From Frozen Foxes to Hot Chicken
After three days camped at 10,000 feet with the foxes, we finally cried uncle. The cold had seeped through everything — the van, our bones, even the coffee. So we rolled off the mountain the same way we’d climbed it, chasing warmer air. Even Marcel had started complaining, tugging to the right every time I hit the brakes. That sealed it: instead of pushing farther into the backcountry, we’d retreat toward civilization — just in case “pulling right” turned into “pulling over permanently.”
We dropped down into Walden, Colorado, but before heading into town proper, we spent a night just outside at Walden Reservoir. The place was nothing fancy — a high-desert, windswept kind of beautiful — but it had that quiet, open feel that always wins us over. A small herd of pronghorn wandered through in the evening, again in the morning, like neighbors politely checking who had moved in. The wind howled all night, but the scenery made up for it.
By the next afternoon, we rolled into town, and Marcel hadn’t gotten worse, which felt like a win. We stopped to top off our water tanks at a local campground, which featured one of those nostalgic, old-school hand pumps. Quaint, right? Except the next day we discovered our tanks were full of rusty, chunky “water.” Apparently, my enthusiastic pumping only helped stir up the iron flakes of history.
Blissfully unaware of the rust problem at the time, we turned southeast to meet our old friend, the Rocky Mountains, aiming to cross via Highway 14. I knew the road — tight, twisty, and brake-heavy — which wasn’t ideal with Marcel’s current attitude problem. Near the top, we spotted a dirt road leading into public land and convinced ourselves we should call it a night. The spot was peaceful enough to forget about schedules – almost. When we did finally roll out, I talked Kerri into rerouting north to Red Feather Lakes Road, a gentler descent down the Rockies that spared Marcel’s brakes (and my nerves). Sometimes, taking the long way down is the smartest kind of lazy.
For months, Kerri had been talking about one thing: Dave’s Hot Chicken. We’d missed it back in Seattle, and ever since, every meal had been compared against it — and failed. I even tried to make her some home made hot chicken. Although it was good, it just “wasn’t the same”. Finally, the college town of Fort Collins delivered hot chicken salvation. We pulled in, ordered enough to feed an army, and watched Kerri return to her true, spicy-sauced self. It was good to have my wife back — and to be back on the Front Range, the stomping grounds of Tim 2.0.
From Fort Collins it was a short drive to Longmont, where the whole plan was to visit my son — and my dog, Moose, who now lives with him. We parked at my old Moose Lodge, which felt fitting, and settled in for a week of family time, Amazon deliveries, and sore muscles. Those packages? All new brakes — every corner of Marcel. I swapped the fronts one day, then spent the next recovering before tackling the rears. My body protested, but the van was happy again.
Marcel got a well-deserved makeover while we were in town — a full day at the spa for our faithful four-wheeled companion. First up: five brand-new boots. I’d noticed cracking on the old all-terrain tires that came with the purchase, and while they’d served us well, it was time for retirement. Nothing like fresh tread to put some swagger back in a van’s step. Next, I sweet-talked a local welder into fabricating and installing a custom mount for the spare tire — now proudly hanging off the rear door instead of being strapped up top like an afterthought. That little upgrade should keep the back end from swaying so much on rough roads (and, let’s be honest, it just looks cool). While the welder had his torch out, I asked him to take a look at the front bumper, which had clearly taken a love tap at some point in its past life. A broken bracket and a sad bend later, Marcel’s grin was had always been a little crooked. A few sparks and a freshly welded bracket later, his smile was back to factory fresh — maybe even better. By the end of the day, Marcel stood taller, straighter, and prouder — ready to hit the next dirt road like a new man.
Somewhere in there, I decided it was time to deal with our rusty water situation. I spent an entire afternoon flushing, scrubbing, and bleaching out our tanks, armed with buckets, hoses, and a questionable amount of optimism. By the time I finished, the water ran clear — and the van smelled faintly like a public swimming pool. Not ideal, but at least it was clean.
With Marcel quiet, cleaned up, and freshly braked, we rolled out of Longmont feeling fixed, fed, and recharged. Denver flashed by, and soon the Rockies beckoned us up once more — calling us back to the wild, where civilization fades and the next chapter begins. Longmont was the precipice of this trip in Marcel. From here we head South to warmer climate, then turn West to reconnect with more family by the holidays, and before we head back to New Zealand to rescue our boat.
Oh, and get this; Longmont also has a Dave’s Hot Chicken. By week’s end we’d eaten there once again and stocked our freezer with enough spicy poultry for three more meals on the road. I didn’t fight it — mostly because I was too full to argue.
