Total Mileage Travelled: 586

Destination: James M. Robb Colorado State Park

Purpose: Sit with the largest tree in Colorado.

Day One Route:

Home to 285 to Guanella Pass pause at Clear Lake

South to North following Geneva Creek

Guanella through to Georgetown Backway onto I-70 to Grand Junction, CO for the night.

It had been a long summer. I stayed at the house for most of it with jaunts into town for supplies and occasionally slipping deeper into the mountains for the sporadic fishing trip. I haven’t spent an overnight away from home for three months with the exception of evacuating for a wildfire that was moving towards the house. I don’t really count that as a leisurely or relaxing getaway. I live in a state that is a tourist mecca in the summer and it is hard for me to find the solitude I crave during that season. I usually hole up at home and save my free time for the other three seasons. Typically that falls between Labor Day and Memorial day when people move back to their normal rhythms of life.

The deep depression that took hold of me from winter till late spring left a lot of unfinished work that I needed to get a handle on before fall came. During the summer I had buried myself in work and shrank the list while looking forward to getting away for a drive after Labor Day and when the mountains got back to a semblance of their quiet space. I like that people enjoy nature but as I get older and crustier I don’t care for how some people conduct themselves out there. There is more trash, more noise, and more selfishness than I have seen in the past. A lot of people don’t know the ethics of being in wild places and these environments are suffering because of it. I told you I’m getting crustier didn’t I?

During my self-imposed summer isolation I started listening to audiobooks while I worked. I came across The Overstory by Richard Powers and it moved me. It engaged a curiosity that had become dormant and it made me think about the interconnectivity humans have with the natural world. In a lot of western civilization we have been groomed away from the natural world by our integration of technology and our concept of modernity. I of course listened to this while doing fire mitigation around my house so the irony isn’t lost on me. I never purported to be perfect. The significance for me in the story however was the idea of this transcendental and timeless space (compared to humans) that trees existed in. I had a feeling of this magic in Redwood National Park a few years back but Richard Powers put it into words that I couldn’t muster at the time. When someone is as depressed as I was this winter you almost pray for something magical to pull you out of the spiral and infuse you with hope. Typically, however you don’t have the energy to seek it out which is what has to be done, at least for me. Divine inspiration has never struck me or saved me without putting forth the effort to seek it out. All my travel plans start out grandiose. I was going to see the largest tree in every state, then it became flora, and then it became “I should start with Colorado”. A research wormhole set my destination as James M. Robb, Island Acres Colorado State Park. This was the home of the supposed largest living tree in Colorado, a Fremont Cottonwood. I booked a room at the Grand Junction Holiday Inn as an effort to commit to this trip.

The night before I packed up the truck with my go bag and some water and set a route. I wanted the route to traverse unknown territory. I was hoping to find something inspiring by taking the backway there.

In the mid-morning I struck out from home and made my way to US Highway 285. This was a familiar road being my main artery to get to most of my fishing spots. Sipping on my coffee I made my way to the town of Grant where I would make my first foray into the unknown. Grant is a small wayside town with a Motel that has the world’s creepiest liquor hut (I swear they have hostages in a hole in the basement), an avid International Motors Collector, and a Fresh Beef Jerky and Live Bait purveyor. I took a right at the Fresh Jerky and Live Bait signs and headed up Guanella Pass.

Make it stand out

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Guanella Pass from the south is a slow road with small houses and cabins flanking the roadsides for a little while until it breaks into the Pike National Forest and the houses fall off and became much more intermittent. After I let the person in the white Audi SUV that was tailgating me through the settlement pass I had the road to myself. A real rarity unless you are on dirt in Colorado. It was good to be back on an adventure. The road climbed and was soon flanked by heavy conifers and with a small creek that ran parallel to the road. I think it was Geneva Creek, it looked fishable and I added it to my mental map as something I’ll have to investigate more at another time. I could feel myself settling into this, solitude, a quieted mind just existing in the present. I made it up to my first real switchback that had a pullout at a vista point and stopped. I’m working on myself, I need to stop more to soak in the world. My programming of seeking constant progress is what’s really going to kill me.

