Kyle, Goblins, and the Year 2000

Colorado is a colorful state. Whenever we visit, we seem to experience more than we bargained. During this week’s blog post, you’ll see why! 

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/amuTtkxEpFM39T8Z7

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May 24th, 2024 - Dakotas Day 1

Tyler and I were born in the year 2000. Posed at the lip of a millennium, we were delivered into a world with Internet, cellphones, and a quickly-evolving America. While we never experienced the 1900s, we were often told that 1999 was a particularly chaotic year. The Y2K terror was in full-swing, with many people afraid that life would forever be altered by the arrival of the year 2000. Governments across the globe were managing anxious citizens and outdated computer systems. In 2000, the world was supposed to end. 

As an outsider to this fear, I find it interesting how fragile our societal constructs have become. In 1999, computer systems had been in use only for a few decades. The Internet was just a toddler. Technology was taking its first stumbling steps into the behemoths we have now. Yet even in its newness, we relied on it. Our governments had already integrated computers into their daily operations. Banks, hospitals, jails, and stores all needed technology to keep the gears grinding. In the face of losing it all during Y2K, this new construct became the most important element of our country’s functionality. Something that had only existed for a few decades suddenly became the determining factor in whether our country could successfully journey into the year 2000. 

In the midst of this trial, some people were looking ahead. They weren’t just focused on the next year. They weren’t entangled in the intricacies of a new technological system. In 1999, some people set their eyes on future generations, and thus, Black Canyon of the Gunnison was born. 

Black Canyon of the Gunnison is a national park in Colorado. Established on October 21st, 1999, the park spans 4,000 acres of the deepest, darkest canyon I’ve ever seen. Poetically, the canyon is perhaps a representation of the complicated, dark fear that people experienced in 1999. Geologically, it is the work of the Gunnison River. The Gunnison River plows through the cleft with incredible force, dropping an average of 43 feet per mile. In a particularly dramatic stretch of the river, it drops 204 ft in a mile. In comparison, the Colorado River, located at the feet of the Grand Canyon, only drops about 7.5 ft per mile!

When we visited Black Canyon of the Gunnison, it was immediately evident why somebody would want to preserve it. No matter what the circumstances of society, Black Canyon is a showstopper. Creamy brown marbling curves like water in graceful stone layers. Harsh stone spires jab accusingly into the sky. A green river roars and foams where it is trapped in the bottom of the canyon. It has dug itself so deep that the canyon’s floor only receives 33 minutes of daylight every day. Does the river yearn for the surface? Above the canyon, a smooth treeless prairie ambles away into snowy mountains. What did the prairie do to deserve such a harsh gash like Black Canyon? In such a dramatic landscape, the Gunnison River appears a ferocious beast. 

We spent a lot of time looking at that river. The next day, we were planning a ridiculously ambitious hike down to the canyon’s floor. It was the hardest hike we had ever anticipated. Now, standing atop the steep, dark canyon, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go visit that angry river. I took comfort, however, in the signs of life that we found at the Canyon. Despite its haughty appearance, the Black Canyon is richly abundant with life. Baby ground squirrels scampered on the steep rocks with no fear. All manner of colorful flowers drew me in to take photos. There were so many I didn’t recognize. Ballhead waterleaf, longleaf phlox, indian paintbrush, and brittlebush decorated the path like flower petals at a wedding. It was a lovely place. We paused to rest at a gnarled tree. The leafless, gaunt tree had sprawled its roots on the very edge of the canyon. With unseeing eyes, it watched over the jagged canyon below. There was symmetry in the tree and canyon. They had both been mutilated, shifted, and molded by unforgiving forces. Undoubtedly, both had weathered many ferocious storms. Yet they bore none of the chaos or anger of the things that shaped them. Instead, they had become more beautiful because of them. Here, in the reflections of time’s influence, we rested. We were very small. 

Our reveries had ended by the time we returned to the parking lot. In the paved expanse and the white painted lines, we returned to modern life. I was drawn to a Dodge van that had parked, a little crooked, near our rental car. The license plate was so familiar I almost didn’t notice it. The van was from Ohio! Recalling our rather long plane flight, I marveled at the time it must have taken this old van to get to Colorado. There was chalk paint on the windows of the van.

 “Just graduated from the University of Dayton,” the windows read. “Headed E to W. Follow along on Instagram”

I had no signal, of course, so I snapped a photo instead. Later, I did follow along on Instagram. The van’s driver was a young man named Kyle. True to the words of his van window, he had just graduated from college. To celebrate, he and a few friends borrowed his mom’s van and went on a road trip. I never actually met Kyle, but as I followed his journey on Instagram, I felt a sort of kinship with him. He has visited many of the same places Tyler and I have. His posts are full of youthful joy, adventure, and glee. If our trips are any indicator, I’m sure he has made just as many good memories as we have too. In one of his posts, he mentions that “All Ohioans greet one another no matter the place.” We have found this to be true. There is community to be found when Ohioans are displaced. No matter the harshness of the scenery or the circumstances that we’re in, Ohioans always appreciate a touch of home. 

If Anne of Green Gables had been traveling with us, she would have called our first day at Black Canyon a “romantic experience.” This was true. Our initial thoughts of the park were full of love for the outdoors. We marveled at its wonder. We found community with another Ohioan. It was lovely. 

When we returned to civilization, it was less romantic. Twilight was falling over Montrose, Colorado. We had arrived later than anticipated, so our supper option was limited to a restaurant that closed in a half hour. I felt bad for showing up so late. When we stepped through the door, however, my guilt was overshadowed. It was a strange restaurant. The vinyl booth where we sat had cracked seats. The carpet was faded and outdated. It stretched away from us to another section of the restaurant, where it collided with tile. Up above, a chandelier hung from the ceiling. Shabby suddenly met elegant, as if the restaurant wasn’t sure if it was fast food or fine dining. We were the only people in the restaurant. Even the music overhead had been shut off. Our waitress disappeared for long periods. We could hear every noise coming out of the kitchen. It was dreadfully uncomfortable. 

Our food was mediocre, but we really couldn’t expect much different with only a half hour until close. That, we knew, was our fault. On the way out, I curiously looked up the Google reviews of the restaurant. I had no complaints to contribute. I was simply curious if other people had eaten supper in an empty restaurant. Instead, I found a fantastical story where somebody claimed to have discovered goblins chained in the kitchen. Somehow, this seemed to make more sense when we drove through Montrose, who boasts one of the few McDonald’s signs with only one golden arch. After the goblin story in the restaurant, the single arch put me in the mind of a cyclops. And with that, our romantic Black Canyon experience ended with a mythical twist. 

Truly, you never know what will happen on a trip! 

Hiking Trails:

Oak Flat Loop Trail

Gunnison Point Overlook

Cross Fissures View Trail

Chasm View

Painted Wall View Trail

Warner Point Nature Trail