Side Dish: Royal Gorge Bridge and Park 7/16/11

The minute you start to think the economy is beyond repair and a new Great Depression imminent, you find yourself at a place like the Royal Gorge Bridge and Park in Canon City, Colorado, and wonder if the good times haven't returned at last. This is a place where the money flows as if whipped directly from a basement printing press, with no shortage of temptations from the entrance to the final stop. After plunking down a healthy $25 per person to even get in, you are given few opportunities to keep your wallet closed, from the gift shops to unhealthy snack stands that inhabit every square inch not actually the bridge itself. And with all the standing in line that awaits, you had better keep a fresh supply of food and drink at the ready, lest you pass out in the upper 90-degree July heat. Yes, Royal Gorge is a virtual whorehouse of tacky tourism, with the only real miracle that they haven't yet found a way to charge you for parking. But wait! They do have a $15 valet service available, which might be a good idea if you are one of the unlucky ones to find a tight spot miles away from the ticket booth.

What to do first? After posing for the obnoxious photographer who will ask you to spend who knows how much on a photo you could have taken yourself, the best bet is the Incline Railway which, as a sign gleefully reminds you, is included in the admission price. Thank god for that. Billed as "one of the world's steepest incline railways," this version chugs down 1,550 feet to the canyon floor, all at a 100% grade and 45-degree angle. It pushes you down at a whopping 3mph, and takes about 5.5 minutes each way. The short trip is a blessing, of course, given that the tram better resembles a cattle car, with 4-5 poor saps squeezed into each separate section. Curiously, a person can only see forward, as the geniuses of design have seen fit to deny passengers a look at the sky, or even much to the side. Looking forward does little, you know, when a bulging hulk of a tourist is standing right in front of you, and such tight quarters also prevent any kind of peek at the canyon and river below until you are right on top of it. We may as well have been taken down in an air and light-deprived tube.

Once down, you are free to get off and take a closer look at the Arkansas River, but you don't want to spend too much time wandering about, as you have to get back in line once again for the return journey to the top. The waiting game was a bit less this time, but no less cramped and defined by screeching babies and obnoxious wee ones. At least we had the graffiti to read, and a closet-like bathroom right in front of our noses. The incline behind us, we went to the bridge itself, which is an impressive sight, given its features: 1,270 feet long, 18 feet wide, and standing 956 feet above the river below. It was completed in November 1929 at a cost of $350,000, which is exactly how much the park now sells in cotton candy any given hour. People, dogs, and yes, even cars, now flow across the bridge like locusts before a corn harvest, and depending on the wind, it can be a dizzying strut to the other side. Of course, one needs to take a few looks over the side (hello, rafters), and don't be alarmed if your first thought is to wonder if anyone has ever jumped to his or her doom.

Next up, a little food. Given the lack of steakhouses or top seafood selections, we went straight to a place on the other side that, if memory serves, was simply called "Restaurant." Beware of any dining establishment that lacks an actual name, but we were hungry beyond reason, and happily accepted the BBQ joint before us. Though cheap ($19 for two combos), the brisket was more fat than meat, and while the potato salad was pretty decent, the jury's still out on whether or not it will send us to the hospital. No longer grouchy, we decided to walk back to the other side of the bridge and return via the Aerial Tram, which an hour earlier had been too crowded. Our legs aching from their unusual encounter with actual movement, we pushed up a few hills and waited for the next car to arrive.

The tram, relatively brisk at 11.4mph, looked pretty rickety from my vantage point, but the thing had been running since 1968 without incident, so why not spend the two minutes to get across the gorge? While the views are a bit better than the incline railway, the comfort level was decidedly worse, as three dozen souls were packed aboard with nary an inch to spare. I was all but pressed against the glass, with breathing merely optional. Before I could exhale, the ride was over, and I could not be blamed for wondering if waiting 1/2 hour for a half-second of compromised views was ever going to be worth it. So again, more walking (downhill this time, at least) until we reached the Royal Rush Skycoaster, which was not part of the admission price. Just as well, as not even a cold day in hell would bring about my participation. I owed myself, sure, but also the canyon below, which did not deserve to receive the contents of my cheap lunch so late in the day. Built in 2003, the Sky Coaster delivers speeds up to 50mph for 1-3 harnessed maniacs willing to pay a fortune to be whisked high above the river below. Sure, I felt like a weak little infant when I saw kids under 13 making the leap, but I doubt the young and vigorous are at risk for crapping their pants in public.

