Kebler Pass

Episode 18 – Kebler Pass

In this episode of Being There, I read “Kebler Pass,” written by my father, Gene McCalmont, in 2004.

While riding alone through the mountains of Colorado, Dad spots a squiggly line on a map and decides to follow it. What begins as a scenic detour quickly turns into a test of skill, courage, and determination as he finds himself navigating a narrow mountain trail with a sheer drop-off just inches away.

But beneath the adventure is a larger story about decisions. The roads we choose, the risks we take, and the unexpected experiences that shape who we become.

In my commentary, I reflect on one of the most significant turning points in my father's life. After losing his job, he made the difficult decision to start his own company rather than let circumstances define his future. That decision changed the trajectory of our family and became a reminder that some of life's most important opportunities arrive disguised as setbacks.

Dad often reminded me to embrace both my successes and my failures. Every decision we make, every victory we celebrate, and every mistake we survive becomes part of the person we are today.

Sometimes the road you never planned to travel becomes the one that changes everything.

Transcript

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Welcome to the Being There Podcast. Stories from the Road, where we keep the rubber side down. These are stories written by my father, Gene McAlmont. Commentary by his son, me, John McCalmott. This is episode 18. Keebler Pass. Keebler Pass was written during the summer of 2004 and looks at one moment a trip my father took to Colorado when he decided to follow a squiggly line on a map. It is a reflection on the decisions we make and the consequences of those decisions. As my father was confronted by a perilous situation and a fateful decision. This is Keebler Pass. I had been riding along for about an hour, having lost sight of the guys just after turning onto Colorado one hundred thirty three south of Glenwood Springs. They had answered the call of the open road with a much faster pace. There was no traffic to speak of. Most normal folks were already where they were going. The RS eleven hundred GS and I were getting along quite well. It was the perfect bike for Colorado. It could take me just about anywhere I cared to go. I rode down one hundred thirty three and over McClure Pass towards the deep blue waters of Peonia Reservoir. The road was the kind of thing we all dreamed about. Just south of Peonia, a small sign read Gunnison, forty six miles. A painted arrow pointed left towards a paved road. The invitation was there to be taken. I pulled out my map and followed a jagged line east, then south, as it dropped into Gunnison. Here be adventure, I thought. And I turned the bike east. The pavement lasted only a few miles, ending at a gravel road. A small sign at the end of the pavement read twelve RD. A cloud of dust followed me as I disappeared into the pine forest. Miles later, Beckwith Mountain rose to my right and I could just see majestic dike peak around a steeply graded left turn. The sun blazed down from a cloudless blue sky. Pines gave way to aspen groves. The road continued to narrow, and I became light headed in the thin air. I stopped for water and checked the maps. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the squiggly lines. I crossed over Keebler Pass and parked the bike on the only level ground I could find. I sat down on a large boulder at the side of the road. I hadn't seen any sign of civilization for some time. A cool swig of water brought me back into the here and now. Silence wrapped me in a comfortable blanket fringed with silver threads of singing birds and went in the Douglas fir. Here, in this place, I felt a great sense of connectedness. I looked at everything, listened to every sound. I felt every sensation. I wanted to remember this moment. Refreshed, I headed out again turning onto RF seven thirty, following the signs to Gunnison. It was a decision I would soon regret. The road quickly turned into little more than a jeep trail, surfaced with finely crushed cinder. Steep grades and sharp turns could only be ridden at the slowest of speeds. The weight of the GS, not noticed before, now taxed my ability to remain balanced. I could not enjoy the scenery. I was in survival mode. What had passed for a trail moments before had now become a narrow ledge, littered with rocks. To my left was a sheer vertical wall. To my right was a drop off descending hundreds of feet into a dense brush filled canyon. Rounding a bend my heart stopped at the sight of an old white van lumbering up the road. There was no place to pass. I could barely hold the bike upright as we sat stopped. Looking at each other, I thought about dying in that canyon. Hidden by the brush, perhaps a hiker might come across shredded bits of a blue denim riding jacket among other berries and bones piled in a mess of bearskat, the only sign of the man I once was. The driver inched the old van forward, pulling as close to the vertical wall as he could, and stopped. My heart sank into my boots, knowing full well that I had precious little room between the van and the canyon drop off. There was nowhere to go except forward. It was now or never. I eased the bike closer to the canyon and focused all my attention forward. I could sense that only inches separated me from eternity. The veins in my neck bulged against the closed collar of my suit. The driver said something as I passed his door, I said thanks, and kept going. My left sidebag just clipped the van's rear bumper as I negotiated the last few feet behind it and the canyon. Then it ended, as simply as it had begun. We waved at each other, and I shot down the road, throwing a plum of dust and rocks from the spinning rear tire. Waves of electricity flashed up and down my body. I stood on the pegs and power slid the GS to the remaining corners as the road opened out and grew wider. I was alive, but even more so, I can fly. By God I can fly. It was all I could do to unload the bike once at the motel in Gunnison. I had spent all I had on that mountain road. There was nothing left. I didn't mention my adventure to the other guys. They had their own stories to tell, and the heaviness of my mind and body surely would have clouded my remembrance. A cool breeze drifted in the open window near my bed. I snuggled down deep into the comforting embrace of the covers. I felt a deep calmness settle over me as I thought about how good it was to be alive and have an experience of a lifetime on two wheels. Sleep came easily that night. Ah yes, the reflections on the decisions we make and the consequences of those decisions in our life. I remember a decision my father made. When he lost his job, he was a training director at a rather large company. They were downsizing, they let him go. And he took that opportunity and made the decision to start his own company. And it was rough at first. Massive consequences. My mom was working, and my dad was working out of a modified room that we had built in our garage in our, I think it was 750 foot square house. Yarmouth Avenue was where it was. But the consequences of those decisions shaped the rest of my father's life and our families. He, being the hard worker he was, persevered, pushed through, landed contracts. He eventually moved out of that garage apartment into a very small office. That small office grew into a larger office which grew into an entire floor of a building. That house was sold and we moved into a larger house. Not all of the consequences of our decisions are good ones. Some of them are bad. We all have those in our life. But one thing that my dad was always good at was reminding me to look in the future. Don't be afraid to take risks. Enjoy the failures as much as the successes. Because it is all of life's experiences that make up the human that you are. Because in some strange way, we are all exactly where we're supposed to be. Thank you for listening and spending this time with me. If this stirs your soul like it stirs mine, and you enjoyed today's episode, be sure to subscribe and follow the podcast so you don't miss future readings and commentary. All written material featured in this podcast is the original work of my father and used with his permission. The thoughts and opinions I share are my own. This recording is for personal listening only. My voice lightness and performance are protected and may not be recorded, reproduced, or used in any form of AI training, cloning, or synthetic replication without my explicit written consent. Thanks again for being here. Until next time, keep the rubber side down and save travels.