The vista pullout afforded a view of the route I had driven up. There was an informational bulletin board describing the environment and the critters that lived there with a strange omission of the predators that I knew stalked them or of the bigger hooved creatures. It was a sign my third-grade self would have reveled in, the placard was resplendent with an illustration of the view I was currently seeing. A pee break in the shrubbery and I was back on my way.

Hand sanitizer is good stuff and should live in your gear. After a liberal dousing I fished a Bobo’s Lemon Poppyseed Bar out of my center console and commenced to nibble on that for breakfast. They aren’t amazing but I waited long enough to eat that I enjoyed it thoroughly. I needed to watch what I ate. During my depression I had gained 12 pounds and I was already fluffy before the increase. With a lap full of crumbs, I reached the summit of Guanella Pass and was surrounded by high meadows with a pond and the tree line in view. There are a couple of trailheads up there with ample parking, but I couldn’t tell you about the hikes I didn’t stop.

I continued north on the road, and this is where the switchbacks on the route are. Staying at the speed limit made quick and easy work of them. On the east side of the road there is the Green Lake Lodge, which looked nice enough but I was only ninety minutes from home so I would probably never stay there but would recommend it for an out of towner. Continuing the downside of the pass, the creek had gone muddy as well as one of the reservoirs. It looked like there was some potential quarry operation up there carving shit up. On the decent Clear Lake came into view and I pulled over. It’s a small reservoir but it’s supposed to have fish. I got out of the truck and looked for a likely spot to launch a kayak on a future trip. The air was clean and scented with pine. It was lovely. I had been living in a light haze of wildfire smoke that had moved in from the fires out west on the jet stream. The lake lived up to its name and was gin clear. It hadn’t suffered from the quarrying happening upstream.

Georgetown peaked out from the pines on my descent as I was preparing to link up with Interstate 70. Guanella Pass drops you right into the old part of Georgetown with a lot of the original main street converted into kitschy shops with punctuations of modern buildings. I drove through and merged onto the interstate. I had gotten a new line on my map by taking the pass and that was a success.

Climbing up out of Georgetown I entered the I 70 traffic and barreled towards the Eisenhower tunnel. I took some shaky images from the steering wheel while in the tunnel because I have this allure to liminal spaces, and I love photographing places where we aren’t meant to dwell.

Back on familiar footing. I drove without stopping until my bladder told me otherwise. I stopped at the Grizzly Creek Rest Area in Glenwood Canyon. The parking lot sits on the Colorado River and has a trailhead that leads to a paved bike path along the river. The river looked silty, but I thought if I brought a bike back through here loaded with fishing gear it could gain me some good access. Heading into the facilities it looks like you are preparing to enter a cold war era bunker with its brutalist design and façade but hey there’s a nice spot to hang out on top of the pisser with a view of the river. I mentioned how hand sanitizer is indispensable right? No soap in the can and the knowledge that everyone else touched that door handle on the way out made it the first thing I went for back at the truck. I brushed the crumbs of the seat and headed towards James M. Robb State Park, the home of my tree.

I exited at Palisade and decided to fill up not knowing how big the park would be and how far back the tree sat. The gas station looked like they blasted out a mountain to accommodate their truck stop and the lot was full of Harley’s. Either it was going to be a bunch retirees or a bunch guys pretending to be in a MC club. I needed gas and I’m an old enough looking that no one gives me a second look, so I pulled up to the pump and went about my business. While pumping gas I took notice of the bikes. They had California plates and these were what I called rider bikes. They weren’t gleaming and polished but had honest wear on them that could only be gained from use. I’m not a huge Harley fan more so because the stereotypes but I can appreciate an honest machine. Seeing that they rode in from California was pretty impressive, there were hardtails, bobbers, choppers, and some baggers in the mix of about 15 bikes and all the riders wore the garb of hard-working guys that didn’t buy into the consumer or outlaw regalia motorcycling. These were riders in their work boots, T-shirts, jeans, and flannels, cannonballing from California. They wore the heat and dust of the day like men of travel all bonded by their eclectic configurations of machines. It was a tribe, and I was envious. I wish I had a tribe and a motorcycle. Maybe someday I’d feel like I belonged to something. That was definitely an echo of my depression.

