In Nederland every March, they celebrate “Frozen Dead Guy Days” with a weekend-long event honoring the dead guy who remains cryogenically frozen in town.
In the middle of July, Telluride celebrates their “Nothing Festival,” a weekend event celebrating absolutely nothing.
Out here in Fruita, we have the annual “Mike the Headless Chicken Festival.”
The event celebrates the life of a young rooster that had its head cut off but refused to die. The repentant farmer kept the bird, feeding the feathered survivor with an eyedropper. The rooster lived for 18 months in his headless state.
Fruita’s noggin-knocking event features a pancake breakfast (we didn’t attend), a 5K run (we didn’t suit up), a disk golf tournament (we left our Frisbees at home) and a car show featuring some pretty attractive machinery (we didn’t enter our trailer-towing truck).
There were vendors (mostly selling clothing items), food trucks, a beer tent and a grassy lawn with a stage featuring concerts by local musicians.
We caught Stray Grass, our favorite local blue grass band along with Head for the Hills, a blue grass band from Fort Collins.
Between sets, we slurped down brews from one of the local brew pubs. Hitting the roach coaches for dinner, Dianne ordered a barbecue pork sandwich while I honored the festival’s origin with an order of chicken wings (chicken heads was not an option).
After three weeks into our new house, it was time to take a break and go on a four-night camping excursion. Our destination was Stagecoach State Park, which lies a few miles south of Steamboat Springs. We would be joining a pair of fellow Colorado Mountain Club (CMC) members on an unofficial social outing sponsored by the CMC’s Western Slope Group.
Our original plan was to take the trailer, so we booked an electrical-hookup site. After spending almost eight months in the trailer since September 1st, we thought it might be more fun to camp in the tent and try out our new inflatable mattress. A look at the predicted temperatures (lows in the 20s) changed that plan. So, we loaded our trusty domicile on wheels and headed up.
Like most Colorado State Parks, Stagecoach surrounds a reservoir, this one the result of a dam plugging the Yampa River. The reservoir is large enough to allow motorboats and waterskiing, none of which was happening in the cool, pre-Memorial Day time we were up there. We saw only anglers, kayakers and stand-up paddleboarders out on the water.
Even though this was not an official CMC trip, I anticipated it would involve three days of peak bagging. Fortunately, the other couple were not gung-ho peak baggers, which left us pretty much free to do what we wanted. We started by checking out some of the more affordable properties in the area.
The first day, Dianne and I drove up through Steamboat Springs, gagging on all the new development that is (to borrow a phrase from Utah writer Jim Stiles) morphing the Steamboat at the speed of greed.
After trying to spot the ski area from behind all the new condos, we headed north through the ranching town of Clark and on to check out Pearl and Steamboat Lake State Parks for future trips. Pearl was closed, but we did get a glimpse of Steamboat Lake and surveyed several attractive campsites there.
The next day, Dianne and I along with fellow CMC member Becky Gray hiked the five-mile Elk Run Trail along the southeastern side of the reservoir. We saw nary an elk running or otherwise. Becky’s husband, Chuck, provided Uber service for us, driving us back to the dam where we parked our truck.
On our final full day, we wandered around the park capturing photos of the reservoir and the tailwaters below the dam. It’s quite possible that this trip will hit the pages of a springtime edition of Colorado Life Magazine.
Driving back to Fruita on Interstate 70, it hit us that this was the first time we were actually heading home by driving west on this portion of the highway. Traffic was relatively light. I can only imagine what it would been like heading into Denver at the start of this three-day holiday weekend.
We did a walk-through of our new house on Monday, May 2nd, and closed on May 3rd. We’re missing a few pieces like the decorative front door window, the gate to the patio and the epoxy coatings on the garage and patio deck concrete, but we don’t care. We’re finally in our new domicile!
On May 4th, we moved everything from our largest Fruita storage locker over to our new garage. On the 5th, we celebrated Cinco de Mayo by moving our trailer over to the Village RV storage lot.
