I left New Mexico from its top and Into the bottom of one of the three square states, Colorado.   First I drove to Up Top, Colorado, a ghost town, where they’ve stopped returning your texts. I chose tomove out of the wide valleys up into the mountains for the cool nights and dramatic canyon scenery. The availability of BLM camping sites had been a pleasure. The state was in the middle of an early heat wave breaking high temperatures records daily for March.

Fire restrictions were in force everywhere I went. Although the mountain tops still had some snow, the ski areas were closing more than a month early. They hadn't had any winter while at home in Maine it was still snowing.

The air was dry and I bought some Vaseline to line my nose, an old dust bowl remedy that keeps the nasal passages less prone to bleeds and cinder like accumulations.

News on the radio was all about the military strikes on Iran and the closing of the Straits of Hormuz. Vaseline cost a dollar more than it did a month ago. I regularly searched for the best gas prices which were up more than a dollar since I left Maine. I paid $4 a gallon one morning for the regular which is only 85 octane around here.

Octane is a measure of gas stability — how much compression it takes to ignite. At the altitudes in Colorado the octane of fuel is adjusted down to keep a carbureted car from knocking or pinging. By 1997, when The Bluebird, my ride and home, was built carburetors were replaced by fuel injectors so I should probably be buying the more expensive 87 octane. 

The trees were bigger, pine and aspens. The mountains were bigger — 54 peaks over 14,000 feet. The highest marijuana dispensary in the world is in Alma at over 10,000 feet. I didn’t get that high.

Views while driving were spectacular when or if I could take my eyes off the road as I wound through mountain passes. There was running water, something I’d missed in Oklahoma, West Texas, and New Mexico. Herds of Elk wandered through Evergreen and in the surrounding meadows.

 A friend’s horse ranch on Spring Gulch Road near Lyons was idyllic. High mountain meadows, hillside grazing, and spectacular views. The barrels of sand along the winding dirt road to get there bespoke winters that must be more challenging. 

 I went into the mountains as far as Rocky Mountain National Park where I spent a night. This park is just to the west of Estes Park.

Near Alamogordo is the Great Sand Dune National Park where about 10 years ago I got my lifetime senior pass to enter National Parks, which is a money saver. But now there are no rangers at any national park gates that I’ve visited.  I guess we have more important things to spend money on than employing park rangers. 

The roads into and out of Estes Park were dramatic. They followed rushing brooks walled by towering rock faced cliffs too tall and complicated to even attempt to draw in a 7-inch square. I could hardly find a place to pull off, sit and admire. Gravity was carrying me and the water downhill faster than I was comfortable with. Traffic piled up behind me. Alive, I was finally spilled onto the high plains.

Colorado is more obviously two states than any place I’ve traveled. Politics are just as divided. Dominated by the more densely populated areas of the Front Range (Denver and Boulder) the state has become pretty reliably blue. There are magic mushroom growers to supply the medical psilocybin therapists. There are Taoist retreats. Salida is overrun by bicyclists. McDonald’s senior coffee is $1.89. They’ve reintroduced wolves.

The high plains of the eastern part of the state want to shoot the wolves. They’re serious about their guns. In Windsor, a suburb of Greeley, I passed someone dressed as the Statue of Liberty walking up and down in front of a mini mall holding a sign that I couldn’t read. I didn’t turn around to find out what it said, but maybe I didn’t need to know. Windsor is now the home of Lauren Boebert. 

The roads on the plains were straight for miles, but half of them were dirt. In Briggsdale, Main Street is dirt.  So is First Street. And Second. They were the only streets. The driving was easy, the traffic light and the miles rolled by, but the free campsites in BLM land disappeared.

  Then it was back to a Walmart parking lot in Sterling. Senior coffee was back to $.89.  A car camper about six slots over had a queen sized mattress on the asphalt next to his car.  It didn’t look like the car had moved for a while. He must be waiting for the Straits to reopen.

  I missed the high lonesome BLM campsites.