there's no place . like kansas

Kansas Full Moon Over Lake Wilson

Sunday, August 14

Celtic music was playing on the radio when I crossed over from Missouri into Kansas. It seemed a fitting background for my somewhat melancholy mood that morning. I was still musing on my inspirational sojourn in Missouri, when I realized that Route 70 was taking me past the actual place where I was born.

My father was stationed at Fort Riley back in 1956, and here it was, just off the highway, rows of light brown jeeps and the military hospital where I'd taken my first breath. I was tempted to stop, to photograph, to stand in that spot, but with an 8-hour trip ahead, it seemed enough to just feel that energy.

My parents had lived in Manhattan, a few miles away, and I'd visited the town on a prior cross country trip with my daughter. Then, it was a disappointment, a dreary place it seemed to me, where I could imagine the dust piling up on the windowsills, the constant threat of tornados, the unrelenting heat.

My mother had recently shared a memory of living in an upstairs apartment with no air conditioning, and having us both sit in the bathtub just to stay cool. There was something about the intimacy of that recollection that struck me now and my eyes teared as I passed by the exit to Manhattan. My father was dead now, my mother visiting her own homeland on the St. Lawrence River at the moment, and I was traveling back in time:  my infant self was just opening her eyes in Kansas.

Ancient. Majestic. Pristine. Poetic. I was born in the Flint Hills of eastern Kansas in the Tallgrass Prairie known as The Konza, now an 8,616-acre preserve of the last and largest stretch of native bluestem grasses. The Tallgrass grows up to 10 feet high, thanks to the fractured shelves of limestone just beneath the topsoil here and turns from blue to a cadmium red in the fall. To the early settlers, they were a mysterious, awe-inspiring, ever-moving canvas that once stretched across 170 million acres. All but 4% remain, now part of the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, but they are no less a splendor today. Like the Longleaf Pines in the Sandhills of North Carolina, they are burned each spring to promote new growth. This would be a sight to see, wouldn't it? Perhaps some other time.

Konza Tallgrass Natural Preserve

As I passed by the end-of-summer blue-green fields, impressed by the hand of the hot wind, I felt an old memory stir—the hushed sound of the air moving through the grass, being cooled as it passed, coming through the window and into my playpen where I felt it brush my cheeks. But, then, in an instant, I had passed the Tallgrass, along with the rest of the traffic, speeding by at 75 miles an hour.

* * *

I arrived in the town of Wilson after a few turnabouts, thanks to my GPS, which fortuitously resulted in my finding the only liquor store for miles around (praise be). For such a tiny town they had a surprising and rather respectable selection of California wines and I stocked up, not knowing what dry counties I might encounter hence. There was also a small grocery where I found some delicious-looking apricots and bought a few other staples before finally landing at Wilson State Park.

My Kansas Campsite

You don't often think of dry, dusty Kansas of being a land of water. At least I didn't. My campsite, overlooking Wilson Lake (actually a reservoir and the deepest and I believe largest lake in Kansas, at 9,000+ acres) was one of the most beautiful places I had ever witnessed. I situated my tent to look east over the water and just as I finished, the park hosts, Marylou and Steven Andrews, came by to say hello. They showed me a gentle path down to the water and I quickly changed and went down to a sandy beach. The water was crystal clear and warm and I swam for a good half hour as the sun went down, making the red limestone cliffs glow in a spectrum of hues.

The West Swim Cove

Totally refreshed and feeling pretty darn lucky to be in such a good place, I sat by the fire for a bit with Marylou and Steven. Steven spun tales about his truck-driving days (he's an expert storyteller) and Marylou let on that she was an artist, whose work was shown in the nearby town of Lucas. I vowed to visit there later in the week. It was such a pleasant evening that I decided then and there to stay a few extra days in Kansas.

