To Fairplay, via Dinosaur and Conifer
Olivia Glazebrook takes a Chevy to explore America
We have driven from Los Angeles in a hired Chevy, and we’re halfway through our road trip. So far California, Nevada, Utah. Next Colorado. We trundle along in no particular hurry, and stop when the mood or the scenery takes us. We drop into the bigger cities by day for a snoop around, but prefer small towns for overnight stays — the smaller the better. One motel, one ‘family restaurant’, one gas station. That’s what we like best. I am getting a tan on my left arm and the left side of my neck from all the driving. My brother Harry is in the passenger seat, tanning his right side.
The town on the state line is called Dinosaur, so we love Colorado immediately. The landscape is stunning and each place has a wonderful name. In Steamboat Springs we laugh at everyone’s patterned sweaters and I read Alan Bennett in the motel’s Jacuzzi. The next morning we are silenced by the Rocky Mountains. We drive through Rabbit Ears’ Pass to Troublesome, and then come across Hot Sulphur Springs, where I take a dip. Harry sits under a tree with a John Steinbeck he bought in Monterey, and I rent a towel and jump into one of the hot, stinky pools. Ouch, too hot. I downgrade to the swimming pool, joining two girls from Denver: 11-year-old Lou-Anne, and nine year-old Ashley. They ask, do I have a husband? No, I reply, nor even a boyfriend. They are concerned for me. They both have boyfriends: Rusty and Harley. Harley’s surname, Lou-Anne says, is Davidson. And his sister is called Carly Davidson. I express disbelief, and put my head underwater for emphasis. Lou-Anne says confidingly that Ashley is going to dump Rusty because when she saw him at the mall, he, like, totally ignored her? Like, totally looked through her? Ashley says her grandmother is here at the hot springs because she’s just had 80 per cent of her liver removed, and the stitches are infected. After this news I teach them both how to do underwater somersaults in an attempt to make up for my lack of husband or pus-filled wound.
Harry and I motor on. At teatime we drop into Denver, for a movie and a scout around. We don’t want to stay the night here, so we decide to head south-west and stay in the first motel we find on the road. There are a few towns along the way, according to the map. On we drive, through Conifer, Bailey, Grant and Jefferson with not a ‘vacancy’ sign to be seen. It gets dark. Darker. Very dark. There are no more towns, and the only lights are in the sky: the beautiful stars and — hang on, what’s that? We see what we are sure is a comet hurtling through the sky towards Earth with a stream of glittering light behind it. Why has no one warned us of this comet? Has no one else noticed it? It gets darker still and the fuel gauge drops again.
Then we swing around a corner and out of a forest and we see, laid out in front of us, a vast, black, empty plateau, with nothing on it but a pair of tail-lights disappearing far away. Our road goes across this great black plain. Harry and I exchange looks. He lights two cigarettes, passing me one without a word. I press my foot down on the accelerator.
Hours of silence pass. We can’t find a radio station. Harry buzzes down the window and stares out into the night. Occasionally a truck blasts past us, going the other way.
And then, just as tempers are about to become frayed, we coast into a town called Fairplay. There’s a gas station — it’s open — I make a rush for it. While filling up I spot a neon sign: ‘OTEL’. Harry goes in search of a room and I sit in the car and eat roasted peanuts, muttering to myself, ‘Don’t want to sleep in the car ... ’ stuff gobble crunch ‘... got to find a room.’ But, bless him, Harry comes back with his thumbs up and so we carry our bags into what, we decide almost immediately, might be the coolest hotel in America. It’s a huge hunting lodge with high ceilings, wooden floors, and gloomy moose looking down from the walls. Our bedroom has two high, narrow beds with a patchwork quilt on each. Bearded men in the bar are wearing baseball caps and getting drunk on White Russians. What a good idea — I order two. The lady who serves me says to watch out: since Fairplay is a mile and a half above sea level (can this be true?) you can get awful drunk awful quick. Hic, say I, and clink glasses with my brother.
To my excitement, I discover that it is the week of the County Fair. To my even greater joy, the next day is Junior Gymkhana Day. Leaving Harry asleep, I get up early and walk through the town and up to the showground. It is already hot — the sun is dazzling, but the air is clean and still. I love it here. Grassy plain and high mountains all around: it’s beautiful. I am in a tremendously good mood, and take a seat in the empty stadium.
For a while I am the only spectator, sitting high up at the back of the stands and clapping when I feel brave enough. First up is Junior Rodeo. This involves the Junior Fairplay 4-H County Fair Queen doing a lap of honour on her pony, wearing a stetson with a tiara jammed on the front. The youngest member of the 4-H Club recites their motto (something about ‘Hand, Head, Heart and Honour’ which I couldn’t fully understand because of her braces) and then everyone takes part in a selection of highspeed gymkhana games. The senior competitors — teenagers — enter the ring at a gallop and twist their ponies round a slalom of posts and barrels before charging full tilt for the exit, usually losing their cowboy hats in the process. My favourite game, Senior Goat-Tying, involves galloping into the ring and skidding to a halt beside a small speckled goat tethered in the middle. The rider throws himself off his pony, kneels on top of the astonished goat, and ties its fore and hind hooves together with a length of cord. Inevitably the goat manages to release a forefoot as its hindlegs are being tied, or vice versa. Muffled oaths escape the young cowboys as they wrestle in the dust. Occasionally ‘time’ is called before the task is completed, and the goat cartwheels away, bleating in triumph.
I stroll back down to the hotel and pick Harry up for his favourite breakfast: a club sandwich. Then I drag him to the rodeo and we watch some more. The sun beats down, horses neigh and dogs bark. I indulge for a moment in the usual fantasy of not going home, of staying here for ever with a couple of horses and a pick-up truck. And then Harry chucks his empty Coke beaker in a trash can, and we hit the road.
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