LITTLE ROCK — Arkansas regards tourism as a major part of the state’s economy. Any Arkansan who supports its continued good health would never give deliberately misleading information about rugged areas of the state to a tourist seeking a bit of adventure here, yet not wishing to get into an uncomfortable situation.
This profile would not fit a situation involving a certain public safety officer in Colorado. A nice September day there several years ago turned into a white-knuckle event for my wife, Wanda, and me.
We had vacationed in the Colorado mountains many times. This time noon found us in Leadville (elevation 10,200 feet) en route to Aspen. Our planned route would take us over the Continental Divide via the 12,095-foot Independence Pass, a spectacular but easy route we had driven many times. A temptation lured us into a bad dream turned real.
Leadville affords a panoramic view of the Continental Divide in the distance. Looking to the west, Mount Elbert, at 14,433 feet the highest in Colorado, can be seen to the distant left and Mount of the 14,005-foot Holy Cross in the distant right. Smack-dab in the middle somewhere out there is the 11,982-foot Hagerman Pass.
The highway map we carried depicted an “unimproved” road leading over the pass and down the west slope, and connecting with a highway familiar to us and paralleling the Frying Pan River. We knew that this route led to Basalt a few miles from Aspen. Based on our experience in driving many back roads, we wondered if this road could be negotiated in our vehicle.
Checking with a deputy in the sheriff’s office in Leadville, we advised him in detail of our past experiences-driving sometimes at 2-3 miles per hour but managing to go where we wanted so long as the roadway provided enough center clearance. The deputy said that the road was extremely rough but was passable for a regular passenger sedan, so off we went.
About six miles west of Leadville the road began a sudden and steep ascent, and quickly became very rough. Still, it was not as primitive as many we had traveled and we inched along, reaching the summit well above timberline at about 2:30 p.m. Lots of daylight lay ahead.
We spent a short time at the summit enjoying the likelihood that we were standing where few other tourists had been. While we did so, a pickup came up from the Leadville side and proceeded off the west slope without its driver bothering to slow or speak.
Almost unnoticed, the sky became lightly overcast. As we looked around,it became more heavily overcast, and then snow flurries began. It was 3 p.m. with some three hours of good daylight still ahead. But also ahead of us was a route unfamiliar and unknown.
We began the descent of the western slope. Very shortly the road became only a trail composed of sharp, ragged rocks over which we “lowered” our auto one jolt at a time. A place wide enough for turnaround was nonexistent. To attempt such, I knew, would be a mistake.
Had we tried to make our way back, the jagged rock surely would have ripped the tires to shreds. The only possible choice was to continue forward at a snail’s pace. After a few miles of this with the vehicle’s oil pan remaining intact, we felt that the trail could become no worse. We were woefully wrong. Over a rise and around a bend on the mountainside was a washout across which only a high-suspension four-wheel-drive vehicle could pass. We had nowhere to go.
With us we had warm clothing, a hatchet and an ax as well as blankets, some food, a wind-proof lighter and a tightly sealed container of charcoal starter. We could have weathered the now rapidly approaching night, but it would have been extremely uncomfortable. We decided we could “build” a road across the washout.
Using rocks carried and placed one by one-there was no shortage of supply-we built two “runways” for the wheels of the car to travel across the washout, which was about one car length long. With Wanda standing watch at the edge of a precipitous plunge of terrain to the left, I began to inch the car forward. With her guiding I carefully eased it onto our newly constructed roadway, hoping that the rocks would not give way.
White-knuckling all the way, things held together and we were across.
To our great relief, we reached a somewhat better stretch of road after only a mile or so more. We arrived in Aspen about 7 p.m. exhausted, shaken and glad to be among the comforts of our planned destination.
I have thought many times that the deputy in Leadville must have known we would encounter that washout, must have deliberately misled us for whatever reason he had in his own mind.
As a lifelong resident of Arkansas, I carry with me the hope that no Arkansan has or will ever treat a tourist here as we were treated that day in Colorado.
H.R. “Herbie” Byrd, a retired radio newsman, lives in Little Rock.
Editorial, Pages 13 on 07/26/2010