All photos Copyright Kerry Gleason 2010
February 10, 2010
Better late than never. I have been preoccupied since my arrival in the Denver area, and it’s all good. So let me tell you about the last day of travel, from Durango up the Million Dollar Highway, which carried with it all the drama and daring of a Robert Ludlum novel.
See A Map
I packed the car and was ready to leave the Adobe Inn at 7 a.m. but my friend Sharon at the front desk warned me that I better check the website to see if the passes were passible. We had 3″ of snow at the hotel, but she told me that could be more than a foot in the higher elevations. It took almost an hour to get connected. The internet said there was some ice and slush at the Molas Pass all the way to Ouray, but the roads were passable. I checked out, and Sharon tried to talk me into staying an extra day. I wished her well and said I’d write something nice on the internet about my stay, and she told me I was a nice young man. Shucks!
And so I drove out Rt. 550 North, retracing my steps from the day before toward Purgatory. I passed the resort and shortly after saw electronic signs telling all truckers that they better have chains on their tires or they’d be tied to a log and sent down the river. Okay, I made up the punishment. But I felt I was at a disadvantage because I didn’t have any bling for my tires.
Snow-covered roads heading out of Durango. My interest was peaked by the view.
Few cars ventured on 550 this morning. Average speed was about 25 mph, and occasionally, I was able to zoom at 40. I did drive with the sunroof open.
In that area, elite housing tracts bear names like “Engineer Village” and you see Engineer this and Engineer that. The road climbed skyward on Engineer Mountain, and I saw one sign that fascinated me: “Engineer Mountain, Elevation 12,372 Ft.” (Number estimated within 200 ft.) That’s more than two miles closer to a manned space flight than I was just a few weeks before in Nebraska. Or one ill-timed flinch, twitch or black ice slide off the road. Usually, I pass out at 12,350 feet, so this was a personal best. While the scenery was stunning, I did not take many photos because I was afraid to take a hand off the wheel or my mind off the driving.
Just when you feel some circulation returning to your hands, the road seemingly disappears around the edge of the mountain, and another sign tells you the road without guardrails is about to narrow.
Okay? By how much?
I imagined a scenario in a log cabin home at the bottom of the mountain, which probably occurs with regularity.
“Maw, Maw — guess what I found?”
“You didn’t find another skunk, did you, Junior?”
“No, Maw. I found a Bonneville nose-down near the side of the cliff! Can I keep ‘er, Maw? Can I keep ‘er?”
“Did you do your homework?”
“I sure did. Whaddya say, Maw? Can I keep the Bonneville?”
“Well, I don’t see any harm as long as you promise two things. You have to bury all the corpses in the spring, and… this is important, you have to promise to change the oil every 3,000 miles.”
“Oh, I will, Maw! Thank you! I will!”
A view in the San Juan Mountain Range.
Heart-stopping beauty pervades, and I love the symmetry of this amazing view.
Such were my thoughts as I navigated the Holy Moley Pass along the way to Silverton and Ouray, pronounced Ouray, Ouray, I made it! (It is the Molas Pass, but I like my name better!) At Ouray, I pulled my car off to the left to a scenic overview and to make certain I had not wet myself noticeably. The quaint sign promoted this area as the Switzerland of the U.S. I was a disbeliever. There were no St. Bernard dogs greeting me with little kegs of whiskey, no pigtailed young maidens offering hot cocoa, and not even the slightest whiff of cheese. Just fresh air and a spectacular mountain view. One of my favorite landscape pics from the entire trip was looking down upon a winding road that disappears into the mountains.
Ouray! I made it!
How cool is this photo? If I ever need to shoot a car commercial, here’s the money shot!
Ice climbing is big in Ouray.
I got a little more brave, almost to the point of being cocky. See the video
Between Ouray and Ridgway, I saw avalanche warning signs. I worried briefly that my perforated muffler might trigger a landslide, but reasoned that I probably just watched too many cartoons as a child. Within 24 hours, a landslide near Ridgway would claim the life of two skiers, but it was attributed to other skiers. I pulled over because I just had to have a picture of the avalanche sign.
