Rocky mountain high
THE past 12 months have been a funny old time for the United States. We’ve seen highs, we’ve seen lows, and bits in the middle that could yet turn out either way. But bear with me if I sound like a Fox News anchor — because I’m going to tell you of one thing which will endure about America, one inalienable truth that will never change in the good ol’ US of A. And that’s that the Rocky Mountains are the best idea America ever had.
Best viewed from the very wonderful state of Colorado, the Rockies are the backbone of America — running down the centre of North America from Alberta in Canada to the Rio Grande in New Mexico.
So central are they that there’s a line that geographers trace along the spine of the mountain range, and every drop of rain that falls to the east of that line will eventually run into the Atlantic — while every drop of snowmelt falling to the west will inexorably run into the Pacific. They call this the Continental Divide and it splits access from sea to shining sea more accurately than any cartographer’s rule.
Oh, the truly awesome state of Colorado. And oh to be there in the warm autumn days when the leaves are changing. It’s so beautiful that you’ll find yourself whispering.
Of course, when approaching a mountain range as massive as the Rockies, your first question is how to get up the damn thing. We were using a car. And not just any car, but a cherry red Ford Mustang with a soft top. Sure, it can mark you out as a tourist on a road trip in fantasyland — but you’ve got to look the part.
We were driving north on Route 550 on roads built in the 1880s, hewn out of the side of the mountain and crossing high passes at altitudes of over 3,200m. Yes, two miles high. Luckily when driving north you’re on the inside of the road, beside granite peaks and above small towns with vague dreams of grandeur but nothing more than a roadhouse, a gas station, or somewhere to get a coffee and something nice for the special horse in your life.
There’s a strange small town magic in these small roadside attractions. The smaller the place, the more you want to stop; the more you stop, the longer the road gets.
The sun was falling as we rolled up to the Red Arrow Motel in Montrose — our small town for the night.
There are basically two reasons for visiting Montrose. In daylight hours there’s the Black Canyon of the Gunnison — so-called as its gneiss walls are so steep that the deepest gullies of the chasm cut by the fast-flowing Gunnison River get only 33 minutes of sunlight a day. But there are lovely treks down into the canyon, shaded from the sun by head-high gambel oaks and junipers.
The other reason for visiting is the Dark Sky Park. The Black Canyon preserves a primordial dark sky with very little light pollution. Astronomers reckon that looking with the naked eye from a built-up area you can see 500 stars at most. But in the Black Canyon you can see 15,000 and your eyes drink them in. There are only 40 or so dark sky parks in the world (two in Ireland) and you should put some on your bucket list.
After such a star-crossed evening, a leisurely late breakfast is your only man — and nobody does breakfasts like Americans do breakfast. Pancakes! Heap ’em high. With maple syrup please. And why not add strawberries, blueberries, whipped cream and nuts? Or for those who prefer a more savoury start to the day, try the bacon, hash browns, eggs over easy with lots of toast. Rye bread please. Or maybe sourdough. Why not both?
And then back behind the wheel, and back to the road, letting the magic of a Colorado road trip unfold. By now we were long off the multi-lane interstates and the fourlane freeways, burning up the miles on a two-lane highway with the car now pointed towards the town of Snowmass. Fighting back the urge to dawdle, we rolled up mountains and coasted down valleys, making time.
Snowmass is a small winter resort town, only 10 miles from Aspen and just up the hill from Woody Creek — former home of the late gonzo journalist Hunter S Thompson. We’d arrived right in the middle of the Snowmass Balloon Festival and had dreams of floating high above the mountains.
We were told to be down at the softball field at 5am sharp the next morning if we wanted a chance of a space in a balloon basket. And we wanted that, so we checked into the luxurious Timberline Condominiums for an early night. But do such things really exist? After a quick hot chocolate, we played with the controls of the leather La-Z boy chair, flicked through the 5,000 or so TV stations, walked out on the balcony to be stunned by the brilliance of the night sky, ran back inside to warm up at the stove... in short, early night? Dream on.
