VERONICA KUFFEL

Departure Log 3:

The Desperado’s Borrowed Bike – Grand Junction, CO

OCTOBER 28-30, 2022

“Across the Rolling Hills (Padmasambhava)” – Peter Rowan Bluegrass Band, 2010

And so continues the tale of the longest day of the adventure.

Where we left off, I was crossing the Wyoming border into God, cow and tractor country. Past the Black Hills was a return to more bare land, except here, bone white rock bubbled up with hints of aforementioned red sandstone.

I noticed a pattern as I headed southwest. The further you go, you still get the usual open plains, but gradually, they appear more rugged in stature. The unshaven legs of the Wyoming valleys were sprouting in shrubs, long grass and the occasional dead trees–all natural and in all its glory.

As I stopped in Cheyenne for gas, I watched the grizzly mountain men fill up their pickups and order licorice and peanuts at the counter. There’s a lot of respect there and a little bit of gender envy for the rugged woodsmen of the west.

Twenty minutes south of the capital and I can make out the Rockies. I pass the Colorado border after two tumbleweeds cross the highway in synch.

I was a little put off by the state sign… I didn’t like how it says “Welcome to Colorful Colorado.” Sure, Colorado is colorful and all, but the state sign is a dark brown. When it comes to these signs, my criteria is simple: it should convey the vibe of the state. Consider Wisconsin’s–it looks like your wood-working grandfather built it and its his magnum opus, the best he’s ever carved. It’s simple, clean and reflects what the state makes me feel.

Now consider South Dakota’s–it’s a metal sign with a colorful image of Mount Rushmore. I was pleasantly surprised, it was more than I expected. This made looking at Colorado’s dull brown and white sign very underwhelming.

I digress.

I stopped in Boulder for lunch and to pick up a book I’m reading with Reilly. Unfortunately, they didn’t have it in stock, but I found a beautiful copy of “Classic Krakauer” and picked it up with a few matchbooks.

After, I sent a few postcards and called Dean as I ate my sandwich on Pearl Mall. It’s my usual meal–a turkey and cheese sandwich with mayo and spinach, followed by handful of cherry tomatoes and two pickles. My drink of choice is usually a lemon-lime Bubblr or a white Monster Energy Ultra. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a square or two of dark chocolate on me to snack on after.

Not going to lie, it was pretty fun making eye contact with people paying $25-30 for a meal and drinks. Here I had a beautiful three-course hobo lunch for less than $8. What a life to live!

Because of Walie’s difficulty with mountains, my initial plan was to drive around the Rockies. What had escaped my mind was the fact that stopping in Boulder meant going through them was inevitable. This realization came even after multiple warnings of snow in the area.

The cold front aside, I was surprised how well my Little Engine did and I had very little problems. I’m thankful for the gift–driving around the mountains would have been much more bland.

The Rockies are truly a testament in east to west travel. Watching the snow-covered mountains and trees turn into blistering red rock and faint shrubbery brought me solace as I descended. It emphasized the fact that it was no longer cold where I’m going. It will be desert, usually void of snow and chill minus those harsh barren nights.

The mountainside foamed with what looked like the covers of bulging books against the sun. Who knows what stories they held, because with decades, even centuries of observation, there’s bound to be a few.

I glided down into Grand Junction with ease, but my day was far from over. My other high school friend, Ellen, had a clinical for her grad program and lived close to downtown.

She informed me that the last citywide bike night would occur 30 mins after I arrived. Of course, as soon as I got there we emptied my van of contents and threw her bikes in.

It was Halloween-themed, and we promptly dressed as Yzma and a desperado. We skirted to a stop near Main Street a few minutes late and biked our way to the long line of wheels and handlebars.

The streets were then filled with costumes and lights and rigs of all kinds. A couple speakers played different genres, and depending on your mood, you biked closer or farther away. Our bikes were way too large for us, but we didn’t care. I sprawled forward on my temporary ride, arms outstretched in a superman-style position.

My back hurt for a few days after, but it was worth it.

Soon after, we grabbed food and went to a Halloween party and a few bars. The only casualty would have been Yzma’s eyelashes, but luckily a stranger joined us in the bathroom and happened to work at a salon. She set her fakes with nimble fingers along with a lecture about proper lash etiquette.

The next day was filled with good food, a tour of town and a pleasant hike with a cliff view. Carvings of names and places dated back to the early 20th century, and we breathed in the mix of desert dust and wild sage.

I collected a few plants and rocks as we climbed across the cliffs. We brewed a few crazy ideas like the old days, including a rage canyon. Imagine a rage room, but it’s a canyon with a concrete bottom. You’d throw your stuff (somehow sustainably and ethically) down to the bottom to be swept up at the end of the day. Very cathartic.

We joked about Ellen’s mountain goat club, where she took her expertise to a herd of goats who only invited her to their hikes because she brought good wine.

It was good to laugh and reminisce with a good friend. I was very grateful to have visited both Ellen and Bridgette on my trip, especially since the remainder would be in solitude.

I pulled out of her driveway with a smile on my face and a few tears in my eyes. The past is so chaotic, but it has its moments. Beautiful moments. I let it pass by with my window down, catching the scent of juniper and pine on the way out of town.

It was time to look ahead. So much had happen, but my adventure, of course, was just getting started.