I stopped, I stood, I took the picture.
All good things must come to an end.
Frog Angel loved the San Juan Mountains. He knows St. John personally. Because he didn’t see him, FA said the mountains should be renamed the Sans Juan Mountains. Just a little perk from my friends who love wordplay.
The Million Dollar highway took me up to Montrose, which I found to be a very cool town. I stopped there and had a bad Wendy’s experience, so I made a lunch stop at a Safeway, and for the second time in three days I enjoyed a Virginia baked ham sandwich with horseradish cheddar cheese and an orange. What did those early settlers do without Safeway?
Back in the car, and on to Gunnison. There, I stopped at a McDonalds for a bathroom break, and to ask directions. Three older gentlemen sat at a booth. One reminded me of Mr. Whipple, the second had a long face and did not speak, and the third was a robust man in a tan cowboy hat, tan shirt and brown pants who looked like he may have broken a few jaws in barrooms back in the day. The men did not mind my interruption. “What’s the best way to get to Littleton from here?”
“Take a left out of the parking lot and you’ll pick up 285,” said the man in the hat.
“How far is it?” I asked.
“244 miles,” he replied, without hesitation.I thought he was putting me on.
“You seem pretty certain of that.”
“Well, I used to be a trucker, and I would stop at the Conoco Station that you passed exactly a mile up the road, and I would get paid for 245 miles. So, yes, I’m pretty certain of that.”
Mr. Whipple said he just drove those roads yesterday, and there was some blowing snow up at Monarch Pass, but that today it would be clear. I could have asked a dozen or more people in that restaurant, but I picked the right three guys.
I longed for some flat terrain, but that was not to be. When I reached Monarch Pass, there was a trace of snow on the ground.
The gift shop and cafe… buried in snow.
The scenery there was beautiful. I passed the entrance to a ski area, and Monarch seemed to be a place I’d love to visit again.
Before I knew it, I hit Poncha Springs, and I turned north on 285. Now that the treacherous mountain roads were behind, I felt giddy from the drive. The view made me smile. Three mountain peaks, broad and brown, with white, snow-covered peaks, perched in the distance against a blue, blue, blue sky. The way the sunlight and shadows played upon the mountains, they looked like American Bald Eagles protecting the land that lay beyond to the West. Here, Frog Angel and I posed for two photos, and then my camera battery died.
Like giant bald eagles, the mountains tower over the flatlands near Buena Vista.
We were near Buena Vista, a fine name. I reflected on this, the 45th day, the final travel day of my journey. Four words came to mind: THIS IS MY AMERICA. I crossed 10 states, five that I had never visited before. I passed birth markers where presidents, athletes and celebrities were born and raised; I passed cemeteries where countless people, no less important, but with names less famous, had been laid to rest. I saw smiling faces, and some without, and I hope I added one, or a few dozen, along the way. Every day, and like this day, sometimes every minute, was a challenge and a mystery. I lived in luxury and I slept in my car. Believe me, waking up to 8 degrees F builds character and a fond appreciation for a hot shower. I asked Divine Providence for a safe journey, and it was granted. All that I saw, all whom I met reaffirmed that THIS IS MY AMERICA.
But the journey has just begun. I have a new life ahead, with more mountains to climb, more sunny days, more adventures to awe and inspire. Maybe an avalanche or two. Note to self, get the muffler fixed. I am here only by the love and support of my friends and those who care about me, no matter how far away you may be. Moving forward, I aim to be worthy.
I was going to drive across town and indulge, but I was curious, so I took a bite before I pulled out of my parking space. The thin crust had a crunch to it on the bottom, and as the flavors combined in my mouth, the crust seemed to melt into the fresh tomato sauce, mildly herbed, and a fresh mozzarella that was not tough and chewy, but delicate. The sausage, as the pizza man predicted, was incomparable. I savored each bite, searching for flaws, finding none. It may very well have been the best slice of pizza I ever tasted. At just over $3 a slice, I found the serving to be the perfect size to satiate a lunch appetite.
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