| A Colorado Vacation to Mesa Verde and Sand Dunes |
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By Doug Smith
Minneapolis-St. Paul Star Tribune Sheets of rain pounded the van windshield as we drove, white-knuckled, up the steep Rocky Mountain valley highway. Dark clouds clung to the jagged mountain peaks like smoke. The steady blast of water threatened to turn the roadway into a river. Already, the small stream that ran through the mountain pass alongside the highway had become a torrent. Could a flash flood wash us through the canyon like so much driftwood, I wondered to myself while the kids peered out the van windows in awe, blissfully unaffected by anxiety. "Cool," said my 10-year-old daughter, Lindsay. Welcome to Colorado. My wife, three daughters and I had been blindsided by one of the summer-afternoon thunderstorms that routinely roll through the rugged Rocky Mountains, Colorado's No. 1 attraction. After driving across the sun-baked plains from Minnesota, our goal was to explore hiking trails and campgrounds, stroll through picturesque towns and admire the alpine scenery. But, unbeknownst to us, the thunderstorm that greeted us our first day was a sign of wet things to come. Although it was the end of July, we encountered an inch of snow in Leadville. Pea-sized hail pummeled us while we hiked the trail down from Mount Massive. More rain in Buena Vista. The same in Ouray. Ditto for the historic mining town of Silverton, where rivulets flowed down the dirt streets. We even were stalled once waiting for highway crews to clear a mudslide caused by the frequent showers. "I'm sick of the rain," my wife, Mary Lynn, said as dark clouds moved into trendy Durango, where a waitress sighed, "It's been like living in Seattle." Our vacation was washing away and we had spent more time in motels than tents. There was only one thing to do: Forgo the jagged peaks, pine trails and sparkling mountain lakes. "Let's head south, out of the mountains," I suggested. "It can't be raining there." Next stop, Mesa Verde National Park in southwestern Colorado, where desert and mountains meet in the rugged plateau and steep-walled canyon country. Mesa Verde is Spanish for "Green Table," a reference to the tree-and shrub-covered plateaus. It is an expansive land of sandstone cliffs, yucca and prickly pear cactus, sagebrush and pinyon pine, juniper and brush oak. With 12,000-foot peaks in the distance, Mesa Verde is anything but flat. The park entrance road begins at 7,000 feet and twists through switchbacks along the rims of several canyons to the visitor center at 8,000 feet. High atop those rims you can see 100 miles into four states. The breathtaking views are, as my 8-year-old daughter, Megan, said, "awesome." The park, we learned, is one of America's most unusual, because it preserves the works of people. The Anasazi, forerunners of the Pueblo Indians, built an amazing array of hundreds of dwellings in and around the cliffs of Mesa Verde 700 to 800 years ago. Discovered by white settlers in the 1880s, the area of ruins was established as a park in 1906, largely through the efforts of a group of women who wanted to preserve the incredible cliff dwellings. Before exploring some of them, we set up camp at the park's Morefield Campground, nestled in Morefield Canyon. With more than 400 sites, the campground is one of the largest in the national park system. It never is full, but nevertheless regularly takes on the appearance of small city. As we erected our tents, a light rain began to fall, making it seven consecutive days of dampness. Though Mesa Verde normally gets only 18 inches of precipitation each year -- half of that in snow in the winter -- we learned brief afternoon thunderstorms are common here, too, in July and August. We shrugged off the rain and drove to the park visitor center, which provides an incredible vista of Soda Canyon. Then we hiked down to Spruce Tree House, one of the few dwellings that visitors can tour without a guide, though rangers are present to ensure no harm is done and to answer a steady stream of questions. The dwellings are made of sandstone blocks with a mud and water mortar. Some are several stories tall. Spruce Tree House has about 114 rooms and eight kivas -- round, ceremonial chambers. Like most of the others, it is built in the sheltered alcoves of the canyon walls. It measures an amazing 216 feet long by about 90 feet wide and was home for about 100 people. While we were impressed, it was the trek to and through another dwelling dubbed Balcony House that kept grins on our children's faces, and ours, too. It once housed 40 to 50 people under a sandstone overhang, 600 feet above the floor of Soda Canyon. The cliff overhang functioned as a roof, keeping the Anasazi -- and us -- dry from the rains. The tour is not for the faint-of-heart. We scaled a 32-foot wooden ladder to reach the main dwelling area, which includes a cliffside balcony and courtyard areas. A small wall is all that prevented