After the required Cinco de Mayo burritos and maggies at one of our favorite Fruita eateries, we spent our fist night in the new dwelling. Lacking real furniture, we bunked down on our newest tent-camping investment – a large, inflatable air mattress.
On Saturday, we made a drive over the hill to Gridlock City and bunked down in a La Quinta motel near our storage lockers. On Monday, the movers arrived and began loading up two trucks with our furniture and boxed belongings.
After saying goodbye to our longtime wine guy (we’ve been buying wine from Will since 1984) at the neighborhood liquor store, we put Denver behind us and drove back to the Grand Valley.
The movers showed up bright and early on Tuesday morning to unload the furniture, boxes and 300-pound log table. We now had a bed on which to sleep.
We also had a garage filled with boxes and more boxes in totally unsorted stacks. I spent an entire day emptying everything out and repositioning the boxes by contents and destination.
Unboxing items has been an adventure in discovery. Dianne found her REI (Really Expensive Items) down jacket that she feared had been stolen. I found my missing ski clothes, which I had to replace here in Fruita so I could ski last winter.
We also discovered that our wonderful Sony TV was not going to function after bouncing around in moving trucks. No problem, we replaced that old 40-inch Sony with a new 65-inch model. Wow, what a difference.
Of all the things we admire in our new house, the 40-bottle, dual-temperature wine cooler stands at the top of the list. With a little careful shopping, we’ve managed to fill it with some nicely fermented grape products.
We have a new rule in the house – other than finishing up opened boxes of camping wine, only bottled wine will be served in this house.
We were scheduled to close on our new house yesterday, but that needed to be postponed because the gas company couldn’t find a meter to install. As a result, we had to pay for another week at the RV park.
We went out to visit the property this morning and found a brand new gas meter installed on the side. The last hurdle has finally been lept. It’s now a sprint to the finish.
Monday, we should be able to schedule a closing date and soon thereafter move into our new hovel. Dianne is pleased.
Today, Dianne and I joined six others on a Colorado Mountain Club loop hike up Flume Canyon in the McInnis National Conservation Area. The outing was led by one of our soon-to-be neighbors from the village.
Our route up was by the Inner Flume Trail, which follows the creek along the base of Flume Canyon. Dianne and I tried this route a few years ago, but we had to turn around when we found the trail blocked by a growth of poison ivy. The ivy hasn’t sprouted leaves yet this year, so we had no issues this time.
It’s quite pretty down in the bottom of Flume Canyon. At least I think it was pretty. I like to hike slowly and absorb the environment. Our CMC leader had us sprinting right along, so views and photos were limited. Dianne and I may head back down there next week with the big camera gear and just wallow in the scenery.
The trail up the inner canyon came to an abrupt end at the base of a huge pouroff. After an in-and-out water stop, we dropped back down the canyon a short distance and followed a trail up onto the rim.
From there, it was up and down over hill and dale as we followed the trail above the rim of Flume Canyon and back to the trailhead. The Garmin said I’d covered 5.77 miles and burned 798 calories on the three-hour hike.
To make sure we got those calories replaced ASAP, we all headed into town for pizza and beer at Hot Tomato.
Back when we hiked out of Reno, everyone stopped at some predetermined restaurant for food and brews before heading home. When we hiked with the CMC out of Denver, nobody ever wanted to stop after a hike or climb. I don’t know if it’s because Front Rangers are more stuffy or maybe they just wanted to get an early start battling the Gridlock City traffic. I hope the après-hike dining practice continues on future outings out here.
A week before we returned to Fruita, we were told that our scheduled closing date of April 22 might be delayed. It seems that gas meters are in short supply.
After setting up the trailer in our old spot at the Monument RV Resort, we drove over to take a look at the house. We were quite disappointed at what we found.
On the plus side, the siding is almost completed, the flooring and tile is mostly finished and the granite countertops, faucets, toilets, dishwasher and microwave have been installed. And that’s about it.