But we made it to the softball field, and followed a posse of likely looking characters into a clubhouse which we found to be filled with balloon pilots of all shapes, colours and creeds. When it was announced that an Irish couple were looking to hitch a ride in a balloon, there was a race to claim us for their basket.
After that it was a hazy early morning rush, a lot of deep breaths (it takes a lot of puff to blow up a basket), and the next thing you know we were floating a mile high into the Colorado skies.
In a hot-air balloon you can control height, but that’s about it. So to go in a certain direction you go up or down to try to catch favourable gusts of wind, and we soared and dipped around mountain tops and over ridiculously palatial homes, eventually looking for a fair wind to bring us home. We even considered landing in the grounds of one particularly big mansion — only for local air traffic control to call us up and warn us off.
‘Burly security men talked meaningfully into shirt-cuffs...’
Down below, in the gated mansion, we saw burly security men scurrying about, talking meaningfully into their shirt-cuffs — and though we wondered who lived there, no-one seemed willing to tell us.
We landed instead in a non-threatening car park, where the security detail were just a few bemused householders and kids dressed in superhero costumes, delighted at what the sky had dropped into their backyard. We were too. Hot-air ballooning is fun.
As we were in the skies in the morning, we had to aim for the water in the afternoon — whitewater rafting on the Colorado River with local guides from Blazing Adventures. First the safety drill: helmets on, lifejackets too, then on to the water and paddle like crazy into the rapids — and wait for the splashdown. I’ve always loved messing about on boats, but this reminded me of what it felt like as a kid going on the merries. Again! Again!
After the rapids, it was an easy float back through the canyons — getting us back to Snowmass just in time to get dolled up for dinner at the Eight K restaurant in the Viceroy Hotel. And oh my god... words would almost fail me. While it’s called Eight K because it’s 8,000ft above sea level, this very stylish restaurant is ground zero for high mountain cuisine — so locally sourcing the best organic food goes without saying. And the happy memories are free.
Particularly memorable was the heritage pork chop, the size of a small car. And it was Homer Simpson delicious, glazed in cane syrup and served with spaghetti squash — all sitting on a bed of cipollini onions braised in sherry. It also came with a salad — but with pork chops this size, who cares?
Early next morning we moved on towards Aspen, and en route stopped off at the Woody Creek Tavern for a bowl of breakfast chilli. While my preconceived notions of what Hunter Thompson’s local bar would be like positioned it as a place of strong whiskey, wild tobacco and heated political dispute, it turned out to be a very different fish. Organised groups of 60-something cyclists in lycra onesies were drinking sug-
‘The colours ran from dappled green to chrome yellow to deep orange...’
ar-free lemonade under umbrellas. Hmm. Not a trace of cynicism to be seen. Hmm. So we joined in, got some sugar-free lemonade, bought the T-shirt, and headed for Aspen.
As we drew closer to the town, the number of lycra-ed up cyclists grew. You see, Aspen is not just a winter resort, but a year-round destination for anyone interested in the outdoor life. Whether that means gentle hikes through rugged botany, hill climbs on racing bikes, rugby (yes, in the USA) or just frisbee in the park, they like the outdoors.
In fact the hotel we were staying at — the Limelight — likes the outdoors so much that they have their own dedicated summer adventure concierge (a dislocated Clareman, no less) who can organise treks, tours and hikes for you before you arrive at the hotel — so you’ve not a minute of your holiday wasted.
That evening we were walking through the foyer of the Limelight Hotel, when a lift door opened — and out walked a golden retriever. And here I must stop for a moment to explain the cultural jaw-drop concept of dog-friendly hotels: they’re hotels, and you can bring your dog too. It sounds simple, and it is, but the difference it makes in creating a friendly atmosphere is huge. It brings guests together, you find yourself chatting to people in lifts, smiling at strangers and petting their mutts. (No Donald Trump jokes here please.)
The summer adventure concierge said we should visit the Aspen Centre for Environmental Studies and join a guided hike up the mountains — a wonderful suggestion, as it means you get the local wisdom on the most suitable trails and don’t end up wandering off to be a bear’s dinner in the wilderness.