Inside the gas station it was one of those no-nonsense places with grease and oil stained linoleum that could never get clean and would be dirty again a day after it was. There was the coffee canteen, a hot roller protected behind the counter, dusty bags of snacks, and a faint smell of piss emanating from the can. It was real, it was perfect. I grabbed a Coke, Jalapeno Chex Mix, and beef jerky carefully checking the dates. I needed to have something more than just water and a bobo bar on hand. I wasn’t far from my hotel but I wanted to spend some time with the tree.

I was happy I suffered through the cold mountain morning in shorts and a pair of Chacos. The temperature when I left home was 50 dropped to 48 in the high mountains and was now 94. I peeled off the overshirt and was down to my tee when I got back in the truck. The park was just on the other side of the interstate and was empty save three or four RVers. The main entrance was open, but the park office was closed for the season. I was able to just go right in since I already had a season pass. I stopped at the bulletin board looking for mention of the tree but only found a list of rules and regulations. I circled the campgrounds looking for my tree, I drove both loops at a crawl to no avail, then I went into the common area of the park and looked for the biggest tree. I found what I believed to be the biggest tree in the park and I pulled up expecting to see a placard like in the images I had seen, but instead the base of tree was now flanked with two barbeques and no sign. I pulled images up and verified that it was indeed the tree I was looking for. It had the same trunk and limbs, so I took it for what it was worth. Having grown up in the fertile Midwest and having been able to travel I was honestly a bit underwhelmed that this was possibly the biggest tree the state had to offer. I had made the drive so I may as well sit under the thing and meditate on life. I grabbed my camp chair out of the bed of the truck and made to set it up. For some reason I was really annoyed by the BBQ’s. I couldn’t find a spot to setup without them in my field of vision. That annoyance, however, was short lived and replaced with another. I was instantly swarmed by a pack of voracious mosquitoes. I tried to mind over matter the situation, but it was a swarming the likes I haven’t experienced in years and me with all my exposed flesh was just an invitation.

I threw the chair back in the bed, and I retreated back to the cab of truck, scratching at my fresh bites. It was at this moment I questioned the value of the adventure I was on. This was the pinnacle and whole purpose, but it really left me lacking an awakening of any sort that I had primed myself to have. I drove around the park and looked at every bulletin hoping I hadn’t been mistaken and could find sign that this was in fact the tree I was seeking but there was no mention of it anywhere. This just led me to question the validity of this quest even more.

I left the park with a couple of photos and headed to Grand Junction. I made a note that this would not be a good place to camp due to the rampant mosquitoes and the insane amount of deet you would need to repel them.

I drove into Grand Junction and cruised around a bit trying to take in the town. It was a quaint town that had been polished and pushed into freshness. I noticed a line of division that the town’s chamber of commerce had made. The humbler, older, somewhat neglected residences had been sequestered to a patch close to the interstate keeping the retirees safe from potential near do wells but keeping a service work force close at hand to appease their needs. The town had its main street with its gastro pubs, spice shops, candy shops, etc.… ad infinitum, to be fair they also had parks, an art center, and a few museums. The town did consider itself a gateway to adventure, meaning the back country was the real draw and the rest was time killers between wilderness excursions.

I stopped at the Safeway Supermarket and grabbed a salad and sandwich from the deli and made my way back to the hotel. I had skipped lunch and only had some beef jerky to tide me over, so I was at the point where skipping a meal and tiredness culminate. In my room I ate only half of the food I picked up from the grocery store in case I needed more later, but I leaned into the Chex Mix and watched some TV until I fell asleep. The nap lasted from 3:30 to 6:30 with heartburn from the Chex Mix acting like an alarm clock. I let my fatigue overtake any plans I could conjure up for the evening, so I stayed in the rest of the night. I was thinking I might explore the area in the morning before the heat took hold. The Colorado Monument south of town and in the buttes looked interesting but I know I wasn’t in shape for that hike in that heat. Peering over my maps I vacillated between going home through the mountains or just taking the quickest route home on the interstate.