The rest of the appliances sit in the garage, presumably waiting for the gas to be hooked up. Until the appliances are moved out, the epoxy coating on the garage floor can’t be done.
The electrical hasn’t been completed, the HVAC hasn’t been piped in, the cabinets haven’t been completed and the patio fence waits to be erected.
The biggest disappointment is the granite countertops, an upgrade for which we paid a hefty upcharge. There’s a huge defect in the granite right in front of the kitchen sink. It’s gouged and looks as if it had been burned. It will have to be replaced.
We’ll talk to the builder on Monday about some of these issues and try to find out when a gas meter might be coming. Because of the delay, we’ll have to reschedule the movers, keep our storage units for yet another month ($560 per month) and continue renting a site at the RV park ($375 per week).
You would think that after spending 165 of the past 177 nights bunking in our trailer, all we would have to do to leave is simply hook up and go. It’s proving to be not so simple.
For example, we’ve got to remove all of our “winterizing” modifications. The skirting has to be taken off and pitched into the trash. The cover over the air conditioner needs to be removed. The heated water hose needs to be packed away in our storage unit.
The freshwater tank needs to be sanitized with bleach. The water heater anode needs to be replaced and water in the water lines needs to be blown out so the pipes don’t freeze up in transit.
Since we’re going to Arizona where it’s warm, we’ll need to ditch our cold weather clothing and pack up shorts, t-shirts and Tevas. We’ll need to stock up on beer, wine, food and toiletries to last until we get to the Phoenix area. Both propane tanks need to be topped up. Did I mention we’ll need to stock up on beer and wine?
We’ll be doing all that with great big smiles this weekend. After months stuck at an RV park, we’re finally going to go “camping” again.
Over the years, I’ve taken many well organized motor coach tours. This was not one of them.
It began in Casablanca, Morocco, where I had a day to spare. Considering alternatives for passing the time, I ended up choosing an all-day tour to Marrakech. It would not allow much opportunity for exploration, but at least I would get a taste of Morocco’s red city in the desert.
The trip departed in predawn darkness. Bleary-eyed and caffeine-deprived, I stumbled aboard the idling bus. Grabbing a pair of empty seats near the back, I curled feline-like into a dozing, semicomatose ball. I failed to notice that a speaker hung immediately overhead.
“Nice to meet you all,” an amplified voice boomed inches from my ear. “My name is Mohammed. I’m your guide.”
Perhaps in his 40s, Mohammed stood six feet tall, sported a bushy mustache and wore a blue sharkskin suit. Like a hyperactive child, he yacked nonstop for the entire four-hour drive to Marrakech. Although we mostly heard about his friends, siblings, home, education and pet dog, Mohammed did relate a bit about this North African homeland. We found out about meats in the local diet, received lessons on how to make couscous and learned that the average Moroccan consumes 80 pounds of sugar annually.
“That’s why our women are very fat,” the guide snickered.
Mohammed’s favorite subject was polygamy. Under Islamic law, he said that a man can have up to four wives. His neighbor, he boasted, has two spouses and 24 children. Twenty-three are boys.
“The daughter, of course, does all the work around the house.”
A passenger asked the guide how many wives he had. Mohammed stammered, then admitted he possessed but a single spouse.
“One wife is good,” the man rationalized. “Two wives is problem. Three wives, more problems. Four wives is war.”
While the guide bantered, I stared at the countryside flashing by. At first fields and farms lined both sides of the highway, but the cropland soon merged into desert. Unlike the dune-draped landscape depicted in “Lawrence of Arabia,” this part of the western Sahara looked more like Arizona with rolling hills, rock outcropping and barren mountains. Sheep and goats foraged among prickly pear cacti. The same spiny plants served as living fences around the isolated Berber home sites.
