TAT III Day 2

Last night, after supper, Morris made a couple of comments hoping that the weather would stay calm—a mountain storm can come quickly and be dangerously vicious.  We hoped the same, but were not so worried as to suggest packing up and moving when it was already so late.  We all went to bed.

Some time later, I feel like it was a couple of hours, NH and I woke in empty black to the sounds of rain and sleet peppering the top of our tent, and of the wind ripping at the side awnings.  NH woke up enough to batten down one of the awnings, but soon I was worried that the wind might get worse.  The rooftop tent, for all of its excellent benefits, does have much the same effect on top of the Jeep as a sail might.  We did not want to go sailing down the mountain.  I worriedly suggested that we move downstairs for the night, and NH gave in to my badgering.  Poor fellow, he was the one who had to stand out in the driving wind and sleet taking down the tent, while I sat in the Jeep being handed sleeping bags and the small poles that hold out the awnings.  We were particularly glad that the rooftop tent is so easy to set up and take down. 

Just as we settled into the front seats for a good night’s sleep, the rain and wind quit.  Complete calm.  Of course.

Needless to say, last night’s sleep was not as fulfilling as it might have been.  NH woke up at 5:45 (I know, I didn’t think it was possible either) and decided to go out and chat with the guys.  I stayed inside for another half hour or so of sleep.  Ah, wishful thinking.  Carl had been stricken in the night with what appeared to be a killer case of altitude sickness and wanted to get down the mountain as quickly as possible.  While both NH and I were ruefully thinking that the altitude was going to get worse before it would get better, we set off almost immediately in hopes of ending Carl’s agony as soon as possible.

I will skip much of the morning’s journeyings—looking back, they seem arduous.  Mostly because Carl was driving like one half-dead, and Morris was beginning to feel increasing discomfort from the intensely bumpy road (he was still recovering from a recent surgery).  Also, we met far too many enthusiastic off-roaders in rented Jeeps who didn’t seem to know the rules of travel (uphill has right of way, etc.). 

By the time we reached Ophir, Morris was ready to bid us adieu.  He will camp there tonight and make his way comfortably home.  Carl,  too, was seeking any sort of respite from driving—or really, from anything other than being horizontal.  We tricked him (sorry, Carl, I really did think the topo map indicated low altitude) into following us ten more miles on some of the most intense switchbacks yet until we were able to get gas at Telluride.  There we decided that Carl would take highways to Monticello, UT and wait for us in a motel while we took the trail.

NH and I enjoyed some lovely gravel roads, cobblestone “Jeep road,” mud that almost slid us off the road and down the hill, and an enormous switchback made up of smaller switchbacks down the last mountain.  For the solitude from so many rented Jeeps and ATVs  alone, the trail between Telluride and Monticello was pleasing.  Also, we passed from Alpine tundra, through high forests where tall, narrow pines grew to just beneath the crowns of towering aspens, down to mountain meadows and finally lush deciduous forests with cattle wandering between the trees. 

I was struck  today by the slow pace travelling up and down washed-out mountain roads—what struck me most was passing so many ruined timber mine shafts.  How many pioneers a hundred years ago were so eager to make money selling silver or gold or whatever, that they would spend what must have been weeks travelling from civilization to remote mountainsides?  We breakfasted in Animas Forks this morning, a ghost town that makes a good example of dedicated money-hunger.  Every summer, up to 450 miners, families, and other entrepreneurs populated a town that, for us, was reachable only after topping a couple of 12,000+ ft. passes.  Even for those not driving the Trans-America Trail, Animas Forks is reachable in modern times only by roads whose navigability is arguable.  Yet between the late 1880’s and sometime early in the 1920’s, Animas Forks was a real town.  I walked its two rutted dirt streets slowly, tracing the remains of houses, wondering about the people who lived there.  Where did they move back to every winter?  How long did it take them to get to Animas Forks, and how early in the year did they come?  How secluded were their lives, and how much did they revolve around mining?  Was it worth it?  Well, they woke up to the sun rising over those same peaks, shadowing green hills and painted dots of wildflowers all summer long.  Maybe it was.

NH and I reached Monticello just after 5:00 this afternoon.  We joined Carl at the motel where he had already gotten lodging—and is now wondering if it’s not just plain old flu.  Is fever a symptom of altitude sickness? We met up with Caleb and Jennifer here, too.  We will set out for Moab and continuing north/northwest in the morning.

Written by E Henson