After my day at the Gunnison canyon, which you can read about HERE, I didn’t take many photos. I was kind of killing time until I could rendezvous with a family member in the Great Plains of Colorado on Sunday. After my visit to Eastern Colorado, it was my intention to start booking it to New York (though I’d allow myself diversions eastward across America).

But there are worse places to kill 2 days than Colorado.

I woke up on Friday the 5th of June in the year of our Lord 2026 in the Gunnison National Forest of Gunnison County off Needle Rock Road, east of a place marked Crawford on my DeLorme Atlas. Needle Rock, the night before, was a narrow, dusty road that led me to the western base of the West Elk mountains, a fairly large range in the western third of the state. Obviously, the Elk Mountains are a testament to the large presence of elk in Colorado, which, to this day, has an estimated size of 280,000. Colorado has, overwhelmingly, the largest herd of elk of all 50 United States. But I saw none there.

I woke up in some tall grass meadow, parked on a kinda-sorta road that did not seem to get a lot of traffic – or any. That’s why I chose it. I didn’t think a soul would disturb me. One did not. A stillness city folk don’t know graced the air as I made my hobo coffee that morning. I always get excited as I pour out the last drop from my Japanese kettle. Then it was time to go.

My destination was Steamboat Springs. It’s in Northern Colorado, west of the Continental Divide. It sits near the headwaters of the Yampa, which flows westward into the Green River near Dinosaur National Monument, a splendid place on the Utah-Colorado line. I figured Steamboat would be a bit hoity-toity, or fake, like Sedona. But so what. I wanted to see the landscape. Thereafter, well, I didn’t know.

So, leaving that dusty meadow somewhere in Gunnison County, I rolled down the windows to let cool air blow smells out of my Tundra’s cab while hot black coffee poured down my throat. I don’t know if drinking coffee while driving in the morning is better than drinking alcohol while driving in the afternoon, but they both are enjoyable. (And, yes, I’ve enjoyed more than a few moments as an adult with a beer or wine in my hand while driving country roads. I don’t get drunk, but a buzz can be nice. (Don’t tell anyone though.))

At some point I crossed back into Delta County and got on Colorado 92, and took that north to Colorado 133. This part of Colorado is farm country. Rolling hills of green to the west were cut with rows of crops and orchards. Grok told me that Delta County is a big agricultural area with beef cattle, dairy, fruits, vegetables, hay, corn, poultry, sheep and nursery products.

It’s always cool to understand how locals economies function. Farming and tourism probably provide a comfortable stream of revenue into the local economy. Both had probably better do this, because I can’t imagine the property and other taxes the STATE OF COLORADO extracts from people here. It costs a lot of money just to be alive anywhere in Colorado. (Good gosh, I hate GOVERNMENTS.)

At the town of Hotchkiss, I got on CO 133. I could see on my DeLorme that the road was back going east into the mountains. At Paonia State Park, I could see County Road 12, which could take me into the Ruby Range west of Crested Butte, a range which a friend had told me is stunning. I don’t doubt this. But Crested Butte will be there long after I’m dead. Onward.

So past Paonia SP I drove, but certainly did look back upon that Ruby Range, tinted ruby, no doubt, by that same iron oxide west of the Rockies in the Colorado Plateau. The Rubies are big mountains. One peak rises over 13,000 ft. The majestic morning light glowing off snow fields still prevalent at the top is why I wrote God is in the mountains. I wondered how snowy those peaks were on June 5th 1986, or June 5th 1886. Indeed, there was likely far more snow in the 19th century than the 21st, and it makes me wonder about the history of Colorado glaciers, from then to now.

At some point CO 133 leaves the Gunnison Basin and Crosses into the basin of the Crystal River, which flows north from the renowned Maroon Bells, which are iconic mountains west of Aspen. Maybe the Crystal River is often crystal clear. Though, on this day, it was running a milky white color, with a higher level of flow no doubt because of the snowmelt of late spring. The flowing waters invited me to jump into them. Why not?

Cold plunges are invigorating. I knew those waters would be cold, but the greater the sting, the greater the invigoration. Plus, I could smell myself. A little soap in the right places and a river bath is as effective as any shower. Perhaps some Colorado fruitcakes would hiss at putting soap in the river. But my Castile soap is eco-friendly, and even if I were to have bathed in Roundup, meh. A tiny amount does nothing. To those who would say, “A tiny amount becomes a lot if everyone is doing it,” I say “meh.” 

Get a life (and, yes, I’ve talked with tree-hugging tards on this exact issue).

I’d done a plunge yesterday just north of Ouray. The Crystal River wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t as cold as the Uncompahgre. It did sting, but it was a lovely sting. A little soap and a minute in the cold, flowing waters, and I felt like a new man. I wouldn’t insinuate I’d jump into rivers in the dead of winter like mountain men and Indians woods, but… well… I have done exactly that around Sedona. So, yeah, I would do that in Colorado too. I don’t know why, but jumping into the streams of a land makes you feel more connected to it. It makes your time there feel real.

Pure Colorado.

Ultimately, I do cold plunges because they invigorate. The good feeling comes upon you after the sting is gone, and it came upon me en route to Glenwood Springs. Glenwood is on Interstate 70. I’d take 70 east a bit before heading north on Colorado 131 to Steamboat Springs.

133 ends at Carbondale, Colorado, and CO 82 is what takes you into Glenwood. At Carbondale, Colorado gets quite ritzy. Posh buildings predominate. Far away are the farmhouses of Delta County. But both are pretty. Just because a building is ritzy, posh, bougie or whatever doesn’t mean it’s not pretty. It is, and I would imagine Carbondale has had a few Rich Californians move into the area.

I bet they’ve also moved into Glenwood Springs (where Doc Holliday dies in Tombstone). That there is a pretty town also. There is serious wealth at Glenwood. Like Breckenridge, Aspen, Vail and the others ski resort towns, Colorado displays its beauty at Glenwood, and invites ritz-making capital too. Old Town Glenwood with shops and restaurants is the heart of the town’s tourism, and rightfully so. All Old Towns are pretty. Though, there, you pay a premium on everything.

I stopped at the Natural Grocers for supplies. While driving around Glenwood I observed the layout of the town in relation to the Crystal and Colorado Rivers. I did not walk Old Town though. I did that back in ’22, and was ready to move on.

I got on I-70 and headed east. Then I went north on Colorado 131. 131 follows the Colorado River a little bit, and I took some side roads here and there to get a better feel of the land where the Colorado River is building up steam after leaving Rocky Mountain National Park, where it is born, and where I intended to pass through on the morrow. The land is hard to describe. Small mountains and hills are here and there. Nothing spectacular.

I finally made it to Steamboat Springs. It’s a nice town. It too had ritz. It too had a premium on everything. Plus, there was a preponderance of pride flags. This always disgusts me.

Now it was past 2pn. I decided to have some green tea at Starbucks, and begin processing the many photos I’d taken over the past week. I’d not begun to process anything yet.

After about 3 hours, and beginning to feel like the many hobos that spend many hours every day at Starbucks, I drove around town, and decided that the plastic ritz of Steamboat was not interesting. So, I headed southeast on US 40, and found free camping right near the Continental Divide.

Because this was a Friday there were many people doing dispersed camping out that way at 9,000+ ft. But I found my spot, and slept wonderfully well that night.