In January of 1874 he met Chief Ouray of the Uncompahgre band (Ute tribe) who recommended he and his party postpone their gold prospecting expedition from Gunnison to Breckenridge until the following spring.
He should have heeded Ouray’s advice, or better yet, those in his party should have. After encountering dangerous weather as they had been warned, the party became lost and ran out of provisions.
Packer? Party of five…
To make a long story short, Packer survived by helping himself to the others. And unlike the Donners, this was no party. After a number of trials following the gruesome discovery, Packer claimed he returned from scouting one day to find Shannon Bell roasting and feasting on human flesh. Alledging that Bell rushed him with a hatchet, Packer shot and killed him in self defense, insisting the man had gone mad and murdered all the others.
Neither the Judge nor his jury believed him.
“You man eating son of a … There was seven democrats in Hinsdale County and you ate five of them.”
— Saloon keeper Larry Dolan following Alferd Packer’s first trial.
Now, about that spelling.
You will find Alfred Griner Packer’s given name on both the man’s birth certificate and gravestone. But that’s it. Everywhere else he is referred to as Alferd, including the tattoo on his arm where the artist misspelled his name. Legend has it that is when he adopted the name Aferd, so I’m sticking to it. Get it? Sticking? Tattoo…
Where is the latest roadside attraction you visited where you learned a little history lesson? Or, what places have you been that you insist are just spelt wrong?
Our health insurance is so horrendous, we know that unless we’re bleeding to death, using it would bankrupt us. We had another opportunity to test this theory recently when a tree fell on me.
Watch Out for that Tree!
What began as a volunteer effort to clear slash piles from our community greenbelt turned into a scary reminder that life can change on a dime.
As we were preparing to wrap up the day, I was about to bend over to pick up my work gloves to leave. Then, WHAMO! A sickening CRACK! knocked me to the ground.
(this is not the tree that fell on me!)
I fell, and when I opened my eyes, I swear I heard birds chirping around my head. I wondered “What the hell?
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
A nearby volunteer had been goofing around and decided to push over the one, dead limb-less tree left in the work area, not realizing that this 25-foot tall log would fall directly on top of me. Everyone saw what was about to happen, but apparently were too dumbfounded to yell out “HEY!”
I never saw it coming as it struck me dead center on my noggin’.
EMTs showed up, a cervical collar was slapped around my neck, and in my woozy haze, my fuzzy mind heard someone say “Life flight helicopter” over a radio.
“Noooo! I will NOT go to the hospital!” I yelled out.
I could sit up, turn my head, see straight and although I felt like hell, I knew whatever had happened wasn’t going to instantly kill me. At that moment I felt strong enough to walk out on my own.
Recollections of my 2001 motorcycle crash came flooding back as I recalled the $8,000 life flight ambulance ride and the $25,000 in medical bills from one emergency room visit. No way in hell would I get in an ambulance. After all, I wasn’t bleeding or unconscious, so I didn’t need it.
After convincing Jim I didn’t need to go, and a long verbal wrestling match with the EMTs, I signed a waiver of responsiblity, and we left the scene.
Brain Hemorrhage or Just a Bad Headache?
Being one hour away from a hospital is a scary thing when you think you might need one. That evening, I felt like I might need a doctor, but I knew if I woke up in the morning, it would’ve been a waste of time and money.
What doesn’t kill ya makes you stronger, right?
The next day I felt like a truck ran over me. So away we went to see a doctor, who gave me mental competency tests to ascertain the severity of the blow.
I never realized how frightening it would be to have a doctor look you in the eye to examine your mental capacities.
After passing the test with a “D,” the doc said to me: “Hitting your head the way you did is just like when a diver hits the bottom of a swimming pool.”
Oh crap.
“You’ve very lucky that you seem OK. But you need a CT scan and x-ray. You could have bleeding going on around your brain and not know it.”
Damn. Medical bills!
Diagnosis: Lucky Girl
I shook all over and wanted to puke, not knowing if brain surgery was in my future. But less than an hour later, I found out I was OK, relatively speaking.
