Travels with Sinbad: Motorcycle Journeys, Part 2

And the adventure continues . . . Creede, Colorado, is just as appealing as I had always imagined—a small historic mining town situated at the mouth of a magnificent red rock canyon.

Creede, Colorado

Strength and energy emanated from the sheer, wet canyon walls and they shimmered in the crisp air as I parked Sinbad and looked around. Wonderfully restored buildings, some upscale galleries, and a collection of the usual tourist shops lined the short main street. I checked into the Old Firehouse Bed and Breakfast (a renovated firehouse now called the Aspen Inn). My room is furnished with antiques, the floors are dark, stained original planks, and the bed is dressed out in blue-and-white linens including a fluffy comforter and stacks of pillows. Everything is spotless, and the bathroom is stocked with piles of terry towels.

Downstairs is an old-fashioned ice cream parlor where you register and where breakfast is served each morning. The proprietor, when I was there, was Katherine Brennand, a woman from El Paso whose family has long ties to Creede. She oversaw all of the renovation process herself, including doing much of the manual labor. I had dinner across the street, and then walked around looking in the shops and galleries. I find when I am traveling alone, I interact with people along the way much more than when I am with a group. You hear some amazing stories about how people come to live in a small, isolated community like Creede.

I had planned my trip purposely to be there for the full moon, but the sky remained overcast until about three in the morning, when it shone brightly into my room, waking me. I gazed at its luminous face floating through shredded clouds and thought about how much I was enjoying myself and my biking adventures, how unexpected it all was.

Next morning dawned brightly sunny and warmed my shoulders as I cleaned the mud and road grit off Sinbad, took a couple of photos of him with that imposing, cinnamon-toned canyon in the background, had breakfast, chatted with Katherine, packed up and headed out. Back in South Fork, I filled the tank and rode south to Wolf Creek Pass on Highway 160.

Wolf Creek Pass, Colorado

Wolf Creek Pass, at 10,850 feet, is stunning! Wide sweeping turns and great road conditions—the views were so incredible that I finally pulled over to fully enjoy them—they are too special just to glimpse as I pass. Looking over country like that where so many historic events took place; where Native Americans lived and thrived for centuries; where pioneers passed through in their push toward California; where cowboys still herd cattle, tourists ski, and thousands share the natural beauty of the region with an abundance of wildlife is like taking a long, cool, refreshing breath of pure oxygen. It clarifies your lungs, your mind, and your heart.

From there through Pagosa Springs and into Durango, the weather was hot and summery and I was loving it. It was one of those days like melting chocolate savored on the tongue, when you know it won’t be long before the passes are snow-laden, when the perfect riding days before winter sets in are numbered.

Speaking of summer, that was the end of it for that trip! After lunch in Durango, I saw what looked like rain higher up in the mountains toward Silverton where I was headed, so I pulled out my rain gear and suited up. It began to rain shortly after I set out, turned colder, then all hell broke loose as the skies opened and the road narrowed, twisted, and turned. Huge rock walls rose to my left and, to my right, the sheer precipice left little room for emergency maneuvering.I slowed down, telling myself I had dealt with rain before and could deal with this. By the time it became apparent this was no passing squall, I was at Molas Divide (10,910 feet), more than half way to Silverton, and the thought of trying to make a U-turn in the middle of that tight road on rain-slicked blacktop with low visibility for approaching cars seemed much worse than just continuing on. What had been a heavy steady rainfall became a forceful downpour, turned to pea-sized hail pummeling me from every direction.

Thunder boomed and echoed off canyon walls, with lightning cracking immediately after. Adjacent to a huge outcropping slightly overhanging the road, a rumble reverberated overhead and I was sure it would all come tumbling down and crush me. It wasn’t a rock slide, thank God, but thunder so close it shook me in my boots, followed instantly by a crashing lightning strike in the canyon to my right that raised the hair on my neck! It was all I could do not to drop the bike and just curl into a ball in the middle of the road. I tried to stay slow and steady, talking myself through, looking for a place to take shelter. When I rounded a curve thirty minutes (and a lifetime) later, and saw Silverton below me, I felt saved. I was soaked through, miserable, and considerably shaken. There was no way I was going any further.

I checked into the Teller House. Although the clerk eyed me with suspicion as I traipsed to the front desk in dripping boots, hauling leather and gear, they were kind. My room was a haven; looking out the window over the main street, I was so happy to be warm and dry. A hot bath was just the ticket back to feeling pretty good about my survival and ready to explore.

Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad

Silverton is the home of the Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad —I later heard that the track had washed out in the storm and the daily train had to return in reverse all the way back to Durango. It continued to rain and by the time I headed over to the Handlebar Café and Saloon for dinner, my hair was sticking out in a frizzy jumble a foot around my head. One of the positive things about riding for me has been letting go of unrealistic concerns about my appearance when on the road. I have gotten comfortable with my often messy, dusty, sweaty self—my flattened or frizzed out hair, makeup long gone. I let people see me just as I am and I have set aside a lifetime habit of self-consciousness.

After such an adventurous and challenging afternoon, I can only tell you that the babyback ribs were that much sweeter, the pale ale colder, slightly biting, and it all went down easy.

Tomorrow would bring Red Mountain Pass (11,008 feet) and the so-called Million Dollar Scenic Highway—and the word from the locals was that they were blasting up there even on Saturdays and drivers were experiencing up to an hour-and-a-half delays, that the road was only one lane wide for part of the way and there were tunnels. Not a recipe to encourage a good night’s sleep, especially if the rain continued. Hmmmm. Wasn’t sure what to do—riding back the way I came didn’t really appeal to me either.

I hit the bed early and tried to read, but I was so exhausted the book kept falling out of my hands until finally I surrendered. Several times during the night I heard the rain continuing to beat down on the roof and against the window panes.

When I woke, it was foggy and still raining lightly. I tried to call the Sheriff’s department to check on road and weather conditions but got a dispatcher in Durango who said, “It’s fine here!” and who didn’t know squat about anywhere else (which did not prevent him from giving an opinion). No one I spoke to seemed to have a clue. I guess if you are not crazy enough to get on a motorcycle in this weather it’s not an issue.

Time to ride--

[TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK, MORE ADVENTURE TO COME]