seemed to constrict the valley and crowd the road. The air temperature had dropped as the road climbed, and there was progressive increase and density of cloud cover.

From Grand Junction onwards, I-70 follows the path of the Colorado River and exits the valley through DeBeque Canyon where it traverses the Beavertail Mountain Tunnel; the first of the tunnels built to route the freeway across the Rockies. After leaving the canyon, the highway continues to shadow the Colorado River through a narrow valley containing the communities of Parachute and Rifle.

Environment and engineering

East of Glenwood Springs, we continued on I-70 and entered Glenwood Canyon. It was difficult, while cruising at speed, to see and appreciate in detail the engineering expertise required to construct a freeway through the narrow gorge and, at the same time, limit and minimise the collateral damage to the breath-taking natural beauty of the canyon. In order to traverse the Rocky Mountains, the completion of I-70 involved the construction of multiple tunnels, forty bridges and viaducts, and miles of retaining walls. Through numerous sections of Glenwood Canyon, the eastbound lanes extend, cantilevered, over the Colorado River and westbound lanes are suspended on a viaduct several feet above the canyon floor.

By late afternoon we’d been riding Interstate 70 East for a little over seven hours; mostly through the Rocky Mountains. Of course, we had to keep reminding ourselves that we’d covered only a very small section of the road, but it had been a section of staggering beauty; of breathtaking vistas; and, jaw-dropping engineering feats. We took the off-ramp at Dotsero to refuel the motorcycles, have another coffee and, in my case, another cigarette. As we pause our road trip to survey the towering mountains, soaring escarpments and sheer canyon walls, we tried to imagine just how impossible the task of building a major road through this terrain must have seemed. At the end of the day, I guess I-70 is a tribute to human ingenuity and tenacity – and, of course, American’s commitment to the automobile. 

 From Dotsero the highway leaves the Colorado River and, instead, shadows a tributary. This marks the point where the railroad separates into two primary mountain crossings: the original route via Tennessee Pass/Royal Gorge; and, the newer and shorter Moffat Tunnel route. Interstate 70 uses a separate route between the two rail corridors and, from Dotsero, follows the Eagle River toward the Vail Pass, at an elevation of a little over ten and a half thousand feet [3,251 m]. 

Too cold to ride

The afternoon was wearing on and, because the sun was heading towards the horizon in the west, we spent increasing amounts of time riding in the shadows of mountains and escarpment walls – and so, it had started to get considerably cooler. While there was, as yet, no real threat of rain, cloud cover had increased significantly and it was reasonable to suppose that a storm could overtake us as darkness drew on.

As it turned out, we only continued for another fifteen miles [23km] past Gypsum to Eagle. By that time, I was on the point of shivering, so Eagle seemed like an opportune place to stop – at least for a coffee. Mel was as cold as I was.

Eagle’s Rest

We’d taken the off-ramp to Eagle and stopped at a coffee shop right next door to another Comfort Inn with a vacancy sign displayed. So, we decided that Eagle was as good a place as any to end our odyssey for the day. 

On this section of our road trip, we’d travelled a little over two hundred and twenty miles [350km] from Green River through spectacular country; from High Plains Desert to the Colorado Rocky Mountains; and, from just over five thousand feet [1,526m] at Green River, Utah to Eagle, Colorado at a little over six and a half thousand feet [2,012m]. No wonder we were a bit cold.

After checking in at the Comfort Inn, we stepped out to take a walk in the early evening; and, to get a coffee and something to eat. We were both exhilarated and exhausted. Riding a busy Interstate at speeds high enough to stay in front of the eighteen wheelers while, at the same time, attempting to take in at least some of the superb scenery, is taxing – to say the least. 

In truth, I don’t remember where we had coffee or ate, though I’m sure I would have remembered if the food was bad or the service poor. I also don’t remember what I had to eat, although I’m fairly certain it would have been whatever Mel was having.

Just a thought . . .

When we’re happy, we enjoy the music

When we’re sad, we understand the lyrics

Click to continue reading: US 9 From Eagle to a High Plains Super Storm