Nothing I say about this place would do it justice. This canyon is up to 1/2 mile deep, and so narrow in places between near-vertical cliffs that you can’t see the bottom, even standing almost directly above it. They say some areas on the floor of this canyon only get a maximum of 3-1/2 hours of sunlight a day. That is some seriously deep canyon. No wonder they call it “Black.”

This is Pulpit Rock

and this is the view from there.

We saw Painted Wall, the tallest vertical cliff in the U.S.

We even got to see bighorn sheep!

My last day at Pueblo was a peaceful one (well, Russ was gone). I lazed about a bit, then took one last long, refreshing swim in Lake Pueblo.

My favorite swimming spot.

Moe was upset at being left in the camper alone, but I pacified him with a nice long walk in the evening. We came around to the far side of the camp loop, where there were a bunch of people having a lively party. I don’t mind the party—what I do mind is that I can hear their music clear across to my campsite. And, having just endured a weekend full of loud parties, I was possibly not as calm as I might have been. After I asked them to turn the music off, to my surprise, a woman who looked astonishingly like my godson’s wife Linda, put her arm around me and asked “Now, your name isn’t Karen, is it?” I sheepishly said no, and the whole dialog changed. In the end, I was invited to share the pot (sure) and the tequila (straight? Uh, no thanks). It was getting late, so I declined their invitation to stay and party. The music was turned off immediately, even though it wasn’t quiet time yet.

I did want to thank them for being so nice to me, but when I took Moe around for his morning walk, no one was awake. I didn’t think they would appreciate being woken up by some snippy nearly-Karen just to be told they were decent people. They were, and that interaction was a valuable lesson for me.

Driving to Elk Creek, outside of Gunnison, CO, I get a call from Russ, who has fallen behind in his schedule. He doesn’t think he can make it to Elk Creek in time—could I pick him up near Salida? Which I do. He had just stopped to take a shade break, and luckily I saw him and was able to pull over quickly. I gave him the rest of my cold soda, he packed his stuff away, and we were off.

To Elk Creek!

The difference between the first and second pictures was the difference between Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning. That’s smoke from multiple wildfires in Utah. So far, Moab and Arches National Park where we are headed next are OK, but who knows? We’ll keep our fingers crossed.

Sometimes camping (sorry: glamping) is a lot like being at home: food still needs to be shopped for, laundry needs doing, and Russ still needs attention.

But now he’s off for a three-day ride through Wetmore and Florence and one other place whose name I can’t remember, before joining me again at the Elk Creek Campground in Gunnison, CO. He finally took off at about 11:30; I headed in the other direction to do our laundry in Pueblo. Got back mid-afternoon, when the heat had me dozing for awhile. (I don’t mind this dry heat, but when the wind dies down it gets a bit overwhelming. And we don’t have electricity here, so no air conditioning.)

About 5:00 I roused myself, fed Moe, and then walked down the hill to a narrow cove of the lake just below our camp site. The water gradually petered out and we explored the narrow, twisting, dry canyon for quite a ways. Admired the beautifully sculpted sandstone walls and the hundreds of globular cliff swallow mud nests.

Once we made it back to the lakeshore, I stepped into the water just to enjoy the cool. Moe, straining at the end of his leash, declined to join me. I sat for a bit by the water’s edge watching birds doing their evening thing: common grackles picking along the shoreline for edibles, killdeer and a spotted sandpiper objecting to my presence, lark sparrows coming to the water’s edge to drink, western kingbirds swooping and diving after insects. I hoped this would be the evening a mule deer would come down the canyon to drink, but no luck (Russ and I have both seen mule deer close to camp). It felt good to just sit and feel peaceful.

(Did I take pictures, you ask? Why no: I have a bad habit of heading out willy-nilly; no preparation at all. The only reason I even have poo bags for Moe is because they permanently reside in my shorts pocket.)

Sun is heading down; dinner tonight is the last of the macaroni salad and a cold Dr. Pepper.

Great scenery!

AND I saw my first Bullock’s Oriole!

We checked out this rock point where I could go swimming our first evening.

The next day (Saturday) was blistering hot. By the time I got down to that point, the whole area was crammed with college kids partying away. As I swam, I watched them dare each other to jump off a rock ledge (immediately beyond me in the pic above). Climbing out of the water, I told them they were wusses; an old lady could do that. And then I did!

