Not that we haven’t met our share of unique people on this trip, but Walden, CO, just south of the Wyoming border, takes the cake. It all started with my arrival at the Granite Corner RV Park, which turned out to have exactly three RV spots off a side street—not an amenity to be seen. The camp host showed me to my spot, then mentioned that the RV next to me was supposed to be gone by now: did I want that spot? Since there was a 30-foot RV in the way, I declined, and proceeded to set up.
As soon as the host left, the RV’s owner appeared, weaving his way over to me for a chat. If the unsteady gait hasn’t clued me in, the glassy stare and the alcohol fumes would have confirmed his state of inebriation. Without Russ, I felt a bit uneasy, and excused myself as soon as possible. I took my dogs out and was greeted by a pack of loose dogs from across the street, all barking and running toward me. I sternly ordered them to go home. The owners appeared, an older couple, both paramedics. They and the dogs were friendly. They were very familiar with the occupant of my neighboring RV, and reassured me that he was ‘harmless.’
When Russ arrived, the host Shelly and her husband, deputy sheriff Kenny, offered to let him put his bike in their garage. We accepted, and had a conversation with them about my neighbor. They also let me know that we’d probably meet another neighbor, Bruce, who never appears outdoors without a full face mask, dark glasses, and military-style hat. He, too, was apparently ‘harmless.’
Sure enough, the next day, after we’d toured the Arapaho National Wildlife Refuge, ‘Bruce’ appeared. He quickly let me know that he: a) could not tell me his full name, but that I could call him Colonel or Allen(?), b) was ‘required by law’ to carry the pistol at his hip, c) was ‘owned’ by the State Department, and d) that the satellite signals met over his house. (Apparently, that was a pretty tame introduction: he didn’t even tell me what a genius he was, or that he would tell me his mission, but then he’d have to kill me.)
Meanwhile, the owner of the RV park, who was apparently in Texas, kept calling, wanting to know every detail of my interaction with the owner of the delinquent RV, and pledging all manner of legal actions against him. Since Kenny the deputy sheriff seemed unconcerned with the whole situation, I was dubious about her promises to have him removed.
We went to dinner at a local wood-fired pizza place and now apparently we know half the people in town (one of the paramedics from across the street was there and introduced us). He was also there the next day when our inebriated neighbor called the ambulance to take him to the hospital for his back pain.
And I nearly forgot the loose horse that appeared out of nowhere, trotted up the street, and turned into the barnyard of the paramedics’ house. Not their horse, apparently: the wife simply closed the gate and kept it in their pasture until the owner showed up, which happened soon after. The owner captured the horse, which was apparently enjoying its ‘field trip’, after some chasing around, and finally drove off into the sunset on her ATV with the horse in tow.
(Not to ignore the Arapaho Wildlife Refuge: it was great, even if I did spend six hours searching for the moose that were supposed to be plentiful there and never saw any. There were lots of pronghorn antelope and waterfowl, and we had a great time watching the antics of the ground squirrels and prairie dogs.)
