Here we are in Redstone
Queen Nefertiti (our name for her) in Arches National Park
John, our MOG guide, and son Jamie holding hands
Objects in the desert air may appear larger than they actually are.
A view from inside the hole John drove the MOG into
Some of the terrain we navigated (or rather John navigated) in the amazing MOG
Ted, John and Jamie with the MOG monster
This is what the MOGs looked like in their former lives.
July 13, 2007
One time sometime in the nineties, Mary Lou was visiting us in Beaver Creek. Over breakfast at Bob’s Place one day, we had a sudden impulse to take a trip. We finished up the bacon and eggs, went home and packed a few things and went to Crested Butte for an overnight. That began the tradition of what became known as the Grand Turisimo. Truth is we only did it three times, but each time the trip became more elaborate and we always had lots of fun—the three of us in one room usually giggling like teenagers into the night. I think we stopped going after the fourth year when our destination was the relatively close Rocky Mountain National Park and we never did find a place to stay. It was registration week at U of C in Boulder and there wasn’t a hotel room to be had for miles around, and of course we had no advance reservation--that would be too sensible. Driving home over mountain roads at midnight was not fun.
But this year, with that unpleasant memory faded, and with Ted newly retired, we decided to renew the tradition—Grand Turisimo + Ted. We discussed going to the Grand Canyon, but four or five days didn’t seem enough time to do it justice and would involve an awful lot of driving. A little more advance planning (for a change) would be prudent for such a sojourn.
Thus, the fourth of July party having been successfully concluded yet again, Tom and I and Mary Lou and Ted set out for Moab, Utah the morning of July 6. It’s about a four hour drive to Moab, made quite palatable by the beautiful mountain scenery, pleasant conversation and an occasional community crossword puzzle. Tom and I had been to Moab seven or eight years earlier, and we were easily lured back by the stunning red rocks of Arches and Canyonlands National Parks and the funky little town of Moab itself. Mary Lou and Ted had never been.
We pulled into town about one, had lunch at the same beer joint we had eaten in the first time, and then went to find the Sunflower Hill Inn. I had made reservations at La Quinta, deciding it would be the lesser of all the evils, but in the meantime, Mary Lou had found the Sunflower Hill on the internet. I don’t know how I missed it but I did. I canceled La Quinta and she booked us at Sunflower Hill. To say it was a pleasant surprise would be an understatement! It consists of several buildings—the main house and two other houses that have been annexed to make up the entire complex. It has an English Victorian look mixed with Old West Country. There is a lovely pool which we didn’t use, a kitchen where you can store food or whatever, a laundry if you needed it, and charming English style gardens throughout the grounds.
The first night we shared a two bedroom suite, country décor to the max but quite pleasant and a mere flight of stairs down to the lovely breakfast room and outdoor patio where the superb included breakfast was served buffet style. The second two nights we had separate rooms. We only had to have our things together and they moved us while we were out. Ours was the French Room, a beautiful antique filled oasis that reminded me a little of our room at the Hilton Park in Clones a mere couple of months ago. I only saw ML and T’s room briefly, but it looked to be every bit as inviting. Our room was in the main house and in the morning I would don my Sunflower Hill robe and go down to the Great Room where the coffee was waiting to be poured. Not a soul was about on either morning, so my state of undress happily went unobserved.
I think we would have been content to stay on the grounds the whole three days, but that of course was not the purpose of our trip. We had driven through the Arches, the closer of the two parks, the first afternoon, and we were awed again by the majesty of the red rocks which plunge into deep canyons where the Colorado River can be seen hundreds of feet below. Before that introduction we had stopped in the Information Center in Moab and we asked the Swedish gentlemen, Jan, what we should do in our allotted two and a half days in the area. In addition to Arches and Canyonlands, he suggested we call John Marshall. I had read about Hummer tours which are popular there, but hadn't been successful in drumming up much enthusiasm from the group. Jan said to visit John—his set-up was better than a Hummer tour.
So we drove the couple of blocks (Moab is only about a mile long) to John’s Coyote Tour place and it was closed. Luckily, we didn’t just drive away and forget it. A couple who ran the shop next door said to call him at the number on the door. But our phones were not working! Not to worry said the gentleman, use ours. He then dialed the number, handed me the phone, and John himself answered. I told him he had been recommended by Jan at the Info Center and did he have any openings in the next two days. Be at the office tomorrow at nine, he said, and off we’ll go. A quick conference with my mates and we were booked. At $50 a head, it was cheaper than a Hummer as well.
This adventure is reminiscent of our day in Ping An. Talk about not having any idea what to expect! After the deal was done, I realized I hadn’t even asked where we would be going, but we assumed it would be to Arches or Canyonlands. WRONG! We showed up the next morning on time and there he was waiting, a true mountain man, quite good looking I might add, with nine year old son Jamie as adoring appendage and helper.
Oh, I forgot the most important thing that attracted us in the first place: The vehicles that John uses are forty-year-old converted Mercedes military transport trucks from Germany called “MOGS”. He and his brother Jesse have acquired five of these beauties and completely transformed them into seriously formidable four-wheel drive open-aired touring machines. He had pictures of the trucks as they looked before their transformation. Picture a camouflage painted army truck with a truck bed that could carry supplies and equipment, or maybe twenty men, over difficult terrain during war time. I don’t think these particular trucks were actually used during wartime, because WWII was over by then, but they certainly could have been.
John and Jesse bought them from the German government, painted them yellow, built large protective steel pipe barriers around the outside in case of rollover, and outfitted them with six to twelve comfortable leather seats. A Hummer cannot even hold its own next to these beauties! The “air conditioning” consisted of a spray bottle filled with water which Jamie would spray into the air now and then to cool us off. We each had our own spray bottle as well to use at will. Believe me, it works!