At long last, it made sense to wrap up the day with a magic show, with Christian Augustine displaying his talents a short walk away at the Plaza Theatre. Billed as a "Las Vegas entertainer featured on MTV and the Discovery Channel", Augustine (and his waif of an assistant) spent all of 15 minutes dazzling the packed house, though the standard tricks were impressive in their own way. I mean, can you make a banana disappear in a scarf? Or make a woman float before your very eyes? Sure, Christian is there to steal your wallet - it's no accident that he spent more time telling people about the high-priced gags and gifts in the lobby than on actual magic - but wasting cash on crap is why we come to a place like this, is it not?

Though unseen by us, visitors can also take trail rides with the Watt Mule Company, stare at unhappy animals in the Wapiti Western Wildlife Park, or spin around the Antique Replica Carousel, which appeared to be throwing kids aside with a blistering fury. And it goes without saying that there's a petting zoo, though I've always heard that these creatures are usually sick, depressed, and ready to spit on daffy tourists without warning. Not this time. We'd had a full day, were a bit stiff, but no worse for the wear, and even gave in to the spirit of the place by purchasing a shitty blue bell to commemorate our visit. The Royal Gorge Bridge and Park had been seen at last. Now here's hoping we don't soon see that potato salad.

Side Dish: Museum of Colorado Prisons 7/16/11

Canon City, Colorado is known for two things: the Royal Gorge and prisons. If you've lived in the Centennial State for any length of time, you've likely encountered someone who speaks of visiting an unfortunate friend or family member at the joint, or perhaps you've done a little stretch yourself. In that sense, it's a company town, where the chain restaurants and fleabag motels are dwarfed only by the prevailing attitude that cracking down on crime is a good thing. The more saps who break the law, from murder to armed robbery, the better it is for the locals. Given this love affair with locking people up and throwing away the key, it's only natural that this little town in the southern half of the state feature the Museum of Colorado Prisons; an ode to the Big House, yes, but also one hell of a good time. Never has human suffering been so delightful.

For a mere $7 per person, one can experience the bright side of jail, the one without riots, rape, bad food, and deafening noise. Even before one enters the museum, the fun begins immediately with an actual "front lawn" gas chamber. One can walk in, snap humorous photos, and forget that suffocating on cyanide vapors is one grisly way to die. No matter, as this is Americana, and if you're here, you're not about to play any violins for the criminal type. After the yucks have subsided, walk in the front door, pay your dues, and choose between an audio or self-guided tour. We selected the latter, if only because the handbook was fairly detailed, and we wanted to poke around at our own pace. First off, it's interesting to note that the current attraction was once the Colorado Women's Correctional Institution from 1935 to 1968. At its peak, 30-45 female inmates were stored here like so much cordwood; that is, if we are to believe the cells are an accurate reflection of the past. I'm sure the reality was far worse.

The museum opened for business on June 13, 1988, receiving almost all of its funding from donations, fundraisers, and admission fees. The guide book also tells us that the museum is unique in that "it was the first prison museum located adjacent to an active prison." It's an important fact, as such a museum can only make sense in the context of the town itself, where criminality is how everyone makes their living, for good or bad. As said, the self-guided tour is choking with great history and colorful tales of woe. For example, who knew that seven correctional officers were killed in a brutal 1929 riot? There's a memorial to their sacrifice, though its impact is somewhat lessened by the kitschy mannequins and tabloid headlines dotting the walls. Each cell lining the main hall is a diorama of sorts, where a particular theme is addressed with plaques, displays, and replications, and it's fair to say that they're all quite fascinating. From gang violence to a laundry list of Colorado's executions, it runs the gamut with clinical, albeit goofy, detachment.

Admittedly, there's a curious deference to Colorado's past prison wardens, and a few too many examples of prison's "bright side", from musical instruments to toys crafted by the prisoners themselves. It's important to note that prison isn't all lesbian guards pistol-whipping convicts and the like, but the guiding principle of incarceration lies in a wall display conveniently tucked in the far corner of the hall. On it, we learn that prisoners who were caught engaging in homosexual activity were once forced to wear a dress and push carts filled with heavy rocks. I'm fairly certain that was only the first day's humiliation. Another telling display was near the end, where we learn that Woodpecker Hill, the part of Pioneer Cemetery in Canon City where expired prisoners were laid to rest, was teeming with the truly unwanted. In fact, over 600 inmates were buried without ever having been claimed by family or loved ones. It's a sad end to the tour, but not so depressing that one can't be cheered up by another mannequin.

With all the standard, dry, stuffed-animal variety of museum, it's encouraging that we can also pay tribute to the darker side of life. The odd and the creepy also have a place in our cultural landscape, and how else are we to see the showers, kitchens, and paper-thin mattresses that once surrounded our homegrown law-breakers? History is more than heroism, and with America leading the world in sending its citizens to jail, why not a place where it all hits home? Additionally, why not a gift shop to wrap it all up, where a tourist can pay $45 for a gen-u-ine jailbird carving? Or, if your wallet's a bit light, perhaps a replica license plate, like the ones actually made on the premises so many years ago? No, I'll stay focused on that one cell's display where I learned that at one point, an 11-year-old sat in a Colorado prison for murdering his sister, who, at the time, was wrapping Christmas gifts. It's a bit of nasty truth amidst the gawking that keeps us grounded, that is, until the cashier at the front interrupts your reflection to ask if you can make that night's ghost tour. If only we could.

