The trip this year happened to fall during the week before the Columbus holiday weekend. I made the easy decision to add a couple days of leave onto that, allowing for five days in the Rockies. Weather would rule the itinerary in mid October, but that was no worry. October in the Rockies is usually great, after the throngs of land yachts in the summer, and before the swarms of ski season. It can also see some horrendous snow storms, as cold winter and moist summer air masses fight it out toward an inevitable outcome.

The week in Denver went well. After work, there was time to visit the brew pubs of"Lodo", and the home of the world's largest train store. Wynkoop's was my favorite of the downtown beers. One sunny evening, with the group from work planning a visit to the casinos of Central City, I recommended the jaunt up to Loveland Pass as a precursor to the night's indoor activities.

The current Alaskan in our group was not as thrilled to see snow falling at the pass as the rest of us. The wind was howling and the chill factor below zero at 12,000 feet. The Tommyknocker Brewery in Idaho Springs looked like a good place to warm up during the drive back down from the pass to Central City. I found their beers to be my personal favorites of all I've tried in Colorado. Central City was very quiet on that cold October weeknight.

It was nearly noon on Friday before I wrapped up work and headed back for the mountains. It was sunny at Loveland Pass this time. I left the freeway there to avoid the chaos of development that lines I-70 from Loveland almost continuously to somewhere west of Eagle. Ugly new condos are creeping up the old highway from Keystone toward the pass on the west side.

I stopped to take a stroll on a trail around a small butte with a wonderful view of Dillon Reservoir. The sun was out there, but clouds hung low over the Mosquito Range on to the southwest. I sped south on Highway 9 through Breckenridge and up over 11,541 foot Hoosier Pass. I was hoping to try a quick ascent of 14,286 foot Mt. Lincoln, but time and weather looked to be against me. From Alma, I raced up Buckskin Gulch, past the Sweet Home Mine, where crystals of Rhodochrosite are excavated and sold to mineral collectors world wide. Above the mine, the road deteriorates, but is still usually passable to most vehicles. One creek ford was a bit deep, but the bottom was solid.

The hiking starts at 12,000' Kite Lake, where a well worn trail heads for the saddle between Mt. Democrat and Mt. Lincoln. An old miners cabin at 12,400' offers a window view back down to Kite Lake. Above the cabin, the route quickly grows steeper and more rocky as it climbs to a 13,400 foot pass. Above the pass, the ridge is a jumble of loose boulders.

I was making good time, but decided to turn back near the summit of Mt. Cameron, a 14,238 foot false summit of Mt. Lincoln. The wind was really picking up, and the sky to the southwest looked very dark. More worrisome was the case of altitude sickness that hit me rather quickly. Feeling woozy drunk all alone above 14,000 feet was not too enjoyable. I guess that's what you get for "getting high" too fast.

It was not a painful decision to turn back. I already had the view I had come for. Adding your meaningless name to a summit register should never become so important as too take unnecessary risks. I did look back at 14,148 foot Mt. Democrat and wish I'd tried it instead. Its only a little lower, but the distance from the pass to the summit is quite a bit less. I'd probably have made the true summit there.

The drunken stupor quickly faded on the descent, evolving into a most heinous headache. Just above the cabin, I met a group of three, heading up hill with full packs. We chatted for a bit, as they inquired about the weather as well as bivouac sites above. Better them than me....

The handful of pain relievers I consumed back at the car seemed to provide little relief, but I still couldn't resist stopping in for a beer when I got down to Alma. Headache or not, the idea of tipping one back at "Highest Saloon in the U.S.A." was too inviting. I was in and out of there in a matter of minutes. As night would soon fall, a place to sleep was the new priority number one.

The weather continued to get worse. I continued south into the vast expanse of South Park. I was very surprised the see a bull elk and his harem in the open grassland during hunting season. Soon lightning danced across the Mosquito Range and rain came in sheets, closing down the views. The rain subsided as I dropped into the Arkansas River Valley. The sign pointing to Mt. Princeton Hot Springs was an irresistible invitation. The heck with finding a place to sleep! I just wanted to soak my aching head and body.