Please forgive the technical glitch—figuring out how to get this %#$& video to play!

Russ got an insect (spider?) bite on his lower back a few days ago, which developed a good-sized itchy rash. After a few days it became somewhat painful. Mr. Hypochondriac made me take a picture of it so he could examine it in detail. I suggested he send the photo to his sister, a retired Nurse Practitioner, for her input (but really because I thought it was hilarious to send Debby a photo of her brother’s butt). I’ll spare you, dear reader.

The whole way to Pueblo, he feebly reported his unnerving symptoms: “I’m starting to get a headache.” “My stomach is starting to feel queasy.” When I suggested that eating something might help, he asked if that was safe, given that he might need surgery. He was pretty sure he’d need a skin graft. And, of course, I received a long list of last wishes.

We made it to camp, set up, and headed right back into town. I dropped him off at urgent care while I ran to a nearby CVS to pick up my prescription refill. Fortunately, he was seen pretty quickly, and he regaled me with spine-tingling tales of how close he’d come to death as I drove BACK to CVS to get his antibiotics. (Now, two hours after taking his first pill, he’s concerned that he doesn’t already feel better).

This campsite has spectacular scenery, lake access, and piñon pines everywhere (I LOVE that smell). We’re not far from Cañon City, where we stayed at the East Rim Campground and went whitewater rafting in 2022.

Now in Colorado, the vegetation has turned decidedly drier. Fortunately, our campground is actually just below the dam of a good-sized reservoir. Lots of wildlife, including this turkey who was completely unbothered by us setting up camp. And I watched a very cute raccoon at the water’s edge paddling his paws in search of edibles.

The campsites are under lovely old cottonwood trees, so there’s lots of shade. Unfortunately, there’s also lots of flies. The flyswatter’s been getting a workout. Oh, and cicadas. This fellow overnighted on our tent (I wondered what that buzzing was).

Moe made a new friend—a little boy named Logan, who greeted me during our first evening walk with “My mom’s inside (their camper), but I don’t know where my dad and sisters and brother are.” So we chatted about possible places they could be until they returned (they were walking). He admired Moe, I told him he loves to fetch balls, and that’s all it took—Moe had a new best friend (or Logan did; I’m not sure which).

I brought Moe over to say goodbye the next day as they were leaving. Logan bent down to Moe, patted his back, and said “I love you, Moe. You’re so handsome.” Ever the Marshall, I immediately teared up. Sweet kid.

I wanted to do some birding, so set out early one morning to hike through one of the two sloughs near the lake. Both were, unfortunately, pretty dried up, so no exciting new birds. Beyond the slough was a portion of the old Santa Fe Trail, set aside by the DAR in 1908-ish. I’d been told that you could sometimes pick out the old wagon ruts by the different vegetation (maybe they’re mower lines, but I like to imagine, so I say they’re wagon ruts).

Later I had to drive back there so Russ could see it. He wanted to drive across the dam, which was very cool, but see his blog—russloomis.com—for pictures, because I was driving. On the other side I spotted a network of dirt roads that led to the south shore of the reservoir and off I went, with Russ hanging on in white-knuckled terror that we were about to get stuck up to our axles and die there. I finally pulled out onto what had been under probably 10 feet of water before the drought, but was now rocks and dried mud:

And THAT was worth it, because I finally saw a snowy plover!

And we didn’t get stuck (I was having great fun acting out my own off-road Subaru commercial in my KIA). Back at camp we had a catfish fry with fresh sautéed vegetables and holy moley was that good! They stock all the lakes in this region with channel catfish, and they are mighty fine eating.

Just before leaving the next morning, Russ pointed out a loose dog and a ranger trying to catch it. Ever helpful, I brought Moe out on a leash and BINGO, she came right over and I was able to catch her collar. She was very friendly, and we pointed out where we thought her people were, as we’d seen her before. Dog and owner were reunited, and we took off for Pueblo Lake State Park in Pueblo, Colorado.

Beaver Dunes having been a disappointment, we left early for Lake Meade State Park in Kansas. This is MUCH nicer!

And much cooler! The park is notable for its diverse bird population; sadly, wildfires only three weeks ago destroyed large sections of the park and surrounding areas. Watching birds gathering nesting materials, I wondered how many nests, eggs, and young were destroyed in the fires.