Monday, August 15

I had rested well with a cool, slow breeze wafting through the tent, lulling me to sleep. In the morning, I took a short hike on a nice trail that went high above the lake, affording an amazing view. For breakfast, I made a spinach, sundried tomato and egg white omelet, which became my go-to morning creation. There was, of course, coffee, rich and dark and so delicious as I sat in the soft morning light, watching the sun dance over the grasses and the water beyond. I was time traveling again, back to my childhood, when the future simply did not exist—when laying in the gold grass and watching the clouds for what seemed like forever was always a part of summer. How I appreciated having had that kind of time now!

Something began to slowly take shape in this present gift of unstructured time. I began to daydream about a book called "Redfield Place" with poems and drawings about my childhood. There have been so many resonances in that direction since I started traveling. I am continually seeing and feeling things that were somehow until now unseen or buried or perhaps just waiting to emerge.

It was mid-morning now and warming up quickly. There was another trail just in front of my tent. I followed it down to yet another cove as quiet and peaceful as might be wished for. The clear water awaited. I kicked off my shoes and dove in. Here, the shore dropped off quickly and the water became very deep. Fairly large fish leaped here and there and a turtle kept curious tabs on me, sticking its head out of the water a safe distance away. I must have floated and paddled about for several hours, discovering that this is also a birder's paradise. Doves, what I think was a Kestrel, and a bird I've never seen, a Baltimore Oriole, with its striking bright orange body and black head, all came down to the water to drink.

Kansas Baltimore Oriole

I swam back to the beach and ate another apricot. What a treat and how unexpected to find them in the middle of Kansas! The sun was overhead now and the cicadas began to sing as they were to do each day at this time. I went back to camp and made a sauce of fresh tomatoes, garlic, freshly-grated Reggiano, then cooked some pasta for lunch. Scrumptious! I let the dishes sit while I went back to the water, this time to the cove I visited the night before and swam another hour.

Before long it was cocktail hour. I did some planning for the days ahead in Colorado. I found it quite complicated to (a.) find an open campsite in an area that had water, (b.) find places within a 6-hour drive. It took a few hours to finally make a reservation at my next stop in Pueblo, Colorado, which would then put me in striking distance of Pagosa, whose hot springs had been calling me since I first thought of my trip.

Sunset was approaching. I went back down to the water to witness a holy full moon rise while the crickets chanted . . .

Tuesday, August 16

I had gotten quite a bit of sun, so I swam for a few hours a bit earlier in the day. The heat was already becoming oppressive, it had been in the upper 90s since I'd arrived, so a little before noon, I drove into Lucas, which turned out to be a very artful town with many wonders.

My first stop was "Aunt Gertie's," a shop where I knew Marylou Andrews' work was shown, and which was a treasure trove of antiques, with baskets of sprockets and jars of old buttons and all kinds of useful and fun things. Michaela Pate, the shop owner, directed me to Marylou's pieces, constructed of wood and barbed wire and quite fanciful. I couldn't help but purchase one as a memento of my time in Kansas, a figure in wire, aptly titled "Lucas."

Work by Marylou Andrews

All that browsing had given me an appetite. Michaela recommended the Backstreet Bakery as the best place to get a piece of pie. Sounded good to me! When I walked in, two women were sitting at the counter finishing their lunch. The waitress, Andrea Turnbull, turned out to be an artist who used repurposed materials as well and we had a lively conversation about the challenges of being creative women. Stephanie Errebo, who owned a ranch and a feedlot, was good enough to give me directions to my next stop in Pueblo, Colorado. "The scenic route," she assured me. Something about her friendly, easy manner made me trust her completely and I was so grateful for her help.

Artist and Expert Pie Deliverer Andrea Turnbull

at the Backstreet Baker in Lucas

It had a light lunch, knowing that it would soon be time for dessert, and I was not disappointed. An enormous piece of cherry-berry pie was brought forth. I called for the pastry chef and out she came. Sue Ellen Wenthe was the owner of Backstreet Bakery and she was a pie wizard indeed! Hands down it was the best pie I'd had in a long, long time!