My moderate concussion me out of commission for all of last week and somewhat this week. But after several days of medicinal naps, restricted computer time and general malaise, I’m feeling better. My brain is still playing tricks on me when I try to do things like focus and type, and my neck is still tweaked, but it’s better than having a hole drilled in my skull.
Just another reminder that life is darn short.
Sometimes a lot shorter than we ever think it could be.
And now a little about the “work” aspect of our road tripping lifestyle.
Over a year ago I committed to finally making good use of my overpriced journalism degree by building my writing career and expanding my editorial capabilities beyond the world of three legged dogs and bone cancer.
Although I was a regular contributor to the Eureka Times Standard Newspaper for about a decade (the main newspaper of our old stomping grounds) and wrote daily articles for our Tripawds.com community, I never seemed to have time to pursue actual paid writing gigs from new clients.
Faced with the reality that my current writing efforts weren’t going anywhere or generating income unless I made an honest attempt to pitch my services, I started looking for outlets that could improve my talents while actually paying something.
My efforts are slowly paying off. Here’s my latest piece about the beautiful area we fell in love with back in 2009:
Here at Vickers Ranch, carnivorism is a way of life and a vegan is as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue.
On Wednesday evenings, everyone gathers on Gold Hill, a breathtaking spot overlooking Lake San Cristobal and the San Juan Mountains.
Slabs of meat (mostly beef) are grilled to perfection on a cowboy-style, wood-flame grill and home-cooked potluck dishes grace the sidelines.
Since 90 percent of Lake City’s visitors consist of Texans and Oklahomans escaping the brutal summer heat, potluck dishes tend to be buttery, eggy, cheesy and fried. . . and usually damn good.
Just two days later, the Vickers family holds another weekly get-together at the Friday night burger feed. You’ll find me babysitting the lonely veggie burger on the grill. Beans with bacon, chips and a five foot table filled with tasty potluck deserts complete our Friday meals.
A vegan can’t fall farther from the wagon than when visiting a dude ranch. Last week, one couple invited us to their cabin for dinner. On the menu: freshly caught rainbow trout appetizers. The husband was so proud of his catch, and the dish really was pretty….how could I resist?
Eating any kind of beef, poultry or other living creature is off-limits for me, but I refuse to be the kind of VegaNazi who can’t be open-minded enough to let loose once and a while and eat vegetable dishes that have been co-mingled with animal products.
I tasted the best homegrown Texas black-eyed peas simmered in a bacon broth this week. Was I going to miss the opportunity to experience a local culinary treasure, home-grown and handmade by a guest? Nope, not me.
Call me a hypocrite, but I’m going out of my comfort zone and loving it. Will this make me a carnivore after 22 years of not eating meat? Never. Just open-minded enough to know a good thing when I see it.
Have you ever found good beer bottles or cans tossed by the side of the road?
From bargain beer to fast food remnants, the garbage that weekenders carelessly toss onto the county road near our place is a sad indicator of the way they treat their communities and their bodies.
As we take our daily run we find cans of Coors, Bud or Keystone (ugh), but we’ve never once seen a good microbrew bottle or can that was chucked from someone’s vehicle. What does that say about the typical consumer who likes pisswater beer?
Cigarette packaging also makes up a good majority of roadside garbage. And as for fast food containers, just look for the Golden Arches.
Personally I think there should be a garbage tax imposed on anyone who buys cheap beer or takeout from crappy fast food joints. Don’t you?
Editor’s Note: I vote for a garbage tax on these things for the same reason that many cities charge consumers for plastic grocery bags. Not everyone lets their bags blow all over the landscape, but a large majority DO pollute our world. The same holds true for cheap beer, fast food and cigarette packaging.
When you’re in a spot for a while, those little annoyances you didn’t see upon your arrival tend to make their debut. But not here, not for us.
Sure, there’s the pine beetle epidemic that’s killed quite a few magnificent trees, but we can’t control what the beetles do (thank you, climate change), only try our best to shoo them off with pheromones and natural tree fertilizers.