The lonely road into the hot springs heads straight for the Sawatch Range. The oasis of hot water sits right at the base of the towering Chalk Cliffs of Mt. Princeton. As I relaxed in the spring fed swimming pool, the last rays of sunset burst through the clouds to turn the sky a brilliant pink. I moved down into the creek side pools where stacks of river rock catch the hot runoff and dam out the freezing cold waters of Chalk Creek. It was wonderful soaking at eye level with the rushing stream in the steamy pools. Frequent adjustments were needed to control the mixing of hot and cold water. Once or twice, I jumped over into the rushing creek then back into the hot bath. Oh man did it feel good....

The rain came back in earnest. I drove some twenty miles further south, grabbing some fast food in Salida. I ate in the car, listening to the booming P.A. system from the homecoming football game going on just behind the restaurant. Salida clobbered poor Fountain High in that driving rain.

I ended up spending that night sleeping in the car at O'Haver Lake Forest Camp. I couldn't see getting all my gear soaked on the first night out. It was an uncomfortable, but tolerable night. I was glad I stayed in the car. It thundered and poured till dawn. Snow covered Mt. Ouray down to the treelike.

I continued driving south, crossing Poncha Pass into the immense San Luis Valley. I wasted close to an hour on a side trip to the ghost town of Bonanza. There was very little there of interest. After that disappointment, I was ready for another hot spring bath, but I arrived at Mineral Hot Springs more than an hour before they opened. I didn't wait. Nature was calling, but in the San Luis Valley, handy bushes are hard to come by!

A Forest Service billboard at Poncha Pass mentioned a rock climbers haven called Penitente Canyon, just west of La Garita. It sounded like a good destination for my next stop. A road sign just out of La Garita also mentioned some wagon tracks I thought might be worth a visit as well. La Garita itself is not much more than a nice little country store. The canyon is just west of town, where the landscape begins to slowly rise from the flat valley floor into pinyon covered foothills of the continental divide. While the higher mountains surrounding the valley were cloaked in clouds, this area was bathed in sunshine.

There were several occupied primitive campsites where the road ends at the mouth of the canyon. The Bureau of Land Management was just beginning to implement a development plan for the entire area. From the notes in the register at the mouth of the canyon, it was obvious that the climbing community was far from happy about the changes coming to what they felt was their own private playground.

The canyon was much smaller than I expected, but still very scenic. Its vertical sandstone walls probably nowhere reached one hundred feet in height, making for great top-roped climbing routes. I wandered up into its depths, passing several groups of climbers, most of whom could not even manage to return a friendly hello. Fall colors were still at peak in its wind protected recesses. The aspen colors where the best I saw on the entire trip. Near the head of the canyon, less than a mile above the mouth, the walls closed in and the path traveled through a tunnel of brush. At a fork, I stayed to the right, and was soon treated to a view of a gravity defying balanced rock.

I scrambled up the canyon wall, now only some twenty feet high, and briefly explored the sandstone slick rock above. It was fairly simple to loop around to the left branch of the canyon, except for one six foot dry waterfall I had to jump down. Back down at the mouth of the canyon, the one friendly visitor to the canyon I came across was a rather ancient looking Basset Hound. About that time, several of the climbers came racing down the trail. Apparently someone had taken a fall and was injured. I offered to pitch in my muscles to help pack the victim out, but was met with indifference. Oh well, with friends like that.....

The spur road to the wagon tracks was not much more than two wheel tracks across the slick rock. The historic tracks themselves consisted of obvious grooves worn into the rocky surface. No information (bottom of page) was provided at the site on their origin, and they seemed to be located in an odd spot in relation to the surrounding topography. As I returned back to main road, I saw rescue vehicles speeding to the canyon. Whoever was hurt didn't have to wait too long for help after all.

Back near La Garita, just a mile or so north of the main road, was a picturesque cemetery. I call the photo I snapped there "Pearly Gates". The wind had picked up to a gale. It was warm though, and by the time I realized what was happening and rolled up the windows, the interior of the car was cloaked thickly with wind-blown dust. Soon I was driving through a full blown dust storm. Tumbleweeds raced across the valley. Several passed me as I drove down the main street of Center, Colorado searching for some seedy looking Mexican restaurant for lunch (they always have the best food). One was there as expected, but closed.