the Anasazi -- and us -- from a fatal plunge to the ground far below. The meticulous stonework and wooden timbers impressed the adults, while the thought of living on the edge of a cliff mesmerized our kids. Our tour guide faithfully took on all questions, but because there is no written record of the Anasazi culture, some answers are only speculation. One mystery: Why, after living in the intricate cliff dwellings for only about 100 years, did the Anasazi pick up and leave by 1300? Did drought or a depletion of resources force them to move? Social or political problems? There are 24 American Indian tribes that trace their ancestors to Mesa Verde, and many believe there is no mystery: The cliff dwellers simply joined other tribes south in New Mexico and Arizona that offered a better place to live. Whatever happened, Mesa Verde offers an unparalleled glimpse at an ancient culture. Our visit ended with a crawl on hands and knees through a 12-foot tunnel, just 18-inches wide, then a 60-foot breathtaking climb up the side of the rock cliff, aided with a hand rail and toe holds, but definitely not recommended for those afraid of heights. "Don't look down," our guide advised. We didn't, until we were atop the rim of the cliff, near where we had parked. With our vacation nearly over, we wished we had more time to spend at Mesa Verde. But it was time to pack up our wet tents and head east. The trek across southern Colorado produced, well, more rain. Not just afternoon showers, but long, soaking downpours. We camped at a waterlogged but lovely U.S. Forest Service campground on the edge of a wilderness area, and attempted one last hike in the mountains. Clad in our well-used rain gear, we hiked around an emerald green mountain lake, then wound up in a valley on a trail that had become a virtual stream. After wading through puddles, flowing water and mud holes for a couple of miles, we surrendered and turned back. The kids' feet were soaked, and worse, their spirits were awash. The next day, we made a break for home. But as the mountains gave way to the plains, I suggested one last side trip before heading to Denver and the long drive to Minnesota. A friend told us that Great Sand Dunes National Monument was a little-known Colorado delight, and it was less than 40 miles out of our way. This was on the edge of true desert. Surely, it would be dry there. "I don't want to see a bunch of sand," said Kelly, my 12-year-old. For once her sisters were in unanimous agreement. "I'm not getting out of the van," Megan declared. "Me neither," said Lindsay. As usual, the driver won the debate. The kids still weren't convinced, even as we drove up the semi-arid San Luis Valley and approached vast, towering ridges of white sand that seemed out of place. The 39 square miles of dunes are framed to the north and east by the 14,000-foot, snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The dunes -- the tallest in North America at about 750 feet -- were formed over thousands of years by the nearly constant winds blowing sand from the nearby Rio Grande River to the foot of the mountains. The sun was actually shinning brightly when we arrived, and the sight of visitors scrambling up the vast dunes persuaded my kids to step outside. We shed our shoes and socks -- as did most of the scores of other visitors -- and crossed shallow Medano Creek, then hiked and galloped up the mountains of sand. The kids quickly decided they wanted to get to the top of one tall peak so they could somersault down the dune as other kids were doing. But the several hundred foot climb was much more difficult than it appeared. And the dunes are at an altitude of more than 8,000 feet, which can leave flatlanders gasping for oxygen. The constant wind sculpts the dunes in wondrously rippled patterns that change daily. Sometimes ridges were packed firm underfoot, other times they gave way and our feet sunk into the soft sand. It was dry and warm and felt wonderful on bare feet that day. Sand temperatures can reach 140 degrees on sunny summer days, hot enough to blister bare skin. It was an incredible, oversized sandbox that induced playfulness in adults and kids alike. But we also were taken aback by the raw beauty of the place. The dunes are intriguing and mysterious, with an allure that continually beckons; crest one ridge, and you'll want to hike up another. After exploring the dunes for a couple of hours, the sun slipped behind a swirl of dark clouds that threatened from the west. We retreated, having been warned by park rangers to get off the exposed dunes if a thunderstorm approached because of the danger of being struck by lightning. While no visitors have been hit, bolts sometimes zap the dunes, creating fulgurite, fragile glass-like chunks of fused sand. We were ready to head for home anyway. And yes, it rained all the way back. (Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service, www.shns.com. |
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