By Bill Deverell
Day Four. Spent the night in Grand Junction, Green and Colorado River country. Hot and dry. Dinner at a pub in Grand Junction’s old downtown. A bit of Dublin broke out while we were there: an eight-piece band playing traditional Irish music. Gave the evening an added dose of cheerfulness.
Up and out pretty early, climbing towards the canyon country of the Colorado River near Glenwood Springs. A quick stop in Palisade, heart of the state’s peach-growing country to fill the car up with a box of peaches, sweet and tiny plums, peach salsa, peach and jalapeno jam, and some rhubarb jam. The plums went fast. Palisade is a beautiful little town, hard up against sheer canyon walls and mesas, drawing, I suspect, all its irrigation from the Colorado River. The peach grower I talked with said that the water rights for his orchard went back to the 1930s, and that his neighbor grower had rights that stretched back to the early 1900s. Irrigation canals cut from the river crisscross the landscape, and the valley that Palisade sits in looks like a plein air painter’s paradise.
Arrived later in the morning at Glenwood Springs, home to the famous hot springs and “the world’s largest hot springs swimming pool.” The town is tucked in the canyon and sits directly atop geothermal activity that bubbles and boils water from down below. Sulphur, rotten egg smells mingle with the gurgle of the springs. The springs at the Glenwood Hotel have been a tourist and health seeker attraction since the 1880s – people come from far and wide to sit in, and even drink, the warm water. The notorious gunman, gambler, and dentist, John “Doc” Holliday, died in this very hotel, tuberculosis (and hard living) having caught up with him at the young age of 36. His was an extreme case – he was an unusual figure in the Old West, a dentist and a killer. Legions of “less colorful” seekers showed up in Glenwood Springs to take the waters, to look for temporary convalescent care in the post-Civil War era when the nation and so many of its people were wounded and broken. My son and I took the waters, and I admit that I wondered if Doc Holliday would have liked the great water slide we rode with exuberance over and over again.
Glenwood canyon was, as ever, beautiful. The Colorado River crashes down right alongside I-70. We saw dozens of rafts, one dowry, one surfer, several kayakers, and lots of people fly fishing in the spots where the Colorado runs slower and deeper.
We drove on past Vail and Copper Mountain and on through Summit County, a part of Colorado I know well from summers and winters of my youth. On through Frisco and Breckenridge, towns I first got to know when they were still nearly ghost towns of the mining past. Now they bustle, and we got stuck in a tiny traffic jam in downtown Breckenridge. Up and over Hoosier Pass, through the tough little towns of Alma and Fairplay. Across the open-space, treeless flat of South Park (the famed and ribald cartoon series draws its name from right here), and then into Colorado Springs from the backside of Pikes Peak. Now we are here for a few days, and I will be interested to see how this city has changed since I grew up here decades ago. It is a curious place.