By midmorning, the salmon-pink buildings of Marrakech loomed into view. With its core dating back nearly a thousand years, the city presents a fascinating homogenization of old and new. Modern apartments stand near timeworn hovels, and Mercedes sedans share the pavement with donkey-drawn wagons. Passing columns of cars, carts and camels, we arrived at our first Marrakech attraction, the Ménara Gardens.
“I beg you to stay together in one group,” Mohammed pleaded. “If we lose somebody, it will take three days to get him back.”
The Ménara Gardens feature over 200 acres of olive orchards, flowers and shrubs, but we scarcely saw any of them. We came to view only the site’s 12th-century swimming pool.
“Quick. Out of the bus,” Mohammed prodded.
With the speed of a Florida recount, 38 passengers oozed from the coach. Marching armpit to armpit, we followed our leader toward a rectangular pond spacious enough to hold a quartet of football gridirons.
“Before the Moors invaded Spain,” Mohammed told us, “they needed to teach desert soldiers how to swim. So they built this big stone pool. Now I show you surprise.”
Our guide tossed bread into the opaque water. The chunks floated like marshmallows in a cup of chocolate.
“Watch!” Mohammed smiled.
Nothing happened.
“No. You watch.”
After a 90-second eternity, a foot-long carp surfaced. Like a junior version of jaws, it lunged at the drifting delicacy. Its piscine partners soon joined the fray. In one brief feeding frenzy, the morsel disappeared. The show was over.
“Everybody, back on the bus,” our drill sergeant ordered. “Hurry. We have other places to go.”
We continued to the Koutoubia Mosque. Also completed in the 12th century, this structure replaced an earlier mosque that occupied nearly the same spot. In an engineering snafu reminiscent of today, it turned out the original house of worship was misaligned with Mecca.
“Let’s go,” Mohammed commanded. “Five minutes to get beautiful picture.”
We dribbled out, dodged traffic and walked to where we could view the 220-foot-high minaret. When new, plaster and decoration covered the tower. Now weathered nude, its walls exposed pinkish sandstone underpinnings.
“Everybody get photo? Good. Now, back to the bus.”
Turning to leave, we ran straight into three men dressed in red sequined with polished brass cups. These were the famed water sellers of Marrakech. Historically, the vendors peddled precious liquid squirted from a bag. Now, they profit by posing for pictures. I removed my lens cap and reached for a few dollar bills.
“No time!” Mohammed shouted as he shooed them off.
The tour proceeded to the Bahia Palace built in the 1800s. Empty now, it was once home of the sultan’s vizier, or “prime minister” as Mohammed called him.We blitzed down passageways and through courtyards, gardens, pavilions and reception halls. Although now in need of restoration, the edifice with its carved and gilded Moorish ceilings, must have once looked more ornate than the Playboy Mansion.
Mohammed led us into the master quarters. With the fervor of the “National Enquirer,” he revealed how the former owner had four wives and dozens of concubines. Grinning, he explained how a bedroom band would play for each soiree, their backs discretely turned. It sounded like the legend of an Arab Hugh Hefner.
Our next stop was the Saadian Tombs, a necropolis dating back to 1557. Stone-covered graves lie in a quiet enclave shaded by trees, shrubs and rosemary hedges. Two pillared mausoleums extend beyond. In this, one of the most visited shrines in Marrakech, we spent 15 minutes.
“Now we go shopping!” Mohammed announced.
Our guide marched us down side streets and into an alley that doubled as the local urinal. Through an unmarked door, we walked into a rug shop.
“Good buys here,” Mohammed hyped. “Go sit.”
My cohorts and I dutifully planted ourselves on benches. While women distributed cups of mint tea, a master salesman and his assistants tossed rugs across the floor. The brew was sweet and the designs exquisite, but I wanted to meet people. When Mohammed looked away, I escaped.
In a small square behind the shop, five boys played with string-thrown tops. Two younger girls watched from an apartment doorway. I held up my camera, seeking permission to take their photograph. The older girl smiled, then started preening her sister’s hair for the picture.
