Brian A. Hopkins Pierre
Adventure Mouse

"Four Corners Tour"
Capulin National Monument, Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado Rockies, Slumgullion Pass

On Friday morning, the 23rd of May, Brian roused his sorry butt outta bed, brushed his teeth, and crawled on his Triumph Tiger, which he'd loaded the night before. I was already on the bike, of course, gnawing feverishly (and hopelessly) at that damn zip-tie. There ensued a rapid-transit ass-hauling out the very boring Interstate Forty to Amarillo, Texas. Nothing to see here, folks. Lock the throttle and go. Wind turbines humming happily. That stupid giant cross. Cadillacs buried in the prairie. Four hours of flatland and 18-wheelers (which Brian is not happy with unless they are dwindling in his mirrors).

At an Arby's in Amarillo, we met our traveling companions and their land-yacht two-wheeler commonly known as a Goldwing. It's not gold. It's not a wing. But that's what Honda named it. Go figure. You know the Goldwing's pilot and passenger from previous excursions, of course. Greg, Gregger, the Alien, the Oatmeal Kid ... Assmunch. Whatever you want to call him. And then there's the lovely Elaine, Easy E, the Tire Fairy, Helmet Lady, etc. They live in Irving, Texas with a buncha cats (oh the horror!) and are about as nutty as bahwolf, maybe even more so. The Alien loves to ride. Elaine loves to eat, sleep, and pet critters.

Now, I have to pause right here and explain something about the Alien and his Wing. He wasn't supposed to be on the Wing, you see. Recently, Brian's friend Danny (yeah, the same guy he just ran over, breaking three of the poor bastard's ribs -- with friends like Brian, who needs enemies, eh?) decided to get "a brand spanking new, shiny red 2008 BMW R1200GS Adventure" (you have to say that in a silly sing-song voice like Brian and Danny do every time they talk about the bike, Brian with tears welling up in his eyes, Danny with a sort of twisted glee akin to Hannibal Lector about to slurp up somebody's liver). To get the new GS, Danny needed to unload his old GS. Brian conned Elaine into buying Danny's old GS for the Alien, convincing her that then the Alien would be able to take her all kinds of cool places off-the-beaten-path, places where that pig of a Goldwing couldn't go. This was to be one of those adventures, featuring gravel roads and gnarly mountain passes and manly dirt and whatnot (the kinda stuff that had destroyed Brian's first Tiger, but he's too stupid to learn from his past mistakes). Only problem: the Alien's a wanker and thinks his tender, over-moisturized ass can't sit on anything other than a big comfy Goldwing saddle for an entire day. So, while the Alien was supposed to show up in Amarillo mounted on the GS that Elaine had just bought for him, he did in fact show up on his Goldwing ... earning himself a new nickname: Mangina. For the entire trip, he was known as the Alien Mangina from the planet Pussywillow. Brian would often ask him if he needed a tampon or maybe some Pamprin or something.

Lunch was had at Arby's ... for the humans. Nobody offered me a damn thing. "Watch the bikes, Pierre."  Bastards.

After lunch, we headed across the mesas and arroyos of the Texas panhandle and northeastern New Mexico. It rained. The humans all donned rain gear. I got wet. Wet and cold. "Don't complain, Pierre." Bastards.

First stop was the Capulin volcano, which Brian had been past a half dozen times without stopping. It was -- to say the least -- anticlimactic. I think the Mangina's photo below, taken on the rim of the volcano's crater, sums up how we all felt. Uh huh...very nice...moving on. The ride up was nice, though. Round and round, spiraling up the sides of the volcano to the top, with sheer dropoffs and a magnificent view. Reminded me of riding up Mount Scott in southeastern Oklahoma. The sky was overcast and the color of my hide, however, with a constant drizzle -- so it was kinda hard to get excited about Capulin National Monument. I think it cost the humans about $5 each to get in. The cute l'il Ranger girlie just winked at me and let me in for free. I coulda probably scored with her, but, well, I'm restrained by that damn zip-tie, remember? Argh!

