Road Trip

Sometimes you've just got to get the hell out of dodge, when the weight of the quotidian threatens to overwhelm, and no amount of bad coffee or good wine can stem the tide of ennui.  Time to load up the pickup truck with snacks and tasty beverages, assorted adventure gear (hiking boots, walking sticks, water bottles, et al), enough changes of clothes to last a few days, and a few essential toiletries, abandon the dogs (bye Neruda, bye Banshee) to the care of a friend, and head for the open road.

Every time we hit the road I am somehow exhilarated, even if it's just for a day trip.  Backing out of the driveway, the adventure begins,  the safe island of home left behind, and the ocean of potentiality opens up before us.  Today, with fall still clinging to the aspens in the mountains, we head north through Taos, stopping off with Greg for an extra large four shot latte (rrrrrrrmmmmmmm), then left at the old blinking light (which is a full stoplight now, and hasn't blinked in years, but that's still how the locals think of it) motoring north and west, past crowds already milling at the Rio Grande Gorge (damn, Martha, it's a gorge), then settling comfortably into fifth gear as we blast across the mesa (wave at Jane as we go by) to Tres Piedras.

Here's where the landscape begins to change rapidly, as we motor into the hills and curves, sage giving way to pinon and juniper, transitioning into broad ponderosa pines, and finally climbing into aspen and spruce.  Groves of aspen line the winding macadam, some sadly passed, but many blazing gold that almost hurts your eyes in the strong October sun.  Stop to gawk at the Brazos Cliffs, then back on that pony and ride, sliding down the west side of the mountain into Tierra Amarilla (yellow earth, yes it is), north to Chama, where the hunters are out in force, and the local businesses advertise taxidermy and wild game processing, for those who want meat and trophies without getting too familiar with what's inside, or what that elk ate for breakfast.

Then north and west into Colorado, all the way constantly reminded of the failure of the real estate economy, signs old and derelict "60 Acres Prime for Development", and shiny new and optimistic "36 Acre Horse Property with River Frontage."  None of it is selling, so the realtors are suffering.  As are the contractors who did all the fancy upgrades.  And the surveyors, carpenters, well drillers, title companies, mortgage brokers, and a whole host of tradesmen and laborers suddenly adrift, wondering when it turns, because it always turns, but this time it could be a long wait.

Cruise past Bayfield, just by the southern tip of Durango, and swing west, skirting the south end of the San Juan range.  Then at Mancos we head north along the Dolores (sorrows) River, past Stoner (gotta love it) and Rico, then climbing hard and long, fourth gear, then third, my six cylinder Tundra straining against the grade, and the mountains bleed iron oxide red above the tree line. We top out on Ophir pass, then drop precipitously down the switchbacked highway, and finally a hard right as we move into the local traffic pulling into Telluride.

The road part is over, but the trip is just beginning.

Quotidian be damned.