Plenty of adult birds remain, though.

I suppose midwesterners become inured to the sight of red-headed woodpeckers (they are pretty common here), but I never fail to thrill to the sight of these birds with their Mondrian-like blocks of black, white, and red.

All of the park’s trails were closed because of fire damage, so we opted instead to see what was going on in the nearby town of Meade. Driving in, I spotted a sign for the “Dalton Gang Hideout.” Looked interesting, so we swung in. Our tour almost ended before it began, as the elderly man in charge started in on some story about how he wanted to retire, and a woman was going to take over, but her 14-year-old daughter “thinks she wants to be a boy,” he said with disgust. I have a beloved trans niece, Russ a trans grandson, so I took umbrage. As things threatened to get heated, I stopped myself and informed the gentleman that we were not going to have this conversation. Good thing, too, since Russ was already backing away looking for an escape route.

Things got more congenial after that, and the host turned out to have a great deal of knowledge about local history. We toured the house (owned by the sister of the Dalton ‘boys’) and the tunnel they dug from the house to the barn for an escape route. In the end, members of the gang were shot and killed as they attempted to rob two banks in broad daylight in a nearby town. Brother Emmett survived the melee, though he must have looked like a strainer with the number of bullets and shotgun pellets he received. He did some 15 years in jail and ‘was a model citizen’ after that, according to our host.

Interestingly, (to me, at least) also in the upstairs room with the sewing machine was a treadle-driven tatting machine, something I’ve never heard of before. The sister was a milliner, so perhaps she used it for trimmings. Unfortunately, the host could not give us any information. They had two ‘beautiful’ ones in another museum this fellow had worked for. “Did they know how it worked?” I asked. “They didn’t know nuthin’,” he said with scorn.

We asked for recommendations for a place to eat, were told Bob’s Burgers was the place to go, and we found really good sandwiches and onion rings there. Even better, there was a nice city park nearby, so we went there to enjoy our meal at a shady picnic table with Moe.

And that’s where Moe met Sweety, his sister from another mother:

Back at camp, the evening turned cool and we were able to open the windows to fresh air for the first time in days. Excellent sleeping weather!

A city-run park whose attraction is the sand dunes which people come to ride in ATV’s and dirt bikes. Not our scene. We are at a secondary campground on a (very) small lake. We quickly discover there is nothing to do here except explore the adjoining tent campground and compare notes on the dilapidated restrooms (his had no hot water in the showers; mine had no working toilets). We perk up a bit when we are told there is a restaurant in town that has just reopened (after having its roof repaired). They are reported to have excellent steaks and ‘truffle fries’. Intrigued, we head there about 4:30, thinking we will beat the dinner rush.

We do, but to no avail. The waitress (there appeared to be only one for the six or so tables) took our order and brought generous margaritas. And then we waited. Occasionally she would reappear to reassure us that it would be ‘just a minute’. An hour passed. Other tables, arriving after us, received their food. We inquired about our orders. She looked confused and asked if we’d already placed our orders. At that point we got terse. After some confusion it transpired that they’d given our order to a takeout customer by mistake (why? We hadn’t placed a to-go order.) More reassurances of a prompt arrival by the waitress. I stared at Russ in astonishment as he informed the waitress we expected a discount on our meal (I’d never heard him demand anything before, except from me). Finally our order arrived, packed to go (we’d told them our dog would be going ballistic by now) accompanied by the owner, who apologized profusely and gave us everything gratis.

Back at camp, I discovered my ‘Goucho’, basically a cheesesteak, was so salty it was inedible, and the ‘truffle’ fries were barely cooked. Guess you get what you pay for. In any case, we won’t be recommending the BS Bar and Grill anytime soon (BS indeed!).

Fortunately, the town of Beaver had other amusements. I’m just gonna leave these here as examples:

And our campsite, by the lake and the stream that feeds it, had abundant birds: red-winged blackbirds, grackles, northern flickers, red-headed and red-bellied woodpeckers, swallows, Mississippi kites, mourning and Eurasian collared doves, blue jays, and brown thrashers. I’m sure I missed others in the dense foliage.

