Taylor Pass (Another Vehicle Destruction Trip!)

Foreword: My thanks (once again) go to Trent for proofing and adding necessary changes to how we both remember this happening, several years ago. This is just another example of how alcohol kills brain cells. Thanks, Trent!

I have no idea if it was summer '94 or '95, but our second great 4x4 adventure took place among the Sawatch and Elk mountains. We'd decided to take a grand tour of the state by jeep roads, and John had wanted to do Taylor Pass from Taylor Park Reservoir, near Crested Butte, to Aspen. It had the reputation of being pretty difficult, with big baby-heads in the right-of-way (stones so named because they're round and rolley and about the size of baby's heads -big babies, too). We figured we were pretty ready. We had plenty of experience and a lot of time invested in planning adventures like this, so we rounded up the usual crew and took off early Saturday morning.

I rode my trusty (road legal, except for the lack of a valid license plate or registration) XR250R 4-stroke enduro, and Trent took Sergeant Donovan (his old gunner in our infantry unit), Donovan's wife, and Donovan's cousin, Debbie, in his jeep wrangler. John and Amy (always with the wonder dogs) & Trevor and Tala went in the beater orange Scout II, and Joe, Rich, and Lee were in Joe's brand new Chevy Z10 fullsize pickup. Eric Drummond and his wife (whose name shall never be mentioned again) were in his silver Toyota truck (the little one). As we only had a regular (short) weekend, our plans were ambitious - get to and cross Taylor Pass the first day (all the way to Aspen the hard way), and figure out how to get home the next. The weather was great as we started out.

We took pavement to Buena Vista, about 1-1/2 hours west on US24, and then headed over (mellow) Cottonwood Pass into Taylor Park. Cottonwood is paved most of the way up, but the backside is dirt. Easy dirt, though - it's graded for passenger cars and open until snow closes the road (as it is on the continental divide). About 3 hours into the trip, we arrived in the valley by the reservoir, and went down to Tincup, an old mining settlement now occupied by a few fulltime people who just don't like urban living. It could be a ghost town, but it's been protected by the residents and they ask you to keep away from all of the old buildings. First, it's private property, and second, it's helping to preserve our heritage, so it's quite a good program. There's lots of pretty and neat things to do in the neighborhood, too, if you have time and a 4x4, but our plans were already made. I was hoping the one-pump gas station would be open, but it wasn't; I was already on my spare 2-gallon tank in the back of Joe's truck, and I hoped I wouldn't run out before we got to Aspen.

Well, we headed back north, around the east side of the res, and into no-man's land. Signs firmly warn vehicles approaching that it's a jeep-only road, but that didn't scare us. On my bike on pavement or flat ground I'm only capable of about 55, 60 on a good day with a tailwind, but going up 4x4 roads I can easily keep up 30 - about three times the best speed of a 4x4, especially loaded down. I was dubbed regimental recon and sent ahead to scout the road. I took in my pack a handheld CB and a couple of beers (for the inevitable long waits at beautiful turnoffs). The road quickly deteriorated, first becoming rutted and worn, and then turning into a runoff stream (down a 20% grade) over the famous slippery babyheads. I wasn't too far ahead of the crew when I ran head-on into the stream, with about 3 inches of water rushing down at me. I had a hard time negotiating the road, and my front tire was bouncing all over the place trying to find purchase. On small section was a little steeper than the others, and I stopped completely, engine running, front tire going nowhere; right then about a hundred yards behind me Trent's jeep came around the corner, convoy in tow. Somewhere earlier Rich was repeating Joe's famous roof-surfing on the easier sections of the road, but I missed it all as recon. They couldn't stop (losing momentum in these conditions would have been a very bad idea), so they were yelling at me 'Get outta the way!' I had my feet out to the sides, trying to stand and get the bike to go, then my feet started slipping and sliding on the rocks too. Slowly, the bike and I fell over sideways, into the water. Kerplunk-splash! I dragged it and myself out of the road as the trucks all passed.