The boys soon came over. The older one, a lad of about 10, showed me his soccer cards and told me the names of the players. At least I think that’s what he was saying. I didn’t understand a word, but that didn’t deter our conversation. I let the kids look through the camera. They giggled, excitedly hogging the viewfinder.
The tour spent more time in the rug shop than at all previous sites combined. Clearly, Mohammed wanted his commission maximized. I rejoined the group after the last passenger finished negotiating her purchase. Only when we finally departed did one man discover that his wife was missing.
“Don’t worry. We go to lunch now,” the guide blithely announced. “I know how to handle this problem.”
The husband and Mohammed’s local assistant went to find the wayward woman. The rest of us headed for a tourist restaurant. Inside, a trio of bored musicians played while we devoured salad, bread, chicken and couscous.
A busty belly dancer followed dessert. Practically popping from her top, she swiveled and gyrated to Moroccan riffs. Nearly every male had a camera flashing or camcorder rolling.
After lunch, we visited Place Djemaa el-Fna, the city’s bewitching central square. The place buzzed with life. Local men and women, garbed in full-length robes called djellabas, sauntered by. Scarves covered women’s heads, and veils often hid their faces. Capping the men, I saw more fezzes than at a Shriners’ convention.
Snake charmers, monkey handlers, storytellers and scribes entertained on the cement. I watched one young man perform with cobras and a pit viper. He draped the reptiles over himself and kissed their fanged heads. The charmer hammed it up as I snapped gift photos for my snake-hating friends.
I wanted to wander farther and visit Marrakech’s famed souks, the city’s winding market alleyways crammed with merchants who boisterously hawk wares. But, Mohammed would not allow it. Twenty minutes after we arrived, the trail boss started herding us toward his motor coach corral.
“If we leave now, I can give you an extra half hour in a fine shop,” Mohammed offered. “Fixed price. No haggling.”
Reluctantly, I reboarded the bus. At least with Mohammed busy compounding commissions, I might still enjoy one final unguided encounter in the magic of Marrakech.
Years ago, my favorite motel chain was Motel 6. Besides Magic Finger beds, they had cheap rooms where a night’s stay came cheaply. Since then, my favorite motels still have numbers as part of their name. My preferred motels now are Four Seasons and Super 8 – Four Seasons when traveling on OPM (Other People’s Money) and Super 8 when paying with my own dimes.
Since we don’t have a Four Seasons in Fruita (and we’re not traveling on OPM), we opted to spend the night before our Great Arizona Escape Trip at the local Super 8. The idea was to have the truck gassed and the trailer ready to go with hoses detached, slide out in, beer in the fridge and plumbing blown out before our departure.
We got up early, enjoyed a fantastic Super 8 waffle, picked up coffee at Starbucks and hit the road by the crack of 9:00. By then, rush hour traffic had cleared, and we didn’t even have to wait for anyone in either of the two round-abouts separating us from the Interstate.
Nineteen miles later, we entered Utah, hightailed it to the Cisco cutoff and followed the former Grand River toward Moab. Clearing the town made famous in Jim Stiles book “Brave New West: Morphing Moab at the Speed of Greed” we headed south through Monticello and Blanding and on to Bluff.
There we made our obligatory stop at Twin Rocks Trading Post and Café for Navajo Tacos, which consists of chili, cheese,salad and salsa on top of a huge patty of Navajo fry bread. That was washed down with some good Utah brews, which now real beers and not that 3.2% near-beer they used to serve in the Beehive State.
We got to Monument Valley early in the afternoon. In spite of enthusiastic directions screamed by someone who I believe is Wrong Way Corrigan’s distant relative, I took the correct turn to Goulding’s campground.
After spending the winter in cold, cold Fruita, it was nice to walk around in a sweatshirt and watch as the sun bathed the nearby cliffs in warm afternoon light.
Since we had a large lunch and would be going on a thought-provoking tour the next day, we dined on a bag of Smart Food that evening.