However, we are done with Beaver Dunes. We’re leaving early to go to Meade State Park in Kansas before heading to John Martin Reservoir in Colorado.

A hot night, but the AC was working and we woke to a slightly cooler day. First order of business, after breakfast, was to get tickets for the tour of the caves that give this park its name. We were ready to go for the 10 am tour.

Now, of course, they didn’t mention that a rock slide a few years ago had meant that we would only go about halfway through the caverns and return, in order for the next tour to start on time. Personally, I’d have paid extra to see as much of the caverns as possible, but nobody asked my opinion.

However, the caverns were undeniably spectacular.

Entrance to the caverns

Totally worth it!

We got back about 11 and noticed that the day had actually become pleasant (for 95 degrees). Some clouds had come in and the wind wasn’t as fierce. We decided to check some of the canyon trails, and hiked down into the canyon we’d seen yesterday evening.

Moe, of course, led the way:

Things got a bit steep, but we made it back!

It amazes me that we are literally walking on alabaster everywhere (you have to be careful putting your hand down on a steep climb, as the rocks are all sharp crystals). I gathered a couple of rocks for Rachel, one of my students who is a professor of geology.

And you can tell we’re moving west by the variety of cacti that now appear.

Ticks are still a problem, but at least they’re not the microscopic ones we found in Missouri. Moe is exceedingly tired of being plucked at. It was so nice to sit outside in the evening as it cooled down and the wind gentled. I’ve been watching cardinals, lark sparrows, and great crested flycatchers moving about. A hairy woodpecker appeared briefly. (I even caught sight of a red-headed woodpecker earlier.) We watched horses grazing on a hill as the sun came down. We are the only people in the campground, so it is beautifully quiet. A very pleasant evening.

Our first day at Salt Plains State Park wasn’t too bad—the wind was enough to keep the sun from being blistering, I thought, so we sat and gazed across the river as flocks of pelicans and cattle egrets drifted by. No neighbors to bother us…

until three big RVs moved in, one of them not 12 feet from our camper. So much for privacy and quiet. Russ only cared about not losing his hammock spot, just on the river bluff. It turned out the shade wasn’t as effective as I’d thought, either. Between the sun and the wind, I was so burnt I was practically incandescent.

The next day I wanted to see Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge, one of the few nesting habits for snowy plovers and good chances to see other waterfowl. There was a driving loop, so I figured I’d be OK. HOWEVER, you had to walk out a 1/4 mile trail (paved, thank god) to a viewing platform to see the salt flat nesting grounds. We got there with a 30-40 mph wind whipping past—I couldn’t hold steady enough to focus my binoculars, even resting my arms against the railing. I MIGHT have seen one plover scurry out of some scrub before scurrying back. Honestly, I can’t blame them for hiding. I did get to see quite a few black-necked stilts, however, so the trip was not a total loss.

Back at camp, I immediately retired to the air-conditioned camper and Moe panted in the shade.

Russ is greatly disappointed in dinner choices, as I’m too hot and miserable to even imagine cooking. Peanut butter and jelly is just fine with me. That night, the winds topped 40 mph and I could feel the camper rocking and creaking. Even Russ finally gave up on being bounced around in his hammock (I can’t imagine) and retired to the camper.

The next day, the wind and the heat were even worse, so I remained inside most of the day. We did take a short walk through a wooded trail and I got pictures of some of Oklahoma’s native wildflowers:

As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard Russ calling me to “Come quick!” The owner of a large RV was trying to back into a campsite, apparently with no driving experience. Backing up and turning was apparently too much multi-tasking, so instead of going around the loop to come at it from the other direction, she (yes, it was a she) elected to pull forward over the lawn, across a ditch and up a small rise—where she promptly bottomed out the rear of her camper and couldn’t move. I knew it wouldn’t end well, so went back inside. Russ stayed to watch several nearby campers castigate her for being a idiot, then one of them pulled her out with his diesel truck and finally got her into her site.

I did get to see her leave. She stopped beside a dumpster to throw out her trash, then proceeded to take a tight corner without steering wide AT ALL. She scraped the dumpster with the side of her camper so hard she pushed it into a tree, all the while smiling and blithely waving to Russ, who was walking toward her.

Camping—never a dull moment!

Tomorrow it’s off to Alabaster Caverns for a short (two day) stay.