Day 30 (September 15): The Rocky Mountains and the Continental Divide

Today I rode across the Continental Divide along Highway 50, from
Poncha Springs over Monarch Pass. The climb up was about 18 miles, but
a fairly easy grade until the last three or four. No altitude issues
today, even at 11,312 feet. I've never been that high up before, and
my little bicycle certainly had not, either. The pass wasn't above
treeline, and the whole way I could smell the ponderosa pines.

Starting with a zippy descent (ten miles in twenty minutes), I will
now just roll to the Pacific. I think, actually, I would roll to the
Colorado River and would never actually make it to the Pacific, but
into someone's faucet in LA. Or even back to Lake Pueblo, where I
camped the other night, and read that it (a reservoir) is fed by a
diversion from the Colorado.

I was so preoccupied with crossing the Divide that I forgot about the
42 miles beyond it to Gunnison, and back down to 7,700 feet. The air
warmed up quickly as I came down, and my ride to Gunny (as they say)
was hot. There were red craggy hills on my right and pine-covered
mountains on my left. The head wind that had started my last mile up
to the pass (which I thought was a little unfair) continued strongly
the whole way to Gunnison. It was a beautiful ride, but I was glad to
call it a day.

I saw lots of little chipmunks as I crawled up the mountain, and one
dead two-point buck on the shoulder of the road. I won't shock you
with photos of it - I got a couple of complaints about the coyote a
few weeks ago. There are some very loud locust/grasshopper creatures
out here that sound like those noise-makers you twirl on New Year's
Eve. I have no idea what they are, but they're the only other wildlife
I saw today except for two German men on mountain bikes who I met at
the pass, and who later passed me a few miles from Gunnison.

There are still some mountains to go, but none that will be this tall.
And the difficulty of these still hasn't come close to the Cherohala
Skyway in the Appalachians. That was a steep climb, with only slightly
more motorcyclists than I saw today. Here in the west, motorcyclists
act more as foes than in the South. Yes, that is a sweeping statement,
and I will still tip my little cycling cap to the motorcyclists out
here. But I no longer expect much acknowledgement in return.