I arrived at the Entrance to Great Sand Dunes National Monument in the early afternoon. The wind still was howling down off of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, but the visibility was better once I got out of the agricultural areas of the valley. Plumes of sand rose from the tops of the highest dunes and dust devils danced across the sage covered flats. The weather forecast called for the temperature to plummet and for a good chance of snow. I decided, even though it was early, to check out the possibility of camping in the park.

Most of the sites in the campground were very nice, but too open. I was hoping for some protection from the wind, and found one site that was surrounded by trees on all sides, ensuring protection when the wind swung around from south to north. I quickly set up the tent, and started a fire. Traveling by air means the backpack stove stays home, so in order to have hot food, a fire is the only easy answer. I managed to cook and inhale a T-bone I bought back in Denver, and toasted up a bunch of quesadillas for future consumption just before the thunder started.

I drove to the north end of the campground to watch lightning stab at the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. As the storm subsided, I drove further, down to the dune access parking area. The sky to the southwest looked very unfriendly, so I stuck close to the car. It wasn't long before all hell broke loose.

It was a ferocious storm. Dime size hail was driven by hurricane force winds. I felt sorry for the poor souls who came running off the dunes for their cars. The storm raged on for almost a half hour. Finally, a rainbow singled its demise. The rainbow raced north, following the storm toward the mountains.

Finally, the sky to the southwest looked calm, and with a half hour left before sunset, I set out from the now empty parking lot on a mad dash for the summit of the dune field. At the edge of the pavement, normally tranquil Medano Creek was swollen by the storm. Mini flash floods came rolling down the channel one after another, each increasing the depth by six inches at a time as small walls of water. I cautiously forded the stream and headed across a broad expanse of flat sand for the base of the dunes.

Soon I was picking my way up rise upon rise of sand, trying to guess where the surface would be most firm. The rainfall certainly helped in that department. I could barely imagine how much more effort would have been needed on dry sand. The wind was tolerable until I reached the summit ridge. I struggled towards the highest peak as sunset started to paint the sky.

Although the wind was nasty, the sky to the south was a wonderful painting of blue and gray. I reached the top of that 700 foot sand pile just a few minutes before the sun dropped below the horizon. Its last rays set the sand on fire. The glowing dunes stretched to the north for miles to the base of the Sangre de Cristo. In an instant, black clouds appeared over the mountains and the wind grew even stronger. I don't know if the sun set or was suddenly obscured. The glow was gone, yet the colorful landscape was as stunning as ever.

Out of nowhere, a thunderstorm formed just to the south. I was 700 feet above, and a mile away from the nearest cover. No question - RUN! In sand at nearly 9000 feet, this was easier said than done. Not more than a hundred yards down the ridge from the summit, conditions caused me to rethink my strategy. This was a sandstorm right out of Arabian nights, with deadly lightning thrown in for added excitement. I decided it would be more prudent to find the safest location in this unsafe environment to ride the storm out. I scree-hopped down the dune's slip face, and dug in about two thirds of the way down. There I crouched in a ball for what seemed like an eternity, counting off the duration of time between flashes and crashes. At least it didn't hail again.

When the lightning was consistently several miles away, the mad dash for cover began again. It was now pitch dark in between the brilliant flashes that lit the way. I had left my original route and had to make a best guess at the direction of the parking lot. I never stopped long enough to retrieve a flashlight and compass from my pack.

Crossing dune crests was still quite unnerving with lightning so close. My lungs burned with exhaustion as a tried to run as much as possible. After several "dune passes", the lights of the visitor's center finally emerged in the distance. Guessing the approximate location of the parking lot became easier using that reference point. Soon I was back on the flat sand plain and wondering how much more Medano Creek had risen. I didn't worry about that for long, as several cloud-to-ground bolts dropped progressively closer to the south. The heck with the water! Cover was on the other side. Boom - two miles...boom - one mile. Even as a crouched ball, I would have been the highest feature for hundreds of yards. I hit the water in a full sprint. It wasn't even knee deep.

The brushy woods of the far side felt safer than they probably were. Mercifully, my beeline dash hit the woods only a hundred yards north of the car. I spent the next half hour trying vainly to "de-sand" in the campground rest room. It was coating me like frosting on a cake. My eyes, which surprisingly didn't bother me much during the storm, were now burning in agony. My lips were outlined like a clown's makeup. Hair combing produced a shower of sand for the next several days.

