Revisiting places and friends in Colorado
After a week packed with family time, hot chicken, and van repairs, it was time to retreat back into the mountains for some much-needed decompression. We didn’t have a destination in mind — we rarely do — but we know the Rockies well enough to trust that something would turn up. It always does.
A couple hours’ climb from Denver brought us to Buena Vista (pronounced “Boona Vista,” as the locals insist). We almost settled into a familiar BLM spot we’d camped before, but nostalgia doesn’t scratch the adventure itch. Just across the Arkansas River was more public land — new dirt, same mountains — so we swung Marcel through town, crossed the bridge, and started a slippery five-mile trek that gained us maybe two hundred yards as the crow flies.
Rain mixed with snow as we followed the old railroad grade along the river, through the Midland Tunnels, and past a few campgrounds that didn’t quite vibe with us. Too tidy, too obvious. A few miles later, we found our spot — a cozy pullout perched high above the river with a front-row view down the valley. Perfect for hiding from civilization.
It rained and snowed most of our stay, which suited us just fine. We stayed tucked inside, furnace humming, laptops open, watching flakes swirl through the canyon. If there’s such a thing as peaceful productivity, that was it.
Three days later, the nomad itch struck — the one that says, you’ve stared at this view long enough. We packed up, rolled out, and aimed south, planning only to get “a little further” before stopping again. About an hour later, a gravel road lured us off the highway and into rolling ranchland. Fifteen miles ahead lay more public land — or so the map promised.
We didn’t get that far. A herd of sheep, complete with barking dogs and horseback cowboys, poured across the road, blocking our path entirely. Instead of groaning about delays, we shut off the engine and just watched the show — a living river of wool brushing against Marcel’s steel sides. The dogs worked like pros, the cowboys waved, and the whole scene was so perfectly Wyoming-meets-Colorado it felt staged.
We drove on after the last straggler passed, snapped a quick photo at the nearby natural arch, and parked in a quiet pullout a quarter mile away. Solar panels out, coffee poured, silence restored. Another two nights slipped away without effort. Out here, nothing much happens — which is exactly the point.
All this “recovery from civilization” had a purpose. We had a date in Pagosa Springs, just over the next mountain — a long-overdue reunion with our dear friends Beth and Taylor Banks, former full-time nomads who traded the road for a few peaceful acres against the National Forest. We hadn’t seen them since February 2020. When we pulled up and parked beneath their lone shade tree, facing back toward the mountains, it immediately felt like home. Marcel still carried a hundred pounds of Wyoming-to-Colorado mud, but no one seemed to mind.
We didn’t know how long we’d stay. Two days? Two weeks? We decided to let good company make the call. The first night we found ourselves at an annual pig roast on a nearby ranch. Then came Taylor’s birthday, followed by three separate hot springs visits (strictly for comparison purposes, of course), and a culinary tour of nearly every restaurant in town. I don’t think we cooked a single meal in the van all week — which did cause some spoilage issues, but that’s the price of friendship.
Eight days later, we finally rolled away from Pagosa, full of food, laughter, and the kind of memories that settle in like dust. Turns out, half the town is made up of ex-nomads who hung up their keys — a Hotel California for vanlifers. We love our friends dearly, but our wheels start twitching after too long. So we saddled up Marcel, waved goodbye, and hit the road once more. Time to get dusty again.
