A Return to Kremmling, Colorado

I finally found a cup of coffee big enough for me in Kremmling, Colorado.

Almost seven years ago, my ex took this same photo of me. Same place, same pose. I’m different now. Lighter in both body and spirit. It’s the spirit part that makes me the happiest. I also had time to stop in for a cup of coffee this trip.

Kremmling was a lark, an impulsive stop on the way home from my epic road trip. At some point when I was in Mesa, I got an urge to go river rafting. Kremmling was a good place to stop on my return trip anyway, so I booked a ride with Downstream Adventures and a room for two nights at the Historic Eatin Motel.

There seem to be two options for raft trips originating there, at least with the outfit I booked with. First you have the fun, splashy, family outing. Nearly all of the rapids are Class II, and they allow children as young as three on it. The other is a death-defying trip down Gore Canyon, Class IV and V rapids all the way. I was told when you arrive at the river, you need to pass a test showing you can self rescue and swim under the raft before they’ll let you continue. If you fail, it’s a long walk back along the railroad tracks.

I picked the splashy, easy one.

Kremmling is one of those places with the weird magic I always seem to be looking for. A little down on its luck, but with life still in it and a certain quirkiness. The kempt and unkempt houses. Little business establishments interspersed with unused buildings down the main drag. Oddball paint colors. Bits of defiant art. Everywhere I go, the urge to create thrives.

(For the pedants out there, “kempt” is a real word, just not one you see often.)

The best part about Kremmling to me is its connection to the outdoors. The Colorado River runs right by Kremmling, and Google Maps shows five rafting companies operating. Yet, it’s not the spendy experience of the better known tourist destinations. Locals who work there can actually live there. It just feels less polished, more real.

I check into the hotel, which has all the eccentricities of a historic hotel. There’s antique furniture in the sitting room downstairs. I can’t really call it a lobby, as there’s no registration desk, just a cubby with my name on it and my key in it — a real key you put in the doorknob and turn, not a key card. A key and doorknob that, of course, have a trick to them if you actually want to get it unlocked. The rooms are upstairs. No elevator, just hauling a roller bag up the steps. The wooden floors creak. I’m staying in the Colorado Room, decorated with fly fishing rods and other touches of the outdoors, with a bathroom that appears to have been jammed into what was once a long and narrow closet.

My youngest brother’s wife and I have vastly different tastes in travel. She fancies flying to resorts. I love to road trip and stay in local and historic hotels. I text her a photo of the hotel exterior, and she says it looks like the opening scene in a horror movie. So I go out of my way to take the spookiest looking photos of the interior I can and text them to her.

When I open a wooden box on the desktop and find it once held a rather large knife, I begin to wonder if she’s right. Who has the knife? OMG, WHO HAS THE KNIFE?? Soon, though, I relax and again see the place through my own eyes and enjoy it for what it is.

If she ever wants to take me on a trip where we fly to a resort, I won’t put up any resistance. I’ll enter into the experience for what it is, just as I am doing in Kremmling. If my recent travel has taught me anything, it’s to be open to the experience.

The next day, I lock my wallet and phone in the RAV when I arrive for the raft trip, deposit my key fob with the woman behind the counter, and wait impatiently for the last group to arrive before they fit us with life jackets and load us on the bus. We head down the unpaved Trough Road. It’s a road I once thought was intimidating, but now that I’ve driven the hairpin cliffs of Salt River Canyon and the Million Dollar Highway, it seems tame in comparison.

Down at the river, they divvy us up into groups of six. I’m the only singleton, and I’m matched with a family of five. They ask who wants to sit in front, and I jump at the chance while others hang back. I’m paired with a young man and told our job is to set the paddling pace and follow raft guide’s directions, whether they be one, two, or three strokes, forward or backward.

Speaking of our raft guide, her name is Dez, and I’m immediately drawn to her. She reminds me of the friends I had in my ski bum days — following dreams, working jobs that keep her in the outdoors. Along the way we come to talk and increasingly find things in common, including both working summer jobs at national parks for the same concessionaire. Before the day is done, we’ll exchange contact information.

I could be wrong, but my front row companion appears to be somewhere on the autism spectrum. It dawns on me quickly that I’m better off watching him and matching his paddle strokes than thinking he’ll match mine. He also sometimes needs gentle reminders to paddle when Dez calls out her commands. 

No matter. We’re all novices occasionally getting our wires crossed. This is a forgiving stretch of water on a beautiful day. We’re all having fun. Along the way, Dez tells us that this entire valley we float was nearly dammed. Looking around, I can imagine what a loss that would have been, a reservoir instead of a flowing waterway with the scenery of canyon walls drowned.

I take no photos on the river, or even of the river. I didn’t want to take my phone on the raft, even with one of the waterproof bags they sell, and I didn’t get around to buying a disposable camera. The next day, as I’m leaving Kremmling, I drive toward the Trough Road to at least get a picture of the Colorado, but find the pullout blocked by construction and have to turn back.

Toward the end of the float, they tell me, there’s a spot 25 feet above the water we can climb up to and jump off. The river is deep enough there. I want to do it, but I don’t know if I will. I say I’ll take a look.

One look is enough — too much for me. There’s a lower rock to jump off of, but the scramble up to it is a little past my comfort level. I have poor balance these days. Many are braver, though. I see people one after the other leaping from both vantage points into the cold water. My hat’s off to them. My hat was actually off already, stuffed into a crevice between the raft’s sidewall and floor early on, because it was interfering with my view.

Leaping before I look has brought me some of the best experiences of my life, but also some that were less than ideal. This time, I took a look and took a pass. As I get older, I look first more often. Hopefully, I’ll still make the leap from time to time. It just wasn’t going to happen this time.