It may sound crazy, but with no real harm done, the experience is one I'll always treasure. That doesn't mean its one I care to repeat either! I was never terrified, but boy did I feel a great sense of relief when I got into that car.

I slept like a rock after my sandy marathon. The first thing I noticed in the morning was the pronounced sag in my tent. It was almost touching my nose. Why did the snow loosen the stakes that held so well in the wind? Camp was pretty painted white and the aspens by the car held their leaves throughout all that wind and snow. The dunes took on a whole new peaceful look in white. What a difference a day makes, especially in October!

The weather report called for temperatures to continue dropping into the teens with occasional snow. I had an early start and determined to head south for better weather. In no time, I was crossing into New Mexico. It was still only 9 AM when I arrived at Taos Pueblo (Walking Tour Map), which was also dusted with the season's first snowfall. A steady stream of tourists followed me through the entrance station. The pueblos (there are two) had changed little in the 25 years since my last visit. The hefty entrance fee and casino just down the road were glaring exceptions. The fee was worth it. Its an extraordinary place.

According to the literature handed out at the entrance, approximately 150 people still live in the pueblo full time. By choice, they have no running water or electricity. Lighting is supplied mostly by propane lamps, and all heat comes from wood burning. The pinyon smoke smelled great.

The pueblos are considered to be the oldest continuously inhabited communities in the USA, having been constructed between 1000 and 1450 AD. A number of curio shops offer handmade crafts and artwork, as well as a chance to see inside the pueblo. I found the prices to be quite reasonable.

In addition to the two pueblos, the Chapel of San Geronimo is a wonderful attraction in its own right. The present church was completed in 1850, replacing the mission from the 1600s, which was destroyed by the U.S. Army during the War with Mexico. Kivas are also still used in the pueblos for ancient religious ceremonies. They are not open to the public.

I rolled on south, arriving in Santa Fe well before noon. Snow flurries followed me all the way there, and accompanied me as I wandered around downtown. One of the more interesting scenes there were several old rail coaches. I was also impressed with the adobe home of Outside Magazine.

It was decision time. I sat in the car for a few minutes, studying the map. White Sands were calling. It would have to be warmer there.

One hundred miles south of Santa Fe, cactus reached toward sunny skies. They were covered with yellow fruits, presenting quite a spectacle.

The roads of central New Mexico were devoid of traffic, and the wide open spaces were almost as pleasant an escape from the crowded east as were the Rockies of Colorado. Near the center of the state, the road led through the near ghost town of Duran. I took a couple of extra minutes to enjoy its historic buildings. The adobe brick church looked well cared for.

A bit further south, I left the paved highway on a brief side jaunt into the Gallinas Mountains. They form a small island of pines in a vast sea of high desert. At primitive Red Cloud campground in Cibola National Forest, I scavenged for firewood, figuring it would be hard to come by any further south. This area seemed very remote. The scenery, while pleasant enough, was far from spectacular. I was many miles from any population center. I wondered if anyone ever traveled there as an intended destination, other than perhaps during deer season. Then a saw a peculiar scene that made me a bit nervous.

Two large Ponderosa pines formed a natural gateway for a side road that amounted to no more than a worn track across the needle carpeted forest floor. About ten feet up each tree was mounted a flag pole flying fresh looking United States flags. No sign or anything else explained the significance of this patriotic driveway on public land. I supposed it could have been just a hunting camp, but the first thing that came to my mind in this middle-of-nowhere location was visions of Ruby Ridge or the Unibomber's other hideout. Thinking that some confused group of separationists would quickly convert the USGS id in my wallet into the FBI, ATF, or some other "evil bureau", I developed my own little unfounded paranoia, and hit the gas without stopping for a photo. Wish I had now...

Heading south on USFS and BLM roads, I followed an abandoned telegraph line that distracted me from watching the road. I've collected glass insulators since I was five years old. All of the poles were bare or had only broken teasers left after untold years of target practice. Most people don't know that the rarest insulators can now sell for more than $10,000 in collecting circles.

The land must have at one time been at least a bit more heavily populated. Here and there were long empty houses, and one fancy gate led to nowhere. It was good see the main highway again. Its funny how I can feel strangely alone in such a place, yet be comfortably at home by myself 20 miles into a mountain wilderness.