Sue Ellen Wenthe
and Her Amazing Cherry Berry Pie!

Andrea and the rest of the ladies were so sweet to me. They made me feel right at home, which felt so soothing to someone who had been on the road as long as I had. Andrea even helped me fill my water container and carried it to the van for me. Above and beyond the call of duty and much appreciated, for sure!

The ladies suggested that I visit the Grassroots Art Center across the street. Now fortified by pie and ice cream, I ventured in and Jean Stramel, one of the docents and an artist herself, took me on a tour of the self-taught, recycled, outsider art that they collect. Fascinating! I loved seeing the uninhibited works made of wood, metal, fabric, pulltabs and chewing gum—all made by self-taught artists. The tour included a visit to a house where the late Florence Deeble created postcard scenes in her garden of her travels using colored concrete. So unusual!

Some of the Work of Artist mri-Pilar

The interior of her house is now filled floor-to-ceiling with the highly original and idiosyncratic works of mri-Pilar. I loved reading her artist's statement:

Grassroots is a handy nest for a self-taught artist who doesn't buy into the don't-grow-don't-change-don't-make-people-feel-insecure decaying art world. If those who spout "post-modernism" lived it, we'd be in the company of sages.

She also adds:  "This statement is subject to change in an hour, in a day, every day . . ."

There was so much more to see in Lucas, but the afternoon was scorching hot. I headed to the public library, the coolest place in town. Now, you have to know that I love libraries. This one had two rooms and 5,592 books at last count. I found a cozy table in the children's corner and did a bit of work while I waited for temperature to drop a bit.

As I sat there, I couldn't help but overhear the conversations the librarian was having with the local people who wandered in to share the news of the day or a tidbit of gossip. "You're the town psychologist," I kidded her. She laughed. "Well, I guess I am!" she replied, somewhat delighted I think to find that someone understood her exalted place in the pecking order.

I finally ambled back to the lake where I had a nice conversation with some new neighbors at the next campsite. Emerson and his wife Sheryl, and their son Hunter and his fiancee, Cecilie, were just delightful. They invited me back in the evening, but I was too tired from my tourist activities and my daily regime of a sunset swim. The wind came up strong in the middle of the night and kept me awake for quite some time, but in the morning I headed back to Lucas to continue my tour of its wonders.

On the way, I stopped at the K-18 Cafe and order the Burger Special. I must have been hungry and craving protein for it came with onion rings, french fries and a salad, all for $7.95. I added a slab of rhubarb pie that had just come out of the oven (with ice cream). My eyes were definitely bigger than my stomach, but I muscled through . . . everything was so down-home good.

Just for the Record -- Not My Usual Lunch!

The 'Definitely-Not-Bland' 
Bland Family
Greg and Frankie

I struck up a conversation with the couple next to me, Greg and Frankie Bland. They were very interesting people and we chatted for a good half hour about farming. Greg is an agronomist who specializes in wheat and sorghum seed development. (I had to take notes, it was so fascinating.) Frankie is a para-educator and I enjoyed talking with her about her work. Somehow the conversation drifted over to alternative healing and later I continued that discussion with Greg when I ran into him outside the liquor store. (No snickering, I was just getting ice!)

We sat for a minute near the public restroom in Lucas. Now, I guarantee you have never seen a latrine anything like this!

A Visit to the "Bowl Plaza"

The "Bowl Plaza" was a compilation of mosaic art made of repurposed glass bottles, travel plates, quotations, broken pottery, toys and mirrors—you name it. Both the men's and women's rooms are covered inside and out with items embedded in the mortar as was the entrance (representing an enormous toilet bowl). The whole installation is really very artful and amazing and amusing. I could have stayed all day in there looking at all the individual mosaics.

