 |
| Chain Saw sculpture across from Collins' home. Grandson, Ben, is not part of sculpture |
As James Collins put the finishing touches on his world-renowned barbequed ribs, Ann opened the bar for a thirsty bunch. I say Ann opened the bar, because the kitchen island was spread with the finest of everything. I’m talking MacAllen Single Malt Scotch and Maker’s Mark Hand Made Kentucky Bourbon. I’ve known James a long time and I’m not saying that he wouldn’t buy expensive whisky like that—I’m just saying he wouldn’t buy it on purpose. Trust me, Ann bought it---or his broker or someone else gave it to James. James is not much for “frills and extras,” such as high priced coffee, much less whisky. (Let me share another little nugget of information—Scotch whisky is spelled without the “e”. Other whiskey always includes the “e”. Look in your bar.)
It was difficult not to feel very important that night. Ann and James went all out to make everything perfect for our visit. Neil was there---Manon, his lovely child bride, was still in Texas and would be here in a couple of weeks. I think Neil may have come early to help James entertain us. However they worked it out, there was little room for improvement. Wayne and I thought seriously about staying a couple of months.
At a few minutes before six the next morning, Wayne, James and I knocked on Neil’s front door. The crisp mountain air carried the unmistakable aroma of sausage and biscuits. Neil let us in and hurried back to the stove to finish his gravy. James grabbed a loaf of light bread and led us out into Neil’s back yard. Less than thirty feet from the kitchen door, the Gunnison River rushed by. James threw in a couple of slices of bread and we watched trout fight over them. These trout were over two feet long, and were treated as “house pets.” We fed the entire loaf and watched them tussle.
The Collins’ live six months of the year in Fredericksburg, Texas, and the McMullens spend a like amount of time in Wichita Falls. After the spring thaws, both couples move up to Gunnison for the summer. It is a tough life, but someone has to do it. James is very careful to cut his Colorado time to less than six months. Six months and one day would qualify him for state income tax here. James and Neil obviously did a lot better planning their lives than I did.
Neil spread out breakfast---eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, scratch biscuits and cream gravy. We had coffee and orange juice or milk. As our friend, Robert Benton, was fond of saying, “The Queen of England don’t eat no better than this.”
We convoyed out of town, with Wayne’s Ford sandwiched between the Toyota “Land Cruisers” that both Neil and James drive. If you are thinking of a place in the mountains and need a four wheel drive vehicle to get into the back country, do yourself a favor. Bite the bullet and buy a Land Cruiser first. James tried several other ( less expensive) modes of transportation before he settled on the big Toyota.
About an hour out of town, we turned off the pavement onto a long, straight, all-weather road. It quit being straight pretty soon, but was wide and well-maintained and we could easily average about forty miles per hour. After thirty miles, we arrived at a primitive-looking ranch headquarters. The owner was a friendly fellow named John Judson who had been an officer on a U. S. Navy Submarine earlier in life. When it came time to retire from the service, he took a map of the country and located the area farthest from any ocean and came up here to buy a ranch. He stays snowed in about four months per year, but the setting is beautiful, and he says the summers are well worth it.
We parked Wayne’s Ford at the ranch headquarters, and paired off in the Land Cruisers. From this point on, we needed the four wheel drive vehicles. In the next ten miles, we would zigzag back and forth over the continental divide, climb to almost 10,000 feet, and find our camp ground, next to a pristine creek at the fabled “Ant Hill”. You’ve probably never seen four more excited old men.
 |
| This ain't no step for a stepper. |
Six miles from the ranch headquarters, we hit our first snag. The trail—it can’t be called a road now---passed thru a thick aspen grove. The area had been plagued by high winds for several days and we were obviously the first people to pass through this spring. There was a ten inch diameter aspen tree blocking the road. There was no other route. If we wanted to get to the Ant Hill, we had to remove that tree.
While the rest of us stood around, scratching our heads and wondering what to do, we heard Collins cranking a chain saw. He came around the big Toyota, revving the saw to a fever pitch. In less time than it takes to tell it, Collins had cut the tree into three pieces. We rolled the center section out of the way and left the ends where they lay. Neil explained that the U. S. Forestry Service would have a crew up here later to clear the roadway. We were simply here too early. Up ahead, we could see several more aspens across the road, but they seemed smaller than this first one.
We repeated the process seven more times in the next half mile, then, with chain saw fuel running low, we came upon what appeared to be a fir tree. Perhaps it was some unfamiliar species of pine, but it was an evergreen and it was gigantic. The trunk was a good twenty inches in diameter where it crossed the road.
 |
| Getting hooked up |
James managed to nurse the saw through the big end of the tree. We tried to roll the tree out of the way manually, but it wouldn’t budge. Neil and Wayne made one more cut while Collins and I went back to the tail end of the Toyota and pulled out a chain and a nylon tow rope. We hooked it up to the tree as James moved a lever on the console to put the Land Cruiser into four-wheel drive. Then he simply backed away from the tree until the chain was taunt, and got out and checked all the connections and asked us to step back.
We got away from the chain, knowing that it would do serious damage if it broke. James eased backwards, and the Toyota squatted and took hold. Limbs cracked, the chain creaked, and the tree started moving. James pulled it free of the woods and out into the trail. Moments later we used some aspen saplings as levers and rolled the trunk off to the side. The trail was clear. We stowed all the gear and continued toward the clearing ahead. I sat there, in air conditioned comfort, listening to a fifties CD and breathing in the luxurious aroma of leather seats, while I marveled at the ingenuity of mankind. Four seventy-five-year old men cleared a trail through the woods, removing obstacles that would have thirty-somethings turning back. Of course, thirty-somethings are not very patient and most of them can’t afford really good Japanese equipment.
 |
| O. K., O. K. It might have not been quite twenty inches in diameter, but it was big and heavy! |
There were a couple of more saplings across the path, but James, with an air of contempt, simply ran over them. It was no trouble with the vehicle in four-wheel mode. About four miles later and we topped a rise and peered down into a lovely little valley. A clear mountain stream meandered through the center and off to the left stood a strange looking mound, with steep sides and a little flat rock on top. It looked exactly like a giant Ant Hill. It was just past the ten-thirty in the morning and the wind was already brisk, but what a great place to be.
 |
| View of the trout stream from the Ant Hill Camp |
No comments:
Post a Comment