It was 221 miles from Santa Fe to Alamogordo. Excessive speed would have been desirable, but the police seemed to outnumber the travelers on U.S. 54, especially near Carrizozo. I usually kept it under 70, except on some of the longer straight-aways. By the time I arrived at White Sands National Monument, the sun was so low, the wind rippled gypsum sands were more pink than white.

The Alkali Flats Trail seemed like the best bet for some solitude, as areas along the park road were a bit crowded by sunset viewers on that fine Sunday evening. The so called trail, marked by widely spaced stakes, headed straight into the dune field from the end of the road. After a half mile or so, I climbed up a nearby tall dune to sit back and enjoy the remaining light of day. Purple dunes rolled off to the horizon, with 12,000 foot Sierra Blanca Peak rising some 50 miles beyond. Before long, the sun slipped behind the Organ Mountains.

A full moon guided my way back to the empty parking lot. There was no time to ponder a course of action. The park gate would close shortly after sunset. I had expected a campground in the park, but the only camping available there was at a backcountry campsite, and I had arrived too late to get a permit for an overnight stay. I stopped once on the eight mile drive out, to photograph a couple of yuccas in a splendid twilight silhouette.

Back at the entrance, I parked to study the map one more time. I thought long and hard about continuing south.. El Paso and Mexico were just over an hour away. It would be easy to loop from there over to Guadalupe Mountains and Carlsbad Caverns National Parks. That route would take me through areas I'd never seen before, but would end my much needed mountain fix a bit prematurely. Lack of time would probably require a direct route north on the east side of the mountains from Carlsbad back to Denver.

The mountains still called too loudly. Four hours later, I spread my sleeping bag on the ground under starry skies at a rest area along I-25 in northern New Mexico. The pecan and pistachio orchards and the palm trees of Alamogordo were already a distant memory. I awoke in a 15 degree pre dawn, very thirsty, with all my liquids frozen solid. I hurried into Las Vegas for OJ and gas in that order. Continuing north along the eastern slopes of the Sangre de Cristo, it wasn't long before I was back in a world of snow and icy roads.

Near the ski resort of Angel Fire, the majestic bulk of Wheeler Peak, snow plume blowing off its summit, welcomed me back to the Rockies. Close by, Cimarron Canyon State Park was worth a half hour side trip. The view over Eagle Nest Lake toward Wheeler Peak was a treat I would have missed by continuing straight north. The lake looked like it was boiling as steam rose heavily from its surface on that very cold morning. Continuing past ghostly Elizabethtown and on around the north side of Wheeler Peak, the road descended through the ski town of Red River and on down a canyon, leaving the snow behind as the trees turned back to sage brush.

Briefly backtracking on the previous day's route, I crossed back into Colorado under cloudless skies. Once again, what a difference a day makes. Twenty miles north of the border, golden aspens backed by the snowcapped Culebra Range once again beckoned me off of the beaten path. The valley above San Luis is still like the Colorado of thirty years ago. Its million dollar scenery without the million dollar houses. Up past sleepy Chama the pavement ends. Soon the road itself ends in a beautiful ranch filled basin at the base of 14,000 Culebra Peak.

It was still early, and the low sun angle prohibited taking good photos in the basin. Dropping back down through the village of San Pablo, I was continually amazed at the beauty of this still undiscovered country. All the houses in the valley were modest at best, and I never saw a single "For Sale" sign or subdivision advertising "Ranchettes". I don't remember seeing a any real estate offices either. Was this really Colorado? I'd love to own some land there myself. I imagine its only a matter of time before the start of the "condo invasion" and the inevitable demise of this peaceful valley takes place.

Back in San Luis, a short scenic trail climbs the hill on the west edge of town, passing bronze statues of the stations of the cross to the Capilla de Todos Santos on it summit. The chapel was just as pretty inside (1) (2), all decorated will aspen boughs. Outside, my only company for witnessing Christ's ascent was a small jack rabbit.

The San Luis Valley has some strange features. However, it was much friendlier the second time around minus the wind, dust, and snow. I didn't get to see any of the Valley's oft sighted UFO's. The Blanca Peak Massif and then the Crestone Peaks guided the way north. I didn't take the time to visit the freaky Colorado Alligator Farm, and headed west to Gunnison, then north to Crested Butte, hoping my way wouldn't be blocked by snow there. The sign said Kebler Pass was still open, and with one