The "Birthday Club" Ladies from Nebraska

Earlier that day, when I had toured the interior, there was a group of women from Nebraska, "The Birthday Club" who were there marveling at the mosaics and I couldn't help but take their picture, they were so adorable and fun! I followed them over to Brant's Meat Market, another Lucas high point, and sampled his handcrafted bologna. The owner, Doug Brant, was known as a local personality and it was great fun hearing him talk with the Nebraska ladies. One might say he was a little full of bologna himself!

Doug Brant of Brant's Meat Market

Next stop was the "Garden of Eden." Although I didn't take the public tour, I wandered around looking at the sculptures, which had been constructed by Samuel Perry Dinsmoor, a retired schoolteacher, Civil War Veteran, farmer and populist politician who began building the site in 1907 at the age of 64. Using 113 tons of cement and limestone, he created a unique personal statement of philosophy and politics with the 150 sculptures that surround the property. Very strange, very thought-provoking. I might add that after being widowed, he married again at age 84 and fathered two children. One of the people I met in Lucas was related to him.

Sculpture at The Garden of Eden 

If that wasn't enough, from there I moved on to "The World's Largest Collection of the Worlds Smallest Versions of the World's Largest Things" -- parts of which reminded me of the snake oil wagon in the Wizard of Oz, remembering, of course, that this is the Land of Oz, and I am right smack in the middle of it! As I am looking rather witchy from being on the road for so long. I keep waiting for a house to drop out of the sky.

From the "The World's Largest Collection
of the Worlds Smallest Versions
of the World's Largest Things" 

I was overwhelmed with all of the incredible sights in Lucas. I headed back to the lake for my last sunset swim, wondering how this amazing town came to be in the midst of the plains. I wondered, too, what it would be like to live in such a place, where everyone knew everyone and everyone felt free to express themselves completely. There's not many places like that on this planet, that is for sure.

Just before nightfall, the Baltimore Oriole came and sat in the tree just above my tent and sang the sweetest song to me. It had a plaintive, winsome sound and it made me both deliriously happy and at the same time, terribly sad to be leaving Kansas. I knew there were more adventures ahead, but here I had been fed, rested, nurtured and filled with friendship and wonder.

They say you can't go home again, but, in truth, I felt I had. I had truly been blessed.

May Your Own Yellow Brick Road

Continually Open Before You,

Karen

goodbye . yellow brick road

Colorado Cool

With a solid eight-hours of driving ahead, I broke camp, and said my prayers and silent goodbyes to my beloved Kansas, the land that had treated me so unbelievably well.

The day promised heat. I refilled my water bottles, jugs and 5-gallon canisters and, satisfied that everything was locked down and packed right, set out wondering just what I would encounter along the way.

I'd been given some handwritten alternate directions by Stephanie, the ranch and feedlot owner (there was a life I briefly imagined) I'd met at the cafe. It was time to go off the beaten track, I decided, so I exited Route 70, which truthfully had become a bit boring and predictable and even a bit dangerous due to its monotony.

I knew I was close to the turnoff, so I stopped to gas up in Sharon Springs and stepped into Stephen's Restaurant to get some clearer directions. I ordered an iced tea (I love how in the Midwest you are automatically brought un-sweetened tea!) and a piece of apple pie. Pie, for some unexplained reason, had become my comfort food on the road.

There was a couple and their daughter behind me eating breakfast. I asked them where Route 96 might be. The man, in his cap and overalls, who was clearly was a farmer, gave me a smile. "Pretty desolate," he commented. "Nothing for but a hundred miles." He noticed my puzzled expression. "Where you headed?" "Pueblo," I told him. "Hmmm . . . got a map?" he said. I shook my head no. "Never should go anywhere without a map!"

I had to agree. I'd been relying on pure luck and my GPS up until now. The farmer, Gilbert Bussen, and his wife, Barb, inquired about my next stop in Colorado and we had a lively conversation about traveling. "Worried about you," Gilbert remarked. He went to his truck and brought out a somewhat dated map of Colorado. He handed it to me. "I want you to have this," he said. "You need it more than I do." I told him how much this meant to me and they wished me safe travels and off I went, stuffed full of pie and the last good vibes from the place of my birth.