Sometimes this place does cost more than if we were still fulltime RVers. And while I don’t like the financial burdens of having a piece of the American Dream, I keep reminding myself that ultimately our little place will serve us even better than it does now.
Property values actually increased this year up here, which was a shock. Still, we felt incredibly fortunate to have been in that boat, even if our taxes went up.
Where to Next?
If we stayed here during winter, I think my complaint list would grow.
But we’ll still fly south in winter for the forseeable future. Just as we start to get fat, happy and settled into routines, it’ll be time to go test our wits out there in the world and live spontaneously once again.
We love Red Feather Lakes. And although it’s nice to have a beautiful place to stay for a while, the adventure of the road tripping lifestyle will always beckon.
After four years on the road and nearly 70,000 miles logged on the Dodge, there are a few places that have remained near and dear to us, the kind of place we want to go back to again and again. Vickers Ranch is one of them.
And now that the ranch cabins are for sale, there’s a lot more people who are going to discover the magic of this 100-year old Lake City legacy.
Recently I talked to Larry and Paul Vickers about the family’s exciting new Vickers Horse River Ranch Property that gives the public a chance to own one of their hand-crafted, historic log cabins.
In this 15-minute intervew we talk with Larry and Paul Vickers, whose family helped establish Lake City during the peak mining years of the late 1800s.
Jim and I worked at their ranch during 2008 when we thought we wanted to buy a small resort.
Then we realized: What, are we nuts?!
Now that we know the realities of the resort life, we can say we’re definitely not cut out for this kind of gig. The work was the hardest we have ever done but the family’s kindness and generosity made it all worthwhile.
Our adventures at the ranch were chronicled in blogs post such as:
We’ll hopefully be heading back to the ranch in a few weeks to get our share of hay buckin’, cowboy coffee and manual labor, so stay tuned for more Vickers Ranch workamping adventures.
Meanwhile, if you or someone you know would like to be a guest on our Blog Talk Radio show, drop us a line!
Weather is crazy everywhere right now but apparently in Northern Colorado, springtime weather extremes are a way of life.
We arrived here naively thinking we had beat Mother Nature at her own game. The sun was out, the snow was melting and it was almost warm.
But Gaia had other plans. Instead of warmer days ahead, we’ve been pelted with snow, hail, thunder and rain since we arrived.
Tips for Flying South
The first question a lot of people ask us when we tell them we shut down the homestead and fly south is “Aren’t you afraid of what you’ll come home to?”
My answer is….not really. I do my best not to invite negativity into my life by thinking the worst. I hope for the best and do what I can to prevent mishaps in my life.
What Not to Leave Inside
Our place is in bear country and right about the time we come home, the bears are waking up. Leaving any edibles inside would be stupid. And, as this picture shows, messy.
We left a stash of wine here and are really lucky it didn’t uncork! This is the worst situation we’ve encountered after returning to Jerry’s Acres (find me some wood, quick!).
It says a lot about a place when the inside of an unheated house can get so cold that soda cans explode.
I can’t imagine living here during winter, even with the heater running.
Other things we do to protect the house from weather include winterizing the plumbing and setting out bear un-welcome mats.
That’s about it. There’s not a lot to think about when we fly south for the winter, except trying to find warm weather and figuring out how we’re going to pay for our adventure.
Had we chosen a place in a more populated area, I’m not sure we could live this lifestyle. I wouldn’t want to leave a vacant house with more people around.
But up here in the sticks, things sit untouched all winter while the snow falls.
Would you want to visit?
Summer Beckons
Home Cheapo isn’t getting our business the summer. The only business we’ll be taking care of is work that will help generate more income.
That’s because we’re hitting the road again in August for another Hay Chronicles at Vickers Ranch over in Lake City, one of our favorite places in the world. Jim’s getting even more fit for some heavy hay lifting and I suppose I should try to recall how to clean cabins again.
Until then, can someone please tell me, where the heck is spring?