After seeing the volcano, we ventured on to Walsenburg, CO, where we got a room for the night. This would be our only day of inclement weather the entire trip. While the humans all snuggled in their nice room at the Anchor Motel, I stayed outside and guarded the bikes...freezing my little mousey balls off.

Saturday morning, we were off to see the Great Sand Dunes, which the Alien Mangina had totally passed by on our last trip through Colorado. Time to check off that box. Here are some photos. Whoopty-freakin'-do. A buncha sand. I stayed with the bikes while the humans walked around. How all that sand got there is beyond my caring. I did hear Brian ask the Alien what they'd been planning to build when they backed up their intergalactic dump truck and dumped all that sand there. The Alien said it wasn't what they'd planned to build with the sand, but what they had hidden UNDER the sand...and would say no more.

The dunes were pretty cool and inexplicable (big word for a mouse, eh?), sitting there in total contrast to the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. There were people splashing across the frigid stream and hiking up the shifting sand slopes (like ants in the distance). It looked like a long walk. My humans aren't really walkers. They're riders. If Brian had had his dirtbike with him, I'm sure he'd have gone ripping right up to the top.

Afterward, Brian, Elaine, and the Mangina had lunch at this really cool hippy/organic place in Del Norte called the Organic Peddler and Piece of Art Cafe. (Nothing for me.) Then it was up into the mountains, bound for Lake City where we had reservations for the night. Here are some pretty mountain shots you can feast your peepers on. Click 'em to make 'em big in a separate window. I'll still be here when you come back...

There was a lot of snow at higher elevations. In fact, all the locals we talked to said that they'd gotten more snow this past winter than in something like the previous sixty winters. Enough snow, in fact, that they were thinking Lake Powell would return to its former glory after suffering a long drought that had left it 80 feet lower than normal. Think about it: 80 feet of water across the enormity of Lake Powell...that's a hell of a lot of water! The Blue Mesa Reservoir and other large bodies of water in Colorado had all been drained and lay crackling dry and barren in the sun, all in preparation for the enormous snow melt that was anticipated. Lake Powell's restoration prompted Brian to suggest that we visit it on this trip. He'd been wanting to do the ferry crossing for a long time.

We passed a lot of bikers (the usual cruiser crowd shivering in their do-rags and denim vests, too concerned about fitting in with the other lemmings to don a helmet and proper gear) going in the opposite direction. People kept asking us if we were going to some enormous biker rally at Red River. Ummm ... no thanks. Not our crowd.

Atop Slumgullion Pass (over 11,000 feet), during a snack break, the Alien announced that he was capable of talking to birds. While Elaine and Brian scoffed, the Alien proceeded to call in two of his feathered friends, squawking to them in some strange bird-like tongue. The birds came straight to him and shared his granola. Brian and Elaine were flabbergasted. These were wild birds. And they were eating out of the Mangina's hand!

I don't know what kind of birds these are, but Brian's Mom and Dad know all about birds and will hopefully chime in when they read this. Having somewhat redeemed himself with this amazing feat of critter wrangling, the Mangina was gifted with a new nickname: the Bird Whisperer. He was still a mangina, of course, but he was recognized as a mangina with skills.

The strain of all that squawking, however, did overheat the Alien's brain. It was necessary to put a snowball on top of his bald little head.

We then rode to Lake City where we had reservations for the night at the Alpine Moose Lodge. Greg and Elaine knew the owner, Chef Bruno, who was originally from France but had lived and cooked in Corpus Christi for 30 years before retiring to Colorado. Chef Bruno's a magnificent, world-renowned chef (and his wife makes incredible pastries!) and his Alpine Moose Lodge features a charming (albeit expensive) restaurant. Brian, Elaine, and Greg dined like kings that night...while I watched over the friggin' motorsickles.

              "Click me, dammit!"