Our first question was, are we going to Arches or Canyonlands (a thirty mile drive, so less desirable in our eyes). Neither he tells us, these vehicles are not allowed in the National Parks. Oh no, sez he, we are going to Hell’s Revenge! And away we went.
Hell’s Revenge is an area only about ten minutes from Moab which is popular with four-wheelers, bikers, hikers, and other crazy people with no sense. After chugging along the highway in our MOG for ten minutes or so, we entered through the trailhead, the only legal entrance. It was as if the MOG was given a new lease on life! It went from a chug-a-lug heaving truck to a graceful climbing beast as it crawled over terrain that we couldn’t believe. Hell’s Revenge is in an area called Sand Flats and that’s what it looks like. Huge red rocks that look like hardened sand, scruffy vegetation, steep cliffs of all sizes, up and down terrain unsuitable for any vehicle, let alone this huge gaping thing. The pictures don't do justice to this piece of earth--it is awe-inspiring, desolate and grand. We saw lone bikers, tourists in rented jeeps (truly crazy people), and of course other tour guides in various four-wheel machines, usually asking John for directions.
But the MOG handled the terrain in true German style, and better than any of the others that we could see. John had told us at the outset to expect some pretty difficult terrain but not to worry, that he had never had an accident in five years, and the vehicle itself had never broken down. Still we didn’t understand until we got there what he meant. We climbed up 45 degree angles and down what seemed even steeper. I looked up at one point and saw a jeep parked atop a huge rock and couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there, but we were soon to park there as well. All the while John is regaling us with jokes, stories and the shtick he and Jamie had obviously worked out together: John (stopped at the top of a cliff): Uh oh, Jamie, we’re in big trouble now. Jamie (looking scared): Oh no, Dad, what are we gonna do? This just before we proceeded down the cliff hell bent for election in our trusty four-wheel military transport truck. At one point, he drove the thing into a huge hole—huge, but only huge enough to hold our vehicle, because once we were in it, we were completely surrounded by a single expanse of rock, at the bottom in total cavernous quiet. A few minutes to ponder the enormity of the feat, and out we drove on the other side of the hole. All the while I’m wondering how the tires, let alone the engine, can survive even one of these trips much less two a day, but survive we did.
Although the trip was advertised to be 3-4 hours, we didn’t get back to the base until 2:15, five plus hours from when we started, so I guess he liked us. He recommended the Moab Diner for lunch and said he and Jamie would be along to eat there as well.
Mary Lou and I had figured out his story without asking: he told us he had been an engineer in California up until seven years ago, traveling all the time, full of stress, no time to be with his child, the usual. He didn’t say the following but we surmised that he told his wife, Guess what honey, we’re moving to Moab and I’m going to start a four wheel drive tour company; you’ll love it—110 degrees in the summer, nothing to do, 8,000 friendly folk, you’ll love it…
No way says she, and that was that. Jamie no doubt visits for the summer and idolizes his faraway dad the rest of the time. A sad but oft repeated scenario. Note the picture of the two of them holding hands...
Now here’s the rest of the story Mary Lou and I fantasized together. He had told us that in addition to his touring activities he did search and rescue for the local fire department and back at the office he proudly showed us a recent Reader’s Digest with a story about him and another rescuer saving a woman who had gone with her dog into Hell’s Revenge on a run. Although an expert athlete, she fell, broke her pelvis (!) and languished for two days, trying to inch her way back to her car despite terrible pain, and finally when she didn’t think she would survive, she sent her dog for help. Apparently, a dog will stay with its master until it thinks the master is dying and then will actually leave in search of help.
Meanwhile, John had been called to search for her because by then she had been reported missing, saw the dog and ultimately saved her. Guess who showed up in the Moab Diner after John and Jamie were seated in their booth: an athletic young woman who clearly was John’s main squeeze. We didn’t think much about it, but fortuitously, later in the trip, we came upon the May issue of Reader’s Digest which we promptly nabbed and read the story in detail. It told the dramatic saga, and showed not only pictures of John and the other principal rescuer, but the young woman! ML and I are convinced the woman in the diner was the same woman. Ah, the stories that could be written on that slender thread of a plot…
After three days in Moab, we packed our things and reluctantly left the Sunflower Hill, and left for home via Crested Butte, our third time in this mountain village known for skiing and the Wildflower Festival in full swing at the moment. We had no reservations, so we had to settle for the Nordic Inn, an uninspired seventies motel on the ski mountain. But not to worry, the main purpose of our excursion to Crested Butte was to have dinner yet again at Slogar's, the chicken place that we swooned over on our first Grand Turisimo back in the nineties. Served family style with mashed potatoes, corn and biscuits, it scream's MOM'S HOME COOKIN' at its finest. Not that my mom ever made fried chicken (too much mess), but someone's mom does and this is what it tastes like. It's enough to make one swoon with ecstasy. We tried to make reservations but were told it was closed for a private party (OH NO), but to show up anyway and maybe they could take us. Sure enough, there was a sign on the door saying private party and inside people were milling about. But wait! Some people seemed to be leaving! In fact, a lot of people were leaving! So we walked in and asked the barmaid what was going on. Turned out the party was just about over, so we had a drink at the bar, feasted on the world's best fried chicken and we were the only people in the place! They had neglected to take the sign off of the door and most people, being less persistent than we, had taken them at their word. We had the undivided attention of the whole establishment. Someone should have gotten fired, or at least reprimanded, over that faux pas.
Later, we walked around Crested Butte a bit, went home to our cozy nest at the Nordic and the next day drove home amid more gorgeous Colorado scenery, the latest Grand Turisimo another fond memory.