They went up a couple of hundred yards, and the trail zigzagged to the right and back up tightly to the left; this is where the stream was entering, so it was dry above. John took lead around the blind obstacle; everyone else waited back so we could get the vehicles through one at a time. He disappeared around the corner, and there were loud engine noises. Everything got quiet. Then John came back over the CB, 'Watch out for the rock around the corner." Joe asked, "Which rock?" and John answered, "The one with the orange paint on it."

I was off my bike at this point, parked under a stand of trees below the invisible hazard. I ran across the stream and hopped up and over some rocks to near the crux, where I got a great view of the next spectacle. Joe's truck came around the first curve, and cut sharply left to take the second curve and step. There was a big rock that needed to be avoided, preferably high-centered, on the left side of the step, and trees further right; behind the rock on the left was a cutout where vehicles that didn't make it ended up backing into; it was maybe big enough for the rear corner of a jeep. Maybe. The convoy had halted at the ledge and the group studied the ledge to find the best approach. John, Trent, Trevor and I had all decided what the best approach was and relayed it to the others. If Joe and the others wouldn't have been partying and carrying on they might have actually paid attention. John had gone first and with a little umph, made it over the ledge with some difficulty. Joe gunned the engine, seeing Trent, Trevor, Donovan, & Lee ahead of him, giving him hand and arm signals waving him around the obstacle.

Problem was, instead of following the directions of the two experienced 4x4s-mans, he listened to Donovan & Lee, who'd never been 4x4ing before, and were steering him to the right. Joe turned the wheels too far to the right, and put his left just to the right of the big rock. There wasn't enough space or clearance for him to get the big truck over, and he spun the wheels halfway up the step. In this circumstance, you push in the clutch and brake to hold yourself, and lower back down slowly for another attempt, which Joe did, angling his tires opposite, and steering his back left bumper down into the cutout. Bump. Now his angle was too sharp to get the tires over the rock; he tried it once, backed back down. Bump. The truck jarred with each bumping impact in the hole. Bump. Bump. Now his back end was half out of the hole, and he got out with the e-brake on to see what was the matter.

His brand new chrome bumper had a good three inch dent in it from the rock he'd kept bouncing off of. I don't think I've ever seen anyone as pissed-off. Now he decided to listen to John and Trent. He had one or two more bumps, centered out, and rode it correctly finally. I turned at this point and headed back down to my bike, as there were only two more vehicles left to ascend and I didn't want to hold anyone up. Eric decided he needed enough speed to send his Toyota over the ledge and apparently went just a hair right of the correct line, and he bumped the big rock on the undercarriage and jumped about six inches in the air as he went over, sending everything, including their unsecured cooler of hotdogs and marshmallows, down the stream. His wife (whose name shall never be mentioned again) was livid when she got to the top of the step and was told, with Trent, Trevor, and John laughing wildly. They recovered the cooler, but the camp-food was lost. Trent was the last vehicle to negotiate the ledge and decided that speed wasn't a bad way to go. Looked a little fun, too. Trent moved around the corner and lined himself up with the ledge. He instructed everyone to buckle up. Donovan decided to get out and walk him through the obstacle. Trent obviously didn't want the help, because as Donovan pulled his arms back and forth directing the Jeep forward, Trent sat behind the wheel telling him to get the hell out of the way. Nobody was listening. Trent revved the engine, Donovan just started swinging his arms faster. Finally, Trent popped the clutch and came tearing at the ledge. John, Trevor, and Donovan scrambled to get out of the way as Trent jumped the ledge, just beating Eric's six inch record. I started up the bike and came around with no major difficulties.

