Departures tend to wait until daylight. This one found two bikes headed North about a half hour before dawn. Temperature, not bad. The motel room was warm, the cool air felt good. For good measure, a fleece sweatshirt layer went on under the big leather jacket however. That comfortable, cool feeling disappeared about seven minutes north of town. Leaving Durango, you ascend quite rapidly into the higher elevations. Curiousl the train to Silverton is spared at least 500 feet of extra elevation that motors must experience. Half way up the mountain side, about ½ hour, demanded a roadside stop to don all available layers, in other words, chaps and heated gloves. Barely enough and the long underwear, well to put that on requires disrobing, right? Not.
Descending into Silverton was good, lower elevations, although only slightyly. But it was a gas and hot coffee stop. Ominous clouds are looming overhead, menacing, threatening bedlam to motorcyclists. I’ll have to tell you that a stop at a mountain gas station looking for good news and solace from the locals, is not rewarding. “Oh, today’s actually pretty warm. When when we got married …”. And forecasts of mild doom but only when you’re crossing the passes, left me wondering why I had left the desert. And then Jake tells us, oh, by the way, I meant to tell you, they’re closing the highway North to extract a semi that went over the edge. S*#t, I don’t need to hear that and imagine heading back the way we came to find an alternate route. So we gassed up quickly and roared out of town a short distance behind the road drew. Not to worry (although I like to) but the wreck was two miles out of town and the small crew assembled was pondering the situation and no equipment was on site. Sometimes things work out.
The threatening clouds only grew darker, more menacing, spitting occasional huge drops of water. I wanted to believe it was clear to the North where we were headed, but was having serious thoughts about abandoning the Eastward journey over the mountains to Denver and heading straight for Ogden. Descending through Ouray was a brief respite from worry, remembering that my Grandmother used to live here. She was a school teacher and had to retire at around 70, mandatory, in Boulder. So she moved out of town, where no one knew here, Ouray, changed her age, and taught another 15 years or so. What a lady! Her daughter, my Aunt Mary, was equally formidable at working and loving it until they died.
We donned rain gear leaving Ouray and did get it wet, although marginally. And there’s nothing like sun and a seventy degree day in Montrose to make like seem all well and good again. So Eastward to Canon City, the stopping place for the night. On the way was a detour to Black Canyon National Park. I’ve been getting great miles out of my Golden Age passport. One small advantage to being old enough to have one. It’s spectacular as a canyon.
Where the Grand Canyon is horizontal layers of sandstone, etc, Black Canyon (of the Gunnison) is vertical. Looks like someone stuck cliffs of vertical rock striations in the bround 1000 feet tall.Onward then with not much to see but speed signs unti almost to Canon City. Royal Gorge is just off the path and I was told I had to see it. Unfortunately it wasn’t a highlight for either of us. It’s a bridge, impressive for sure. The canyon it spans is very deep, very colorful, and very impressive. The overhead zip line and tram cables more than hint at experiences you might not want to experience. The downer was a $26 admission fee to see aned walk on the bridge. And the village they promote, with all the ‘things to do’ and a ‘place to spend the whole day’ had $25 price tags on most everything. We went, we had come this far. You decide when it’s your turn.
Arrival in Canon City found 85 degrees, a bit of a change from the 6am version and two quite weary travelers. But that’s the way it’s supposed to be.Tomorrow, Boulder and reunion with the two cousins Caroline and Jonathan (already saw Janet and Beth).
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