That old map came in plenty handy later on.

I'd thought the last stretch of highway had been pretty lonely, but when I turned onto Route 96, I was on a two-lane road or what in the old days would have been called 'macadam' as it was a different surface from the slick asphalt of the freeways, darker grey and pocked with pebbles, patchy and uneven. It looked like it hadn't been driven in some time. I saw maybe two cars in several hours of driving. It was pretty country, grassy and level, but desolate just the same.

The road brought me way, way out into the puckerbrush. At some point I wondered if I'd been sent on a snipe hunt by the woman in Kansas, but true to her telling it turned into a much more scenic route the farther west I went. As the heat turned blazing, the fields burnt and scruffy, I wondered what the hell I was doing, where I was going, why I was going. You know, all the usual life questions.

A red truck came up behind me and tailed me for a bit. I had a bit of anxiety thinking that had he (I assumed it was a he) been some kind of axe murderer, he could easily block my passage and do me in. Out there, in the nothingness, I'd be a goner, and only Gilbert Busser and his family would have seen me pass.

I chuckled to myself thinking about how pickup trucks seemed to automatically have a gender. Something about the amount of dents and dust and sometimes even the color. Red=Men. Same thing applied to mid-life crisis convertibles, I supposed.

The man in the truck (my guess was right) wearing a cowboy hat passed me with a friendly Midwestern wave and slowly I settled back down, put the "pedal to the metal" as they say, and just surrendered to this lonely stretch of forgotten countryside. The radio crackled. I turned it off. There was beauty in that. The emptiness, the silence but for the slowed-down conversation in my own head, the sound of my wheels spinning their way west.

There was a sign ahead for Colorado Springs. I stopped at a corner stand and bought fresh peaches and tomatoes from a grizzled man who'd set up a table with just a few baskets of produce. I asked where the peaches and tomatoes were from. "These 'r from Illinois," he mumbled. "I try and get 'em in the county when I can." No matter. Both tomatoes and peaches were sun warmed and good and sweet and made several fine meals for me for the next few days. I'd pretty much stopped carrying any kind of meat, as it was difficult to keep and somehow I had lost my taste for animal flesh. In fact, it somewhat sickened me, so I was already on an almost vegan diet. Except for the pie. Good pie crust is made with lard. It's a universal law.

The road had suddenly become a real highway and somehow I felt a sense of loss of being back in civilized country. (This was a feeling that would repeat itself over and over, with greater intensity, the longer I traveled.) And then there, looming magnificently straight ahead, was a fine view of what I believe was Pike's Peak. My course veered me south and westward, that view disappeared, and before long I found myself in rush hour traffic in Colorado Springs, which I must tell you didn't delight me after an already long day of driving.

Colorado Springs didn't seem of much interest to me, judging by the businesses on the roadside, although there were some notable sights like "The Garden of the Gods" nearby and I of course knew that the real face of a place couldn't be judged from the freeway. Originally, I thought I'd stop and camp near there, but it was just enough off track to keep me from settling in. Pueblo would put me within striking distance of some of the hot springs I hoped to visit in Colorado. On I went.

The Marina at Pueblo, Colorado

Pueblo.

Pueblo seemed a shabby border sort of town. Pay day loan places, pawn shops, oily auto repair stops, greasy spoons. It made me uneasy, but soon enough I was turning into Pueblo State Park. I'd had high hopes of continuing to swim in the reservoir there, but alas the beach was closed due to some bacteria count. I saw plenty of people kayaking and waterskiing, though. I imagined that out in the middle of the reservoir, everything was cool. I just had to find a way to get out there.

My reserved campsite was disappointing and dreary. Just a patch of cement beside a bedraggled bush, with a water pump a distance away, but it did have a view of the reservoir and the mountains encircling the park. Campsites, I noted, were packed together like sardines. There were few campers there now (it was a Thursday), but the camp host assured me that it would be a full house come the weekend. They were completely booked. I knew I had gotten the very last campsite, so I felt pretty grateful to have a place to land for $25. And, they had hot showers. Whoo Hoo!