The rest of the road over to Ashcroft, a ghost town 11 miles SW of Aspen and just south of Aspen Highlands, was a piece of cake comparatively. I jetted up ahead again, passing on the narrow one-lane (with a fresh beer resupply of course). As I got above treeline to some beautiful lakes, I pulled over, removed my helmet, and called in on the CB to make sure the group took the correct turnoff to the pass up high; then just relaxed on the back of my bike with a couple of beers, enjoying the view. I filled up with the last of my gas here, now mostly assured I could make it to town with 1-1/2 gallons. The road down was long and of medium difficulty, but a lot of fun.

Ashcroft is at the head of a dead-end valley, where the road over Pearl Pass and to Montezuma Basin starts. Pearl is the alternate (and only other) way to the south side of the Elks by vehicle, and by all accounts, when it's not washed out, frozen-in, or so heavily damaged by avalanches that it's impassable without major road construction, a lot of fun; Montezuma Basin was used in the '30s by the US ski team as a training area because of the permanent snowfields, and in spite of the nickname 'Valley of Death' (avalanche prone), still has remains (barely) of the old rope tow on the middle slopes. We saw none of this on this trip, but it's still worth seeing if you get the chance.

It was getting on towards 3pm when we got down to Ashcroft, so we decided we'd better find a good campsite. Night comes quickly in the steep mountain valleys, even in the summer. We headed up the reaches of Pearl Pass to see what was up there. Mostly we found beautiful mountains, towering above the valley, and lots of columbines (the state flower). A few miles in, there's a good stream crossing, about 18 inches deep, with a good footbridge to the left side. It's also a trail to the tops of Castle and Conundrum peaks, typically on 14er tick lists, and it's pretty well traveled in the summer months; this year there was a lot more snow than normal left over, and not as many people. I took the water obstacle at full speed, feet up, and came out; about another half mile up we found a viable campsite that looked like it had been used before, so we grabbed it. John and Trent went up Montezuma for a bit, and made the left that take you onto Pearl; a ways past this there was a slidy left-tilting section still covered with ice (it's all north-facing on this part), and they almost called it when they bumped into this section; they edged over it and ascended to the top of Pearl Pass before returning to camp. I still haven't attempted this section, even with an upgraded CJ5. Trevor and Tala went down to the crossing to (allegedly) fish for a while, but came back empty-handed.

We had a decent evening around the campfire, teaching Joe and Lee to ride a bike, eating and drinking; we went to sleep, not having any idea how we'd be getting home the next day, but happy. Our goal was satisfied.

The next morning I woke early, crawling out from under my poncho into a dim mist that hung low in the valley. One couldn't see the mountain tops just above us anymore, and it looked like rain was imminent. We packed up camp after a nice fire-cooked breakfast, loading most of our extra (and now larger, as you can't pack as tightly in the field as you can at home) gear into the back of Joe's dented truck. Joe decided to put a tarp on top of the gear, especially as it contained our sleeping kit, and started putting black rubber bungies across the tarp. He didn't have enough to double up, so he was x-ing with single 18-inchers. As he pulled the last one to the right rear of his truck, it reached it's elastic limit and snapped a couple of inches in front of him. He fell on the ground backwards, and Sproing! The rest of the cord snapped forward, shattering to a mosaic spiderweb but not breaking his double-blackened (think limousine glass) rear full window. I take it back, I have seen someone more pissed-off.

We headed back out, and down into Aspen; I was on fumes by the time we made it into town to refill both my tank and the spare fuel can, but made it! We all refilled at the gas station just up the street from the Hard Rock (the only landmark in town that everyone knows), stopped at the local MacDonald's (a ski town with a fast food restaurant, how rude) and bought our $12.95 value meals and headed back north out of town with low clouds all around. We ascended the narrow turns of lower Independence Pass (easy on a bike, not so easy in anything fullsize, with traffic coming down), and by the time we got to the top it looked just dark. As we came down it was getting gusty and blustery, but we made it Twin Lakes without anything bad happening. Back on 24, headed north towards Leadville, the hail started. It was pretty cold and damp already, and had already rained some in the area (apparent from the water on the road); I had on about everything I'd brought to wear. Trent has said he was worried about the hail denting his jeep, it was so big and falling so hard. Just in front of him on my bike, I could think of nothing but how much it freakin' hurt. At least my helmet kept my head protected! The most memorable line from any of my 4x4ing adventures comes from here: Trent, on the CB (I couldn't hear it, only heard in Leadville later) to the others, with me just in front of him, relays to the other vehicles, 'Oh, man, that's gotta hurt.' Yes, it did.