We hiked high above the town, and developed a fine appetite for a visit to Meat & Cheese — a farm shop and restaurant where we were spoiled forever by the short ribs rubbed in coffee and chocolate served with a warming espresso polenta and sweet potato crisps. As a concession towards healthy eating we added some southern style collard greens with ham hock, onion, and crispy pancetta to the table — and when the waitress heard we were Irish she brought out some Gubbeen cheese. All the way from West Cork!
Before we were off again we had to make a big decision: which road to take to cross the Rockies? As it was September and the leaves were changing colour, we elected to drive Independence Pass — the highest paved mountain pass in Colorado. A good call.
We switchbacked up the pass through a dense forest of aspen trees, where the colours ranged from dappled green to chrome yellow to deep orange. It was an utterly glorious drive, climbing ever up the western side of the mountain range — until we broke through the treeline and found ourselves in the open grassy expanse of the alpine tundra. Ahead we saw the sign for the Continental Divide, so we pulled over and could trace along the ridge of the mountains the spine of North America. Your heart would skip a beat.
How we managed the next 100 miles without stopping at every chance to marvel at the magnificence of these mountains I will never know. But we did, stopping — by chance — in the small town of Leadville, only to discover the Victorian opera house where Oscar Wilde performed to the silver miners on his 1882 tour of the USA. I was brought on to the stage where Sousa performed, examined the trap door down which Houdini disappeared, and was shown the ropes of the boxing ring in which Jack Dempsey fought. So much history, and so little time.
With all these roadside attractions, it’s a wonder we reached Estes Park by nightfall, pulling in to Murphy’s River Lodge where we turned off the car’s engine to be greeted by the gurgling of the Fall River running nearby.
Estes Park is a small lakeside town right on the edge of the Rocky Mountain National Park. It’s a great place to stay if you’re visiting the park, which you’re going to want to do — but not all in one day, mind.
At 450 square miles, Rocky Mountain National Park is the mammy and daddy of all parks. It’s filled with elk, bears, moose, coyote, bighorn sheep, mountain lion and bobcat. It’s got lakes where you can fish, swimming holes where you can splash about, and a million trails where you can hike and discover the true meaning of the word awesome. A visit to the park ranger centres will get you oriented, and help you choose what you want to get from the park. Believe me, you’ll need their guidance — and a jeep trek through the park is highly recommended.
Back in Estes, we made time for breakfast at the historic Stanley Hotel, which overlooks the town. The fame of the Stanley Hotel is not just down to their wonderful breakfasts. In 1974 writer Stephen King came to stay a couple of nights and so smitten was he by the gothic atmosphere that it inspired him to write The Shining. His room was 217, and if you want to experience those literary ghosts, you should book well in advance.
Our time in Colorado was coming to an end, but we’d one more town to visit — and we’d saved the best for last.
Welcome to the town of Boulder! The town that Trump would like to ban! It’s a liberal place where people cycle everywhere, a hi-tech town, a university town, and is much beloved of serious athletes who love to train in these high altitudes. And oh god, does that show.
Everywhere we went we’d never seen people looking so fit. We went for a small trek in Chautauqua Park at the foot of the Flatirons, a series of slanted sandstone formations that slope up out of Boulder’s foothills. And as we were huffing and puffing our way up a steep three-mile trail, a woman — possibly a 60-year-old grandma — came jogging past us... smiling. The fitness I could stand — but to be smiling too?
The town centres on the pedestrianised Pearl Street — a great place for shopping, strolling and just hanging out. Best of all though was the discovery of a Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream parlour — and if you think it tastes good from a tub, wait until you get a sundae here.
But sundaes are the least of Boulder’s foodie charms. Right around the corner from the Hotel Boulderado where we were staying was the Bramble and Hare restaurant — and this is where the magic happens. It was to be our last night in Colorado, so we set out to do justice to a pepita and sunflower seed risotto with black garlic and pistachio nuts, some crispy squash blossoms with goat’s cheese and fava beans, followed by roasted leg of lamb stuffed with pork sausage and pistou — all prepared with locally sourced food.
And so it was goodnight to Boulder, and so long to Colorado — best state ever.