News – Dan Leeth

Green River

Dianne, needing something to fill her retirement days, has started peddling nutritional supplements from LifeVantage. She had a meeting to attend in Las Vegas, Nevada, so we decided to hook up the trailer and take a long, winding way there.

Day one of our Las Vegas adventure began with a 90-mile drive from our home in Fruita to Green River State Park in Utah.

After setting up with electric and water hookups (no sewer hookup here), we dined at Ray’s Tavern, our favorite burger place in Utah. Ray, the original owner, is a distant cousin of Dianne’s but we still had to pay.

We downed our half-pound bacon cheese burgers with some Evolution Amber. Gone are the old 3.2 beer days in Utah. Beehive State brews can now have 5.0 ABF (alcohol by volume) content.

Back at the trailer, we built a campfire, downed small glasses of imported Spanish white wine and listened to trains occasionally whistle by. All were freighters – the 6:32 p.m. Amtrak hadn’t yet passed through by the time we headed to bed at 10:00 p.m.

We decided our layover day in Green River should be as unproductive as possible. That was a goal we easily achieved.

After a late breakfast (granola) in the trailer, we put on our TRs and hiked down to the John Wesley Powell Colorado River History Museum here in Green River.

They had on display a series of beautiful black-and-white photos of Glen Canyon shot before the damn dam was built and the exquisitely beautiful canyon flooded.

Before heading back to the campground, we stopped at the Invasive Weed (Tamarisk) Restaurant for a late lunch/early dinner. Dianne opted to go foreign (French dip sandwich) while I chose to have my favorite Indian food (Navajo taco).

No fire tonight – it’s too damn cold and windy out. We’ll just sit comfortably in the trailer with the heat on.

Tuesday – Salamanca

On the middle day of our seven-day cruise, we would not be cruising at all. The next dam upriver, the Aldeadávila Dam, is a huge, 460-foot-tall, gravity arch dam that has no locks. Thus, this is as far as most Douro River cruises go.

Instead of sailing today, we will be taking the bus (same driver, same guide) to the Spanish city of Salamanca where we will spend the day.

Unfortunately, the bus was scheduled to depart at 8:00 a.m., about the time I normally get out of bed. Fortunately, the boat’s coffee maker was working and breakfast was being served.

On our two-hour drive from Barca d’Alva, Portugal, to Salamanca, Spain, I stared out the bus window at acres of sunflower fields. This was scenery only a Kansan would love.

Arriving in Salamanca, we were given a time and place to meet for lunch and then set free to wander around on our own.

While most of our fellow passengers headed for city center, Dianne and I wandered down side streets past the Pontifical University of Salamanca.

We passed apartments with windowsills holding flower boxes and satellite TV antennas.

We passed decorative fountains where the water pipe stems from the character’s mouth.

We walked past businesses that might be worth a visit…

…and others that weren’t.

We eventually passed through Plaza Mayor, the main square in the center of town.

Here, dozens and dozens of empty tables awaited lunch-time diners.

Our lunch would come at a local hotel…

Where we were treated to a flamenco dancer show.

Audience participation followed the formal performance, with even the audio-operator’s young daughter joining in.

After lunch, we went on a short tour with a local guide. One of the things she showed us was how to find Salamanca’s famous toad and skull stonework on the wall of the university’s main entrance.

Given enough time, I probably would have maybe perhaps found this on my own, but it was a lot easier with our guide pointing out the location.

As for its meaning, she pointed out that the toad represents females and the skull connotes death. The message was that if students (all males back then) engaged in hanky panky, bad things would happen.

Another interesting piece of stonework our guide pointed out, was found on the side of the Cathedral of Salamanca.

Here, on the facade of this 400-year-old church, diligent observers will find an astronaut…

…and a dragon enjoying an ice cream cone.

The images, our guide tells us, were not 400-year-old prognostications of the future . They were actually added when restoration work was done to the church facade in 1992.

All too soon, it was time to return to the bus for the exciting, two-hour drive back to the boat.

Goodbye, Gridlock Gulch

After a lazy morning in the KOA, we headed toward Aurora, Denver’s biggest bedroom community. Our plan was to drive past our old home before stopping for lunch at our favorite nearby Mexican restaurant.

We lived in this home for 37 years, and over that time, we invested a lot of blood, sweat and beers trying to make it an attractive place to live. It looked pretty nice when our realtor took this shot in 2021.

It doesn’t look so nice anymore. Now, I don’t care what the new owners do to the place. I don’t live there anymore. My other half, however, was very disappointed to see weeds in the rock and plants apparently dying of thirst.

I hoped to console Dianne’s grief with some liquid refreshments at our old favorite restaurant.

Unfortunately, we found it closed and boarded up. It turns out that after we left town, they couldn’t handle the major drop in business. We visited their new location near a shopping mall on the south end of Aurora.

It was great to have something new for lunch instead of Dianne’s old standby.

Next stop was Boulder. Dianne wanted to get some new clothes for our trip to Portugal, so we stopped by the REI (Really Expensive Items) and Patagonia stores in Boulder.

Then it was off to the Bookcliff Vineyards winery…

…where we would meet many of our fellow Portugal river cruise passengers in the back of the winery. Should be a fun group.