In Lehman's Terms: Great Basin Nat'l Park 7/3/11

After a nerve-racking automotive experience on a lonely mountain the day before, and an oven-inspired blast of 108 incomprehensible degrees as we drove an hour out of our way to Washington City, Utah, for a taste of In-N-Out, we craved relaxation. Driving 142 miles on bleak backroads to achieve this welcome respite might not sound redemptive, but for us, it was a new day, a different car, and much cooler temperatures. What could go wrong? While that innocent question often precedes disaster, there would be no such thing on this Sunday morning. Awaiting us at the end of this rainbow was Great Basin National Park (established in 1986, making it one of the more recent additions to the park system), a sagebrush-covered valley and mountain range that features, as a delightful bonus, the former National Monument of Lehman Caves (itself protected by President Harding in 1922). And while the park itself is tailored more to the hikers and adventurers among us, it is the cave that will live on in our memory, and not only because we are too lazy to huff and puff our way to the Bristlecone pines.

While Carlsbad Caverns will always stand alone as the ultimate cave experience in the United States, Lehman Caves is no mere pretender; its depth and beauty stand toe-to-toe with the New Mexican giant, eclipsed only by an overall size and scope. Existing as a single cavern, Lehman has no "big room" or endless passageways, but during the 90-minute Grand Palace Tour (a bargain at $10 each), there's literally no end to the child-like excitement. Few places command one's full attention, but Lehman hasn't an empty moment to offer. From the first stop to the last, the formations - those indelible images of limestone - challenge the eye with the usual stalactites, stalagmites, columns, and draperies, but also an unusually dense collection of shields, which are defined as, "two roughly circular plates fastened like flattened clam shells, often with graceful stalactites and draperies hanging from their lower plate." This wasn't simply a standard tour of endurance; this was a genuine treat, and dare I say, fun.

If you do happen upon Great Basin (unlikely, given its remote location, away from any sort of accidental highway pulloff), take advantage of this longer tour (and please, book ahead, because they fill up quickly), as you'll visit the Gothic Palace, Music Room, Lodge Room, Inscription Room, and the Grand Palace. Additionally, you'll have a bird's eye view of the Parachute, which is the cave's most dramatic example of shield work. And while there's no shortage of the remarkable and the unusual, Lehman would not have been Lehman without Steve, our tour guide. If it was possible to clone a ranger and send him across the country selling the joy of the NPS, it would be this man, body and soul. Older but spry, humorous yet understated, Steve was a fountain of knowledge, folklore, charm, and wit, and his insistence on inclusion - he made every member of the tour feel connected to the experience - demonstrated that while rangers have much to teach, they are only as strong as the visitors who accompany them. From the dramatically sly way in which he introduced the opening room (one could see it alone and leave satisfied) to the slew of anecdotes and trivia he threw in our direction, Steve spoke authoritatively, but never with the assumption that he alone had access to the cave's mysteries. Lehman, all by its lonesome, is extraordinary, but Steve was the grand cherry on top, and surely the best guide we've ever encountered.

So while Lehman Caves made our day - and alone is worth the drive - we still had more to do at Great Basin, and headed directly to the Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive, which, in its 12 miles, gains over 3,400 feet in elevation. It's a steep, winding drive, but along the way, you get a killer view of the surrounding basin below, as well as a densely packed forest of Englemann spruce and Douglas fir (among other flowers and trees). A good first stop is the Mather Overlook, which offers a sublime look at the still-snowcapped Wheeler Peak (13,063 feet), as well as a rock formation that would not be out of place at Chiricahua National Monument in Arizona. The air is crisp (the snow - in July - is still there for a reason) and clean, and while a long hike beckons, we're pretty certain hikers should carry provisions of some kind. Having no food, water, or first aid kits, we remained firmly attached to civilization and its paved roads. Sure, we desperately wanted to see Stella and Teresa Lakes, the Rock glacier, and those ancient Bristlecones, but trails ranged from several tough miles to all-day slogs, and those storm clouds weren't going away any time soon. We saw what we could (of course it wasn't enough), but take pity on us nonetheless. At least we know our limitations.