I was pretty exhausted and night was coming on. I decided to test out actually sleeping in my van and to set up camp the next morning. The reservoir sparkled tantalizingly beyond until a huge RV pulled up and pretty much blocked my view. My decision to sleep in the van turned out to be a good one, as just about that time a horrendous storm blew in, with zig zags of jagged lightning that tore up the whole sky, pouring rain and what I was later told were 40 mph winds that rocked the Zen Gypsy Van back and forth all night like an unstable cradle.

In my haste to move things around to make room for my sleep nest in the van, I somehow pushed my guitar case into the front windshield. Crrrr-aa-ccck! Damn. I knew it would cost about $400 to replace the glass, and I worried that the whole thing might disintegrate in the coming storm. This turned out to be a pointless bit of anxiety as the next day I drove into Pueblo and found a "Windshield Angel" who spent an hour or so patiently patching the five cracks that spread out like a sunray on my windshield and reassured me that it would be just fine. Natasha (who was the glass artist) and her husband, Jason Heifner, at Act Fast Glass were as sweet as could be, and only charged me $50 for their fine work. Wow.

I stopped at the grocery and picked up butter and eggs and some more tomatoes and returned to my campsite to find that yet another storm was rolling in . . . this one even more dramatic than the last. As the rain poured down, I sat and listened to "Blue Highways" by William Least-Heat-Moon on audio book on my laptop and worked on my blog until about 10:30 pm when exhaustion and the rain finally lulled me to sleep.

The whole time in Pueblo seemed like one disappointment and minor disaster after another. I was in a foul mood. I just didn't like it here. I didn't like the guy next to me who was blasting his country music. I didn't like the dust and the threat of rattlers. I didn't like the marina store that gouged me for $3 for a small bag of ice. A friend I met in Colorado later described it as, "the armpit of Colorado." With apologies to people from Pueblo, I had to say that I agree with that description. Despite its stark and stunning landscape, and the obvious benefits of the reservoir, Pueblo was just not my cup of tea.

I did meet a nice couple, though, with their baby. She happened to be from North Carolina and seemed happy to see a face from home. They filled me in on the area and I was sorry not to get their names, as they were very helpful. Some conversations, however, were just destined to go unnoted. There were many people I talked to along the way who were quite wonderful, but didn't particular impress me to write about them in any significant way. And others, whom I immediately bonded with and wished I'd had the time to get to know better.

In its defense, the restrooms/showers at this park were fairly good . . . the water nice and hot (and free, some parks charged for showers). This seemed a luxury after my campsite in Kansas, that had only cold water. I took a long shower to shake off the dust, and maybe TMI, shaved my legs for the first time since I'd been on the road, and felt almost human again. But I was still in a funk that I just couldn't shake.

I'd reserved three days here and I almost, almost bolted. Since I'd already paid ahead, and didn't have reservations until Monday, I decided to tough it out and try to have a better attitude. Some other neighbors told me about a beach where the rangers wouldn't bother you. They were going to the water the next day and invited me along. I had a quick visit with them there, as the wind was hellacious, so I spent some time back at camp reorganizing the van and my food. I was heading to bear country after this and didn't want to take any chances. Even lotions, creams, even sunblock, would need to be put into tubs. I whittled the two coolers I had on board to just one with perishable food. The other I packed just with ice, water and a bottle of vodka. I figured if the bears needed a cocktail, more power to 'em!

Some things are best left to memory. That night Pueblo had one of the most sensational sunsets I was to witness during my travels, with sunrays spreading out like a corona of coral fire from the stars to the mountains. It was so beautiful that I could not even bring myself to photograph it. Truly magnificent and a great reminder to me that this was what it was all about, this exultation, this endless and impossible joy that is nature.

