Montrose – He wore his wide brim low on his forehead, state trooper style, with the chin strap resting on the neck fold below his short cropped hairline.
“I’m going to have to give you a citation.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. For what?”
“For camping. This is a day-use area.”
“We’re not camping. We just got here five minutes ago.”
“I know when you got here. I watched you pull in.”
“Then you know we’re not camping. We haven’t even been here long enough to be loitering yet.”
“Didn’t you read the sign?”
“What sign?”
“At the kiosk up the road.”
“My buddy is over there now. It was too dark to read it when we pulled in.”
“It clearly says no camping.”
“But isn’t there a campground around here somewhere?”
“Yes, over there, on the other side of the kiosk.”
“No problem. We’ll move over there.”
“Let me see some ID. I’m going to have to write you a citation first.”
“For what? We haven’t camped anywhere yet.”
“You would have camped here if I hadn’t shown up.”
“I honestly didn’t know this was a day-use area. I’ve been looking for a sign since I got here, and it’s not marked for day use anywhere that I can see.”
“It’s supposed to be. It used to be, but someone took the sign.”
“Well, how was I to know then?”
“It’s on the kiosk.”
“I told you my buddy is over there with a lamp checking it out now. Now that we know, we’ll gladly move to the other side of the sign.”
“Too late.”
My partner showed up right about then, announcing something about having “figured it out.” Still, the Bureau of Land Managment ranger didn’t want to hear it. I felt like the victim of a low-budget sting operation, the law dog lurking on the hillside for unsuspecting late arrivers to issue citations, then sending them over to the fee area for a double scoop of petty cash.
We were at a spot ironically named the Pleasure Park, where we were scheduled to meet a shuttle driver early the next morning. We figured to save time by camping there, although neither of us had ever done so before. The scenario was hardly pleasant.
I would go as far as to call it shocking, had I not witnessed a nearly identical situation only a week before. While this super trooper hailed from the Montrose district, apparently the attitude stretches to BLM districts as far north as Kremmling, where a Legion of Doom had been assembled to vanquish potential good times at the Gore Canyon Festival taking place on the Colorado River at the Pump House recreation area 20 miles from nowhere.
While one squad of rangers led K-9 dogs through the campsites of those in attendance, another blocked access to the river put-in for several hours, preventing spectators from paddling downstream to watch the raft and kayak races they had come to see.
Had I not gotten wind of the otherwise unannounced closure earlier that morning, I would have missed the event myself. As it was, I snuck in just ahead of the 11 a.m. cutoff, the BLM ranger standing over my shoulder as I slipped into my kayak saying, “Hurry up, before I change my mind.”
That’s just what you want to do, rush someone preparing to kayak Class V whitewater. If you’re lucky, he might forget an important piece of equipment and really suffer.
The police presence continued downstream, where armed officers donning bulletproof vests guarded access to railroad tracks at the urging of railroad officials. That one actually made some sense, since spectators in the past have made use of the tracks to hike the canyon. But one BLM ranger stationed far from any rapids went so far as to grab photos of everyone passing by on the river. When I turned the tables and snapped his picture, he covered his face like a suspect who knows he’s guilty.
Reports of more than 20 police officers, ranging from deputies to armed rangers and their dogs, worked the event for three days, including several hours of overtime. To their credit, I heard of two tickets issued to campers for marijuana use. And, of course, they broke up a party by the campfire Saturday night.
But I have to question the policies of the BLM law enforcement division in particular, dedicating vast amounts of time and money to police a few hundred river rats who might otherwise have some fun at a designated recreation area in one of the most remote regions of the state. Apparently they are protecting us from ourselves, which goes beyond the realm of annoying to become downright insulting. Not to mention expensive. The fines levied won’t even cover the price of gas used on patrol.
It goes without saying that the resources dedicated to policing the festival could be put to far better use. Like buying a new sign.
Staff writer Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
