I'd finally driven my 1986 Jeep Wagoneer into the ground.
I'd driven it over the Rockies and the Sierras and all sorts of lesser mountain ranges. I'd driven it to the second-largest meteor crater in the country, just past the oil derricks and the tumbleweeds outside Odessa, Texas. I'd driven it over the gaping maw of the Columbia River in Astoria, Oregon. Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Chicago, El Paso -- I'd driven it everywhere.
And before this particular day, the Jeep had never betrayed me. Never stranded me. I trusted it and knew its quirks and eccentricities. As beaten as my Jeep was (read: extremely beaten), I truly loved it.
On Cinco de Mayo, 2002, the Jeep and I were returning from a wedding in Manhattan (Kansas, that is) when the Jeep shuddered a quarter-mile before the Colorado Boulevard exit on I-70. It refused the gearshift and pounded my eardrums with an ominous knock. The odometer struggled to spin past 243,322.8 miles. It hadn't the strength -- nor did my bank account.
It was the end. The Jeep was officially done. If it hadn't been for my friend John's superlative mechanical efforts (and friendly prices), the thing probably would have died years earlier.
Instead, it had carried me tens of thousands of miles farther, to sights both awe-inspiring and awful. At the final count, there were over a hundred bumper stickers on the Jeep's bumper and gate and windows, advertising every place from Wall Drug and Yellowstone to Route 66 and Roswell (not to mention Motörhead and Ween). We'd been to them all.
This summer, I'm in possession of a more economical 1990 Volkswagen Jetta, which will have to do until I find another old Jeep. And in the meantime, in a requiem to my departed ally, I remember the top-ten road trips my now-recycled four-wheeler took across Colorado.
In the late 1980s, the Young family, who had been making a living in the San Luis Valley by farming a variant of fish from the Middle East, brought in a hundred six-inch baby alligators. Naturally, the Youngs assumed only a handful would survive, subsisting on the dead fish from the farm.
The Youngs were wrong. The alligators prospered in the geothermally heated 87-degree waters, sunning themselves atop snowbanks during the winter. The baby alligators are monsters today, topping out at about seven feet, and the Colorado alligator farm has emerged as a leading advocate of responsible reptile ownership. For an added Old-West thrill, gator-wrestling classes are offered sporadically.
Colorado Gators is in Mosca, about seventeen miles north of Alamosa via Colorado 17. For information, call 1-719-378-2612 or log on to www.gatorfarm.com.
But for my money (and the Jeep's gas), the Black Canyon of the Gunnison is the steepest, most dramatic canyon in North America. The avian ecosystem, Painted Wall (the height of the Empire State Building, times two) and isolated North Rim, where Joe Cocker recently closed his restaurant -- they all make the Black Canyon worthy of a visit. And yet, the Black Canyon of the Gunnison gets fewer than a half-million visitors a year, one-tenth of the folks who head, lemming-like, to Rocky Mountain National Park. It's the unknown gem of the national park system, and a real bargain at an admission fee of a mere $7 per car per week.
Screw Aspen. And Vail. And every other ski town in the book.
For my hard-earned petrol dollar, Leadville is Colorado's real mountain town. The highest town in the nation -- at 10,200 feet above sea level -- also has the richest history in the state. This is where Horace Tabor built his Tabor Opera House, where Baby Doe died at the Matchless Mine. The streets of Leadville overflow with boom-and-bust ambience; the surrounding area is packed with recreational opportunities, whether it's skijoring at the Winter Carnival or climbing Mount Elbert (the easiest fourteener in the state).
Bill Swets may have lost his hearing, but his creativity is at its peak. The Swetsville Zoo, his little-known contribution to the category of "Roadside Americana," is as inspired and imaginative as anything this side of Stanley Marsh 3. (The first person who e-mails me -- at email@example.com -- the correct bio of SM3 wins a free piece of third-rate travel literature from my bookshelf.) Crafted from abandoned auto and hay-baler parts -- and whatever else was left near the Swets's kitchen sink - this odd menagerie is worth a hefty contribution in the Swetsville Zoo's donation box.
The Swetsville Zoo is near Fort Collins, a quarter-mile east of the Harmony Road exit off I-25. For information, call 1-970-484-9509.