Day two route:

50 south to Delta

92 to Hotchkiss

133 North to Carbondale

I 70 to 9

9 to 285

Home

The drive home was sedate. I left the hotel early in the morning racing the sunrise hoping I would be in the shade of the mountains before it blinded me while heading east. I marked off some new routes that I hadn’t taken before on my map and settled in for the way back. On the way out of Grand Junction I took 50 south towards Delta and then 92 East towards Hotchkiss. I soaked in the desert landscape and buttes as I headed back into the more fertile mountains. 133 North and in Paonia I made my first stop at the Conoco Stop and Save and had the best breakfast sandwich I have had in a long time. You can learn a lot about an area at a gas station. In small towns they are usually the hub of activity. This one was no different. Friendly smiles and courteous people abound and some souls meandering in rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. I didn’t make it into the town center. I had grown fatigued from sightseeing at this point and was thinking of the quickest way home. Familiarity to the environment made it harder for me to discern the unique features. I entered a kind of fugue, becoming more a thing passing through an environment. The truck controls encompassed me as an operator. A singularity of movement. At Carbondale I decided to make haste and take I-70 for a while.

I know this is just a part of getting older but the character of mid-sized towns in the mountains is being lost. The architecture is becoming homogeneous with that of suburbia. Character is being driven out by cost and lack of imagination. A lot of novel architecture has disappeared or has never been made. There is a cultural need to create a façade of pleasantness and sterility that purports a concept of safety, but it has no heart. A planned community has less life in it than one that is thrown together of diverse personalities. I was getting grouchy, so I shot up to I-70 and quickly exited at 119, No Name. The world has a funny way of lining up to your mood. There’s another bunker style rest stop there, and I had to do a double take. It felt very familiar to the Grizzly Bear stop. My mind was too befuddled to put it together. Maybe I had come in the back way to the same place?

I went through another tunnel exiting Glenwood Canyon and bolstered myself to make a shift instead of sitting on the droning interstate. I was making haste, measuring time and distance. I quit seeing back in Carbondale and there was still more out there. Instead of the quick way home I decided to take the scenic way. Colorado mountain passes always have some drama and I need a jarring. I hadn’t taken Hoosier Pass in a few years, and it would help keep my trail from skirting the Denver Metro. I exited and turned towards Breckinridge. The town had been even more homogenized since I last went through. I didn’t bother stopping and just followed 9 south out of town. The camera was all but locked up by now. I had the singular focus of getting home, sightseeing be damned. Down through Alma and South Park City aka Fairplay I turned left at Prather’s Market and was back on familiar ground. 285 practically stretched to my doorstep and it was all about making the final miles home in one piece.

I got home around lunchtime.

I learn something from every trip and this seemingly unremarkable overnighter wasn’t any different. The motivation was kind of silly, to go and sit with a tree, but it got me out and looking. I went and did something I purely wanted to do and the reason only mattered to me. We are cajoled into thinking that we shouldn’t bother unless we are guaranteed an epic or amazing experience. Nothing is further from the truth. Quiet and reflective spaces are where we can hear ourselves and sometimes those spaces are boring. We can’t find what moves us in this world without getting into it. The more patterned we become the less we see. There is a blindness that occurs in familiarity, and I am well aware of mine, it takes a real effort for me to break out of a dismissive state in these places. I know there is so much more to these places but this trip I was tired and needed quiet. I took care of that need. In the future I would love to explore the buttes of the western slopes and fish the rivers and walk the towns, but it just wasn’t what I needed this time. There will always be failures of expectation and just some downright failures. It is up to us to make peace with them, grow from insight, and not let them define us.

In Search of the Big Tree - Overnight Trip

Southwest Loop - Multiple Day Trip