Of the two visitor centers (one is near the cave, the other a few miles down in the town of Baker), the latter is the superior offering, if only because it has better displays and a newer, more professional sheen. Curiously, they both showed the same film, an ancient relic from the 1960s that speaks to the cave's history and geology, but remains silent on the greater park. The VCs also highlight the park's night skies program which, if you believe the pictures, appears to be one of the best in the world. With little to no light pollution in the area, there's no end to what one can see with the naked eye, and we were crushed that we had to press on. Believe me, we'd love to come back for the privilege, and would even stay the night in that depressing, roach-infested motel in Baker to make it happen. Oh yes, and to see if Steve is available for one more peek at that glorious cave.

FINAL RATING

9/10

Cedar Breakdown: Cedar Breaks Nat'l Monument 7/2/11

The whole idea behind a rental car is that it relieves you of the worries of your own vehicle, including adding hard road trip mileage to an already overburdened engine. Until now, we've always taken for granted that a rental will, because of its relative new-ness, take on every challenge with nary a peep, sputter, or gripe. Again, until now. Thanks to Enterprise, and our good friends at Toyota, that long streak of carefree rentals has come to an end. On the way to Cedar Breaks National Monument, a high-altitude wonder pushing beyond 10,000 oxygen-deprived feet, our car decided it would take its own vacation from running properly. As we climbed up the steep grades along Highway 143 through the Brian Head ski resort, the car bucked, spit, and died right there on an unusually difficult uptick. Fearing a dead battery or something of that sort, I started and re-started the car, at one point slamming the accelerator to the floor. Even when the car remained fired, putting it into drive immediately brought about the herky-jerky action that ended in a stall. Were we really stuck on this damned mountain? Not yet at our destination and far too committed to turn back? Could we, perhaps, coast down the hill? Walk to the visitor center? Flag down a car and ask to be driven off a cliff?

Thankfully, and against all odds, Brooke's cell phone had service in this no man's land, and we contacted Enterprise. After an incredulous moment or two in the face of (gulp) perhaps having to ask a taxi to pick us up, or even wait roadside while a new car was brought all the way from Las Vegas, I decided to give the car one more try. After all, it had been quiet for about a half-hour at that point, and we had nothing left to believe in. Not only did it start, but it began to move. I had no idea how long this good fortune would last, so I hit the gas with cautious optimism and Brooke finished up with Enterprise. They'd still bring a new car our way, but we told them to have it ready at our hotel in Cedar City, which was twenty or so miles down the long, steep highway. Needless to say, two of the pullouts before the visitor center - Chessman Ridge Overlook and Sunset View - while beautiful, were only casually noticed, as we were pretty much certain the car was going to die again at any moment. We looked, but we did not inhale. My hatred for this car was growing by the minute.

Good god, is that the visitor center? It was like an oasis before us, beckoning our bitter, weary souls with the respite of unparalleled views. We knew that even if the car blew itself up from here on, we'd have completed this leg of the journey with photos and passport stamps firmly secured. The site was remarkably busy (it is close to a fairly large town), the air crisp and fresh, and the walk from the parking lot both unoppressive and easy. Point Supreme, clocking in at 10,350 feet, is the main attraction, and the best possible view of the Cedar Breaks amphitheater. At first blush, it's almost unreal in its staggering beauty, even if it's just, as some might say, a poor man's Bryce Canyon. I would never be so dismissive, of course, but it's not entirely unfair to suggest that it is a bit of a haul for what amounts to a single eye-popping location. One can hike (there are two highcountry trails that are not advisable for fatties, especially at this altitude), but it's enough to take it all in from the safety of level ground.

The visitor center, despite being a haven after a heartless drive, is damn near obsolete, what with its Depression-era origins and impossibly small interior. It's more akin to a closet, and don't even think about asking for displays or a park film. It's enough that they have magnets and the passport station, but with this site pretty much closed half the year, perhaps it makes sense to keep things modest. Check around the internet and you're bound to find a photo of the VC in winter, where snow drifts all but reach the building's roof. Because it's only possible to kill five minutes within its log cabin-like walls, the VC is quickly abandoned for the aforementioned overlook. From right to left, one is left to behold spires, columns, arches, and canyons, and the iron and manganese bring about a stunning mix of red, yellow, and purple that seems impossible in anyplace but the Utah mountains.

So did we get the total experience at Cedar Breaks? You need to ask? The place stands tall in its own right, and should not suffer for being in such close proximity to Bryce, but given our frazzled nerves, I'm still not sure I'd have been in the right frame of mind had five hundred naked beach bunnies risen up from the monument's floor to escort me to a massage table. We were stressed, paranoid, and still not out of the woods, and from that unsatisfying position, we all but pushed through on autopilot. That said, Cedar Breaks, while not necessarily a destination spot, must be on anyone's radar when visiting the Beehive State. Perhaps we too will be back again some day, less troubled, no doubt, and driving our own blasted car, mileage be damned.

FINAL RATING

7.5/10