I was recently interviewed on Trans Resister Radio by Aaron Franz who writes the Age of Transitions blog. I talked about our life on the road and we discussed things like biodiesel, workamping, and of course, three legged dogs.
The conversation eventually led me sharing my thoughts about life in the big city – specifically, Los Angeles – where we recently spent a month with la familia. Had I known Aaron lived there, I may not have bashed it so hard.
But now that we are once again isolated, somewhere in southern Arizona where it is always quiet and dark at night, I’ve been thinking about how unhealthy running is – at least in the big city.
This morning I ran on dirt roads again, without encountering a single soul. I quickly found my pace, and felt at peace. Nothing like those runs in L.A.
While I did run through a couple sketchy neighborhoods, I never actually felt in danger, because I’m smart. I was constantly aware of my surroundings, and most importantly, always making eye contact with drivers. The only time I actually felt threatened was when a guy leaving a McDonald’s drive thru proceeded to dip his french toast in syrup while he proceeded toward me without looking up!
So what was killing me? Besides all that concrete? The smell.
I don’t mean the incessant smell of automobile exhaust, spewing factories, steeping landfills and pollution in general either. I’m talking about chickens and horses. Running by any ranch back in Colorado, it’s easy to actually glamorize the smell of a working farm. There is something to be said about the smell of fresh manure in the morning. But not in L.A.
Running through a certain “equestrian district” of Los Angeles, I was overwhelmed by the stench. In a land of concrete, not designed for proper horse piss runoff the effluent is less than glamorous. But I survived. By holding my breath I was able to work up to seven miles, dodging traffic the whole way. Now, if only I can keep that up until we get back to altitude this Spring.
Last fall on our way to the West Coast we went over Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado.
As one of the most dangerous passes in the Rockies, this 10,857′ pass features grades up to 8 percent in places. It’s especially treacherous when traveling Westbound, and even worse when snow is on the ground.
This crazy pass is so steep that 70s country singer C. W. McCall (of “Convoy” fame) even wrote a song about it, called Wolf Creek Pass:
I looked at Earl and his eyes was wide.
His lip was curled, and his leg was fried.
And his hand was froze to the wheel like a tongue to a sled in the middle of a blizzard.
I says, “Earl, I’m not the type to complain
But the time has come for me to explain
That if you don’t apply some brake real soon, they’re gonna have to pick us up with a stick and a spoon…”
This is the second time we’ve headed westbound over the pass on our way to Pagosa Springs, just east of Durango. In the past, as RVing greenhorns we would’ve smelled our brakes heating up the whole way. But now, Trucker Jim is experienced enough to keep those babies nice and cool, and we smelled nothing when we got to the bottom.
One thing that really helps is knowing where the twists and turns might get you into trouble. The Mountain Directory West for Truckers, RV, and Motorhome Drivers is one of the most useful books we’ve acquired since hitting the road. It tells you where you might find trouble, and what roads are best avoided when hauling a heavy load.
We’ll be putting it to good use on Saturday, when we hit the road again.
First a little history about Colorado’s favorite Cannibal. You can read all about the life of Alferd Packer elsewhere, so I’ll just provide a synopsis…
To make a long story short, Packer survived by helping himself to the others. And unlike the Donners, this was no party. After a number of trials following the gruesome discovery, Packer claimed he returned from scouting one day to find Shannon Bell roasting and feasting on human flesh. Alledging that Bell rushed him with a hatchet, Packer shot and killed him in self defense, insisting the man had gone mad and murdered all the others.
EMTs showed up, a cervical collar was slapped around my neck, and in my woozy haze, my fuzzy mind heard someone say “Life flight helicopter” over a radio.
The next day I felt like a truck ran over me. So away we went to see a doctor, who gave me mental competency tests to ascertain the severity of the blow.
My moderate concussion me out of commission for all of last week and somewhat this week. But after several days of medicinal naps, restricted computer time and general malaise, I’m feeling better. My brain is still playing tricks on me when I try to do things like focus and type, and my neck is still tweaked, but it’s better than having a hole drilled in my skull.
I was recently interviewed on 
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