Saturday morning, we got up late, devoured two of KOA’s pancake and sausage breakfasts, hitched up and began the 300-mile drive home. The first few miles into Denver went smoothly with the interstate crowded but moving.

Then we hit the traffic that gave Denver its Gridlock Gulch moniker.

It was bumper-to-bumper, creep-and-nogo for mile after mile after mile. It took 2½ hours to cover the first 70 miles.

Fortunately, we lost some of the traffic at Idaho Springs and by the time we cleared Vail, the interstate was back to being crowded but moving.

The scenery improved as we hit DeBeque Canyon. A few miles later, we were at home, sitting in our recliners with a bowl of popcorn and a chilled bottle of Bookcliff’s best.

Next stop, Portugal in 11 days.

Through the Straight and Narrow

On Thursday, we made the long 52-mile journey to Goblin Valley State Park where we were treated to an afternoon breeze that rocked the trailer and slid our solar panels around. It was a night for dining indoors.

Under calm conditions on Friday, we loaded our packs and set off to hike the eight-mile loop up Little Wild Horse Canyon and down Bell Canyon. This is a popular slot canyon hike with souvenir t-shirts available for purchase at the Goblin State Park Visitor Center.

I expected flat, easy hiking the whole way, which most of it was. There were, however, a few obstacles to crawl over or under. A couple required that we take off our packs.

We have hiking friends back in Fruita, transplants from the Midwest, who had never been to Utah before. On their first trip into 3.2 country, we drove them down along the Colorado River towards Moab. While they marveled at the beauty of the canyon walls, we assured them that while attractive, this was not the beautiful part of Utah. For me, the hike up Little Wild Horse and down Bell exposed a far more attractive, intimate piece of Utah.

We went from sandy wash bottoms to deep slots so narrow one could touch both sides simultaneously in places, sometimes with just elbows extended.

Canyon walls made faces at us with layers of swirling color and patterns.

In the wider spots, we could look up at cliffs, dolloped with greenery and radiating nuggets of golden rock against a sapphire sky.

We met dozens of youngsters (anyone under age 50 is a “youngster”) along the way. The only AARP-aged citizens we encountered were a pair of not yet retired, old coots who went part way up before turning back. As far as we know, we became the only geezers doing the complete eight-mile loop that day.

Back at camp, we downed brews while sitting trailer-side in the late afternoon sun. Yesterday’s wind was gone, replaced by just a gentle, cooling breeze. We watched the setting sun paint the buttes out to the east. For other folks, this place would be a vacation destination.

For us, canyons like these lie just a 2½-hour drive from home.

The Oregon Coast

Camping is about roughing it in nature. The guy in the half-million-dollar motorhome with the heated floors parked in the campsite across from us knows all about roughing it. He suffers from getting only 89 channels on his satellite TV, which he must watch on his RV’s tiny, 60-inch TV screen. For him, that’s roughing it.

For us, roughing it means no cell and internet coverage. To remedy that issue, we drove 14 miles down to Florence, Oregon, where the Verizon people have so nicely placed one of their cell towers.

We figured we’d just find a Starbucks, order a brew and a hot chocolate and sit there for hours happily sending postings from our hotspot-linked laptops. Unfortunately, the only Starbucks in Florence, Oregon, is a coffee counter located in the Safeway store.

Dianne suggested we head to the local library, which we did. We grabbed a table in the back where we could quietly type away on our laptop keyboards, reviewing and deleting hundreds of spam emails. The joys of 21^st century civilization.

Now, let’s talk food. Mo’s is a chain of seafood restaurants in towns on the Oregon coast, and their signs brag about their chowder. One of their eateries was in Florence and we decided to try it out. We parked in their lot and headed for the front door where a sign said “closed.”

Mo’s here no longer opened on Wednesdays and Thursdays. We had to settle for seafood at an alfresco table on a street in downtown Florence.

Giddyup to Gallup

I grew up in Arizona and spent a fair part of my youth exploring parts of New Mexico. I’ve passed the exit to Gallup many, many times when traveling I-40 from Flagstaff to Albuquerque. Other than filling the gas tank, I’ve never had much of a reason to explore the town.

As a travel writer, I’ve been invited to countless events where tourism reps from various places promote their properties by plying us writers with free food and drink. One such event was sponsored by New Mexico tourism. The young lady representing the city of Gallup made a big deal out of the El Rancho Hotel on historic Route 66, which she claimed was a popular spot for movie actors. We would check it out.

When we arrived, the parking lot was filled bumper to bumper with cars. We finally found a spot in a side lot next to a worksite filled with rolls of carpet.

Our second-floor room was spacious and had access to a balcony shared with three neighboring rooms. It offered an excellent view of HVAC ducting with the parking lot, highway and rail tracks beyond.

The bathroom was tiny, bearing a sink with no counter. The pitifully worn-out bathtub could have been a reject from the Bates Motel.

The hotel lobby, however, was a photogenic gem, the kind of place one would expect in a classic, Indian-country hotel. The restaurant beyond, was a bit disappointing, but the food was good and the margaritas drinkable. I had planned to order a good ol’ American breakfast there the next morning but ended up with breakfast enchiladas instead. The sausage and eggs would wait.

“How was your stay?” the young desk clerk asked when we checked out.

“It was okay,” I answered, refusing to say anything more.