However, I had a feeling that after this dismal interlude I was really going to enjoy my next stop in Pagosa Springs. The next morning, I packed up and took off. "Pueblo," I said out loud to no one, "Eat my dust!"

The San Juan River at Pagosa Springs

Pagosa Springs.    

As I pulled away from Pueblo, I felt an instant sense of relief. I never was able to shake the bad feeling that hovered over me there, like a desert storm cloud. As the landscape went from arid plains to rolling countryside, flanked by happy yellow jerusalem artichoke blossoms and later, real sunflowers, and hills of pale wheaten grass, to mountains studded with pencil thin conifers, my heart was refilled. So much green after the dull desert palette seemed like food for the eyes. I was replenished the further I climbed up in the San Juan Mountains, with sparkling creeks and breathtaking waterfalls abounding. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the road.

Turning off of Route 70 to 160 took me through charming Western towns such as Alamosa, and before long I arrived in the village of Pagosa Springs, on the banks of the San Juan River.

I could easily have camped nearby, but I planned this stop as a treat for myself for making it more than halfway across the US and booked a night at Healing Waters, an unassuming hotel in the middle of town that promised on-site hot springs, and, for the first time, I would sleeping in a real bed instead of my tent or van. There was a fancy spa just across the street that I'd researched, also a public bath house that charged $22 a day. The spa looked luxurious and lovely online (and was also twice the price of the place I booked). Same water, logic told me. And my choice was a good one, my hotel, the original hot spring, was the place the locals frequented.

The healing waters of the hot springs, which issue up from wells deep beneath the ground, were noted for being composed in varying amounts of sodium, potassium, magnesium, silica, chloride, fluoride, minute amounts of arsenic (which still had healing qualities), boron, iron, lithium, manganese, sulfate and zinc.

The hotel had a full-size outdoor pool that bubbled with this slightly sulfurous spring water as well as separate "hot pools" for men and women that were "clothing optional." There was also an outdoor public hot spa. The mostly elder women I met at the spa were bronzed and wrinkled beyond belief. They had beatific smiles, deep smiles etched into their faces that told me that their life here must be good, very very good.

I imagined the scenario would be a bit different at the luxury spa . . . it was where the couples on romantic holidays and the singles from the city stayed . . . but I immediately liked this particular place for its lack of pretense, its relaxed family vibe. Everyone was in t-shirts and sandals and I had no desire to have to get dressed up. Everything, including my room, was simple. And that is what I craved just now in every aspect. In a way, it was almost strange to be among other people. I spent a dreamy afternoon soaking and swimming in the spa pool, then thought about trying the hot pool, which I'd been told was 108 degrees or sometimes higher.

The hot pool was a stone crater gouged out of the ground, enclosed in a building with a separate room with benches and a changing area. When I entered, most of the women were stripped down, half asleep on towels covering the benches. There were a few sighs of contentment, but otherwise an unwritten, almost holy silence.  

To immerse yourself in this temperature of water is an immediate shock to the body. At each glide through the pool, the heat intensifies and encloses you again, so you soon find that if you stay still, and shut your eyes, sinking down to the base of your scalp, you are in a womb-like stasis, stripped to essence and vapor, your entire life, every worry, every trauma, every memory melting out of you until you are like a one-celled creature like an amoeba, floating in a simple, thoughtless, exquisite universe.

Life altering, that.

Despite its healing qualities, you could only stay in this temperature of water for up to five minutes before becoming light headed. A sign recommended five minutes in, twenty minutes out to cool down. It was a labor to climb out and I clung to the steel rail near the steps into the pool like an ancient, thoroughly sotted drunk.

And that's what I did, several times over, that day and the next. One woman I did talk with said that she did this up to twenty times a day. I had a hard time imagining that, as I was completely spent after my short time in that water, but she was the picture of health. She'd been coming here almost daily for years, she said. I tried to imagine for myself what that would be like, and quite frankly, couldn't. It was just too good!

