dannyman.toldme.com

Grand Junction to Silverton

At Grand Junction I walked a few blocks over to the Enterprise Rent-a-Car. Three adults and two kids: I had put in for a “full-size” car. The lady indicated “a small SUV” – a Chevy Blazer, that did us just fine. Grandma is a tall woman who spent a lot of time in the back seat with the grandkids, and said the legroom was sufficient that her knees did not complain. Electric was not on the menu, and over the next few days in the Colorado backcountry, I counted all of one Rivian, one first-generation Nissan Leaf, two late-model “Sieg Heil” Teslas, and several blue signs indicating where EV chargers were to be found. As a smug EV owner, I assume the gas I bought on the trip was expensive. About $50 per half tank.

Galloping Goose at Ridgeway

South down US-550 to Ridgeway, where I stopped to admire a Galloping Goose. The story goes that in the 1930s, the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad had fallen on hard times: the mines were closed, but they were still carrying mail. The mail revenue was not enough to operate steam trains profitably, so the folks in the shop tried putting an old bus on rail wheels, to haul mail and a handful of passengers on a low budget. This worked out really well, so they built six more of these improvised railcars. They were painted grey and they “galloped” along the tracks, which were probably not in the best shape at that time. Hence the nickname: “galloping geese.”

An old Rio Grande stock car basks in the sun at Ridgeway.

We had a tasty lunch at a shrine for John Wayne. Then back in the car to Ouray, and then up the switchbacks of the Million Dollar Highway to Silverton, where I once spent a quiet night at an unstaffed hostel and a nice man from the gas station helped me start the car by whacking the starter with a hammer and advising me that I’d be better off letting the engine run until I got to Dad’s house in Pueblo.

Passenger-side view North of Ridgeway. We drove up to Silverton, somewhere in those distant snow-capped mountains, before descending again into Durango. The speed limit south of Ouray is much lower.

What I wrote of my last drive from Ouray to Silverton, one day shy of exactly nineteen years before:

I pushed on and down US-550 South from Ouray, where I calculated I had enough time to make Silverton before dark . . . and I drove up, past signs advising of curvy roads, avalanche zones, and speed limits between 10 and 30 MPH much of the way. Up and up twists and turns and curves and well-plowed snow and ice, and freezing water streaming across the road way. Occasional wild animals and oncoming cars, nobody passed me and I passed nobody. Much of the time it was me, the car, and a blue-gray sky going on twilight. Where the scenery of the afternoon had been beautiful, the scenery of early evening was transcendent. It felt very much as if I had drove clear up into some special realm where we mortals are allowed to tread only in times of fair weather, and with great caution. My experience of the road between Ouray and Silverton was this: sublime.

This time through Silverton, though, I had a car full of dozing family members. The amazing views as the car rocked slowly, slowly, back and forth into the thinning mountain air had knocked them all out. Better them than me. I drove up the main street and back down another, places I had experienced once before, but there was no nostalgia to be had. They woke up at a convenience store at the edge of town. We answered the calls of nature and acquired snacks, and continued the quiet drive back down slow roads to Durango.