High in the Rocky Mountains above Colorado Springs lies Mueller State Park. The 9,000+ elevation forced a turtle’s pace as we adjusted. Our campsite overlooked a dense forest of conifer and ponderosa pines alive with the hammering of a Williams sapsucker woodpecker, chirps and squawks of chickadees, bluebirds, and stellar jays. Campsite hosts, a pair of fearless gray jays, kept us company throughout the afternoon.
T-shirts and shorts were exchanged for winter coats the day following our arrival when a freak early September snowstorm sprinkled five inches of snow. High altitude caused problems within our propane heating system making for a couple of very chilly nights. So, hearty campers that we are, we moved down the mountain.
Having planned to visit the Royal Gorge anyway, we set up base camp in Canon City, but opted out of strolling across America’s highest suspension bridge due to frigid weather. My Southern California blood has never adjusted to winter temps, so Jerry and I embarked on a train from the 1880s Santa Fe Railroad Depot. Over eons the surging waters of the Arkansas River cut a deep ravine forming cliffs over 1,000-ft tall. Rails paralleled the rushing waters past sites where silver and lead ore miners once toiled and beneath the swaying bridge high above.
An altered itinerary only blessed us with a few hours to tramp a portion of Garden of the Gods in Manitou Springs. Sauntering past astounding red sandstone formations given names such as The Three Graces, Kissing Camels, and Cathedral Spires humbled our prideful souls. With a wide variety of paved paths and hiking trails beckoning, we’ll be certain to pass this way again.
Glacier Basin Campground in Rocky Mountain National Park didn’t provide many amenities—no electricity or showers; restrooms closed due to Covid-19; and campfires prohibited due to massive wildfires throughout Colorado. But none of that mattered when compared to its fantastic, picturesque setting. Chains of mountain ranges blanketed in lodgepole pine, douglas fir, and quaking aspen encircled our valley.
Among the Swiss Alps-looking pinnacles blustery winds swirled powdery snow across three glaciers and alpine tundra.
Free shuttles offered transport to several hiking trails and lakes enabling us to sit back, enjoy the passing beauty, and search for bighorn sheep. Jerry still hadn’t acclimated to higher altitudes. We limited ourselves to tramping fairly flat perimeters of pristine Bear and Sprague lakes while keeping an eye and ear out for whistling yellow-bellied marmots, meeping pikas, and growling black bears. Breathing deeply of crisp, pine-scented air invigorated while extraordinary views around every bend captivated.
One afternoon in the wide golden meadow of Morraine Park the antics of two elk herds entertained. Dueling bulls clashed antlers, alternately posing and chasing one another, competing for females. Offspring munched grass, unconcerned, near a bubbly brook as their father’s calls rose to high-pitched squeals before dropping to grunts.
At day’s end we’d lie back in outdoor recliners, bundled in quilts, and turn faces upward to diamond-studded blackness. The Milky Way’s brilliance humbled us; silence cleared the chaos in our minds; and solitude brought renewal of body and soul. We departed these majestic mountains on Route 34, following Big Thompson River strewn with boulders and fly-fishermen in waders. Chiselled granite walls rose like a fortress on both sides descending through the gorge. I have no doubt we’ll return to this primeval paradise where eagles soar, elk bugle, and the wilderness whispers its secrets.
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