This is the place I was talking about in that silly romantic post about where I proposed to René.
But we sure have.
Looking at the canyon, I recognize the old rock formations. Looking at the young tent campers nearby, I realize we would have bagged on all these big RVs and us old “campers” running our noisy generators.
Last time we passed through here was in the middle of a twelve-day, four-state, 3000 mile motorcycle tour. We were young, tough, and dirty. We were true campers. We slept on the ground, cooked over one burner, and washed our dishes with rocks.
It was also the middle of July. It was hot, and there was nobody here. Perhaps we were unobservant at the time, or just too in love to observe the Gifford House. “Is that new,” we asked ourselves yesterday. Duh, the Mormon homestead is 100 years old. I’m sure glad we noticed it this time, and that they sell fresh homemade pie!
Now, the place is packed – the campground was full every night. So plan to get to Fruita early this time of year! We also noticed the tenters, eating their one-pan breakfast on the ground, and the disdain the had for RV generators in the evening. I don’t blame them. But hey, this is boondocking here in the Fruita campground. Our nightly ten dollar site fee is just as green as theirs. And we’ve paid our dues.
One morning we hiked back to the scene of the crime twelve years ago. The altar was still standing. Lightning did not strike, but we were being watched by a loving young couple of Bighorn sheep.
The next morning, we hiked the Fremont River Trail which we had missed before. And there we were visited by this herd of deer …