The open air hot tub was just as meditative. I sat on the edge and dabbled my toes in the water and looked around at the greened mountains surrounding me. I had a nice conversation with a fellow spa-er, Bob, who filled me in on the drive to Ridgway, reportedly a white-knuckle affair for part of the way. This reminded me to have my brakes checked when I got to Durango.

I'd thought to spend a night in Durango, several hours away, but I had no reservations, and once I settled in at Pagosa, I immediately booked a second night so that I could rest up a bit for the remainder of the journey. I showered, wandered over to The Bear Grill, a low-key pub, ate one of the few meals I didn't cook over my camp stove, had a glass of wine, sampled the green chili (which was delicious and a local specialty), then hit the hay.

I rose early to hike one of the many trails behind the hotel, keeping an eye out for bears, which had been reported in the area. Have I shared that I have an unnatural fear of bears? That the mere mention of bears conjures up something so primal, so hair-raising and terrifying to me, that it makes me physically ill? Why? I have no idea. Maybe a sinister teddy bear somewhere in my distant past. I guess something about getting my scalp torn off by a huge claw or my arm gnawed to a ragged bit of gristle and bone has never appealed to me. Go figure.

My walk, regardless of thoughts of annihilation, was quite refreshing. I didn't go far, but climbed to where I had a panoramic view of the town. I sang out loud as I hiked as a precaution, and rattled my spork against my water bottle from time to time. I'd forgotten my bear spray, oh lordy, but thankfully there were no bears. Not a track. Not a scat. Ahh.

The Purtiest Cottage in Pagosa Springs

I walked around the back side of the town for a bit, as I wanted to get the flavor of what the residents did. On that walk, I met stopped in front of a log cottage that had a pretty wildflower garden. The owners were a delightful couple and I enjoyed my time talking with them. They were retired and building a house on the mountain, which certainly spoke well of the environs. His wife and I were wearing the same shoes, which both of us found somewhat hysterical.

Shoe Soul Sisters!

I also discovered a neat dojo on the same street (and this one's for you, Meadow Moo!) that would have been an interesting stop if it had been open.

Peek into the Pagosa Dojo

Back in town, I had a great bacon, eggs and avocado breakfast at The Rose Cafe. I spent more money in Pagosa on lodgings and food than I had on ten nights in the state parks, about $250 total (have I mentioned that I've been on a budget of $30 a day, plus gas?) but I enjoyed myself immensely. I stopped to photograph the cool truck I saw outside of a sporting rental place. If I'd had one more day, I would have let the sweet and informative guy at Pagosa Outside take me tubing down the river. Alas, it would have completely blown my budget, but it may well have been worth it!

Totally Tubular!

The San Juan here at Pagosa wound and gracefully gurgled through the town with small rapids kicking up sprays over the rocks here and there. People picnicked and played happily on the banks right up until dark, I noted. I had to remind myself that I was now in The West. There were a lot of Texans in this town for some reason and I must say that the men in the west have this kind of rugged, Robert Redford handsomeness that can only be acquired by really being in the outdoors. I'd almost forgotten that at one time in my life I'd had an obsession with cowboys. But that, as they say, is another tale . . .

The Absolutely Adorable Couple from Denver
Rosemary and Kristian Strubb

Antique Store in Pagosa Springs

I met Lori and Jay Powell at The Rose Cafe where I ate breakfast one morning and Rosemary Strubb and her husband, Kristian, who were originally from Denver but now lived in Texas, while walking through town, where just for fun I window shopped and poked into antique shops (one had an entire basket of Texas license plates). It might have been fun to collect something like license plates from each state I've visited, but so far all I've taken aboard are a few art pieces and . . . rocks. They seem to me to embody the soul of each place, so I try to gather a few pebbles as I go.

As my token evening glass of wine kicked in, I considered what a fine time I have had here in Pagosa . . . already a great memory. Some of the route tomorrow promises to be easy. When I reach Durango and begin my climb into the mountains, well, that will be another matter.