It cleared by the time we hit Leadville, and instead of taking the more southerly (and tamer) Weston Pass (where the dark clouds were) we went north out of town towards the mines and Mosquito Pass, I think the highest continuous pass in the U.S. drivable on the continental divide, at 13,186'. The Leadville side is blocky and knocked-off shale, with steep slopes of the slidy stuff just off the narrow roadway; get one tire a few inches too close and you start a slide down several hundred feet of rock to who-knows-what down further. I got yelled at to get moving on this section, too, by John in the Scout; I summitted as quickly as possible and waited, cold in the windy and cloudy skies. The big stuff was all well to the south, so I felt safe from lightning or anything of the sort. When everyone was on top, I made sure to tell them to take a left at the fork, heading to the North London mines. The South London road is blocked at the bottom (but inexplicably not at the top) by a newer private mining concern, even though there are some really cool ghost camps down there. I jetted down the blocky road, unconcerned by the big steps and rocks on the tire-sides that affect vehicles larger than a dirtbike.

As Trent was headed up the pass, second-in-line, he bumped along the narrow (barely large enough for a vehicle) road, with Donovan and his wife in the back, and Debbie riding shotgun. Debbie, from XXXX, Virginia, had never seen anything like this before; views and dropoffs above treeline were completely new to her. She thought it was soooo cool, she took out her camera and started taking pictures; the dropoff was to the left, driver's side. She leaned over the driver's side to take a picture out Trent's window, and Trent yelled suddenly, 'Oh-my-god! We're gonna roll!!!' Debbie snapped back into her seat, scared to death, hands wrapped on the rollbar and frame; I have no idea how Trent & Donovan didn't lose it right there. She was mighty annoyed when she heard John, Trent, Trevor, and Lee telling it and laughing at the pass, and such ended any possible romance between her and the Trent-man. I think it was worth it, for the story.

Eventually, the trucks rolled down into North London, as I waited impatiently, cold. They all stopped and we climbed around, out-of-breath, looking at the old mines and gear. It only lasted about twenty minutes, and we kept on down the easier lower road to Alma. Just south of Alma, the wind picked up severely, from the west; headed south towards Fairplay (and home), it was almost horizontal from the mountains along the ground. I remember having the bike tilted at least 35 degrees to the right just to stay on both wheels! At 55, this is no mean feat. Especially with a jeep right on your ass. And then it started raining.

It rained steadily, sometimes harder, sometimes softer, but mostly harder, all the way through south park. This is no fun even if you're just standing in it, but I was at 55 on a dirt bike, trying to keep a jeep's bumper from hitting my rear tire, imagining Trent saying 'Get outta my way!' the whole time. I was soaked to the bone by the time we hit Wilkerson Pass, and about 2 miles down from there my engine cut; I pulled over to switch to the reserve setting on the tank.

As thoroughly miserable as it was, the rest of the ride was not unpleasant. The storms hadn't made it that far east yet, and it was still sunny; I dried out (for the most part) riding back, shivering. I was still the last down the grade between Cascade and Manitou (our typical Pole Position raceway), and made it back to Trevor's dead last with everyone wondering if I'd just gone home. I packed my 50# ruck onto the bike and went home to get in a good warm shower.

Trent's was the only truck that wasn't damaged on the trip. I think, it's probably the only trip he didn't damage something! Regimental recon was a-ok, but never saw another major adventure. It's still sitting in the garage, waiting for a new chain suspension piece. And here endeth the tale.