On my 7th day out I was eating breakfast at a Cracker Barrel in Omaha, Nebraska. These restaurants are of the very few that cater to the needs of the RV traveler with special parking areas just for the RV. It’s nice to see their signs along the road; they make me feel at home wherever I am.
Coming into Colorado from the northeast on Interstate 76 and US 34 there’s prairie stretching across a vast expanse. As I drove further into the state, the most horrible smell accosted me.
The infamous stockyards! Thousands and thousands of cattle standing and laying in their own excrement. I sensed fear. Did they know the next leg of their journey was to be their last – the slaughter house?
I shut all the windows, closed all the vents, and played an Enya CD. It was a surreal contrast but the sense of fear dissipated. Soon I had my first glimpse of the Rockies and the stockyards were forgotten.
Just outside Estes Park, Colorado was an RV park I stayed at for the night: Spruce Lake. Walking past a small pond ringed with fishermen I stepped into the office to register and asked, “Where’s the lake?”
With a disbelieving look the woman behind the desk said, “Right out front there.” Holy Mother of Pearl, the pond was being called a lake. Culture shock for the Easterner.
While in Colorado I came across many more examples of very small bodies of water being called lakes. Oh, but the mountains, the Rocky Mountains, what a grand and glorious experience.
Anyone who says you can see it just the same in pictures or on television just has no clue. The array of sights, sounds, smells are simply and only found first hand. And once you experience them, the memories are so unique, so personal and belong to no one else.
(aka Tin Can Traveler)