I was in the suburb northwest of Denver where she lives with her family. It was night and the lights of the businesses and houses were lit. In the distance the foothills south of Boulder made a jagged outline against the dark sky. The places were familiar, but the view was very new and different. Instead of seeing things at ground level, I was high above the ground, looking down as if floating high in the air.
"You're checked in already?" she asked me.
"Yeah, it's nice here. My room's on the eighth floor. They upgraded me to one with a view of the mountains."
The Westminster Westin is the tallest building for miles. I had been wanting to stay here, and had been looking for the right excuse. Until now it had seemed an unnecessary luxury. But after the recent trip to Vancouver, I had decided that one good Westin deserved another. It would be a nice reward after the long road trip from Oregon, and the rooms at Christmastime were discounted to the point where there was little reason to stay elsewhere.
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| "Come in! and know me better, man!" |
It was my first time staying there. In the old days of my travel along this route, any motel was a luxury. Now of course it was the normal no-question thing to do. In fact, the Rabbit Ears was the easy budget option in Steamboat.
Despite its advanced age, the Rabbit Ears was nicely renovated, with comfortable modern rooms, flat screen televisions, and an ample continental breakfast comparable to most good Days Inn franchises.
The forecast that night had called for an inch or two or snow, but looking out the window the next morning, I saw the Bimmer heaped with at least six inches of powder.
Fortunately Steamboat is a ski town, on the flank of the mountains that catch loads of snow each winter. I was able to borrow a broom from the outdoor closet, left open in an inviting way, and cleared the car of snow in only a few minutes.
But the CDOT website said that nearby Rabbit Ears Pass, a notoriously nasty winter summit, was packed with snow and ice. Chains were mandatory for commercial vehicles.
That didn't sound like my cup of tea. So I decided to detour off U.S. 40 and take the state highway south to Tonopah, and then up over Gore Pass on the back roads.
Gore turned out to be packed with snow as well, but the grade is much gentler and there was no traffic. On the isolated highway I could negotiate my own pace, and not worry about anyone else on the road.
Even at my leisurely speed, on each sharp curve, or any time the car felt like it might be losing traction, I got flashbacks to my blind spin-out coming down from Cameron Pass a couple years back. That kind of experience---coming face-to-face with one's obvious imminent death in the most terrifying way, and then getting a reprieve as if it had all been a dream---stays with you in a visceral way. The rest of one's life seems like a luminous gift, as they say. I didn't need to repeat it, and I didn't want to press my luck again.
So what should have been a couple hour's drive into Denver, at least in summertime, turned into an all day event, especially after I stopped at a Starbucks in Dillon to send work emails and set up a conference call for the next morning.
My reward for this delay was that by the time I started up I-70 towards the Eisenhower Tunnel, the sun was low in the sky and the high ridge of the Rockies was lit with the supernatural illumination of the golden hour before sunset. The Rockies are beautiful in summer, but covered with snow, and crested with the mist of clouds, they can make your soul ache from the overpowering beauty.
The traffic was heavy and slow on the other side of the tunnel. "Coming back from the mountains" is something that Coloradoans generally dread. But I'd seen much worse. By keeping a good distance between the Bimmer and the car in front of me, I managed to use my brakes only a few times all the way down to Idaho Springs, where the Charlie Taylor Waterwheel, still rotating from the Gold Rush days, was illuminated with Christmas lights.
The wheel is a cheesy old tourist attraction, but it gives me a warm feeling to see it again. It reminds of me my family's first trip out to Colorado, when the sights of the Rockies were delightfully exotic and "western."
After Idaho Springs there's only one small summit left---Floyd Hill. When you come to the crest, by the exit to Buffalo Bill's grave, one is greeted by the big yellow sign Truckers, Don't Be Fooled! You are not down yet! Immediately after that the majesty of the edge of the Great Plains and lights of the metropolis spread out before your eyes, as if you are coming to the edge of a continent.
Within an hour I was inside my warm hotel room at the Westin, standing in front of the large window looking at the lights of the cars going up and up down the Boulder Turnpike. The journey was over now.
But the Bimmer had one more trip for the night.
"So have you eaten dinner yet?" my sister asked me, over the phone.
"No, I was just about to head down to the hotel restaurant," I said.
She invited me over to share the leftover pork roast she'd made.
"The girls don't know you're coming," she said. "I'm the only one who knows you're here."
Fifteen minutes later I parked in front their house and walked up to the front porch When I rang the bell I could see my nieces looking out through the front curtains, confused. They opened the door, it took them a few seconds to recognize me in my winter coat and balaclava.
"Uncle M-a-a-a-a-t!!"
It was the sound I'd driven thirteen hundred miles to hear.
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