Drake’s by Sebago: A Postcard from an American Road Trip

There used to be gold and silver in these hills. Take the road up from Ouray, proudly nicknamed ‘The Switzerland of America: clean, pretty, slightly disconcerting, and the slopes are pockmarked with the skeletons of long-abandoned mines propped up on stilts, sagging into the bedrock, when places like Red Mountain drew in prospectors with the promise of great fortune.

That was a long time ago, the sun shines on yellow flowers and plunging valleys as we head up and up. If you believe local myths–and some people on the internet–you can still hear the ghosts of the old miners somewhere down the shaft, but we don’t stop to check. 

We’re out West, Colorado and a bit of Utah. From Denver we drive through sunset into Estes Park and the start of the Rocky Mountain National Park. Elk roam free around the town, causing impromptu traffic jams as people crowd around them for photos. A quick piece of advice, which is probably very obvious for the Americans out there, but book your permit for the national park in advance, otherwise you’ll be forced to enjoy a very long lunch at a Bigfoot-themed cafe (with a compelling museum attached), waiting for your turn to enter its 450 miles of rivers, streams, trails and lakes. 

We pass through Timber Creek, Devil’s Gulch and Bear Paw. At its higher points, the park feels like a pumped up version of the Cairngorms, the freezing wind carving through a foggy stretch of treeless moorland. On our descent we pass the charred remains of a recent wildfire, a reminder that nature doesn’t mess about around here. 

Accompanied by the sounds of Neil Young and, for some reason, lots of Elton John, we spend countless hours on sparsely-populated highways. A dirt road leads through pine forests and a solitary ramshackle bar, The Hitching Post, four identical Dodge Rams jammed together in the carpark, a dim light peering through the gloom. We keep driving, Granby and then Kremling, through roads carved into canyons, rain pouring, and on towards Glenwood Springs. 

A cheerful woman tells us that this is where Doc Holliday succumbed to tuberculosis and being a bit too into whisky, hoping that the fresh air and hot springs would ease his ailments, which didn’t work.

Being from a country where the idea of ‘remote’ mostly means a 20 minute drive to the nearest Tesco, the Wild West is a vast assault on the senses. The towns become smaller, dustier, a little bit stranger. At Gunbarrel Station, close to the Rio Grande, we stop to refuel. Two pensioner-age cowboys in matching Stetsons lean smoking against an ice machine, while a group of Mennonite children roam around the petrol pumps. You can hear the wind knocking, and not much else. 

Moab is a squat tourist town carved out of rock. At sunset we find ourselves in Arches National Park, an otherworldly landscape of deep red dirt and jagged rock formations. “You don’t have anything like this where you’re from, do ya?” A man with a southern twang says as we gape up at Delicate Arch (the one from all the photos`) and he’s right. The South Downs is pretty nice, but it isn’t this. 

Cripple Creek, Rifle Falls, Twin Sisters Peak, Black Hawk, Mt Zirkel, Steamboat Springs, Dinosaur, Sunbeam, Stormy Peaks, Ted’s Place, Horsetooth, Moody Hill Road, Mcracken, Dragon, Silverton, Rainbow, they know how to name a place around here. If you find yourself in Montrose, head to the Town Hall Tavern and ask for Brian, the owner, and tell him that we said hello.

Into the San Juan mountains and the route to Ouray. You could be here for weeks and not see it all. There’s a man called Ron who sells antiques and vinyl records on the side of the road, has done for decades. There are oil fields and the husks of derelict barns, purple wildflowers and elk pausing to drink from cold streams. Things flatten out for a while, before bleeding into 100 shades of orange cast against brilliant blue blue skies, Castle Valley and horses grazing. A very American dichotomy between the strip malls and unfathomable natural beauty.

We spend our last night staying at a casino town called Black Hawk, which is apparently the least populous city in Colorado. A handful of tired hotels and gambling rooms on a rocky slope. “What are you doing here?” asks a shopkeeper incredulously as we head out the following morning.

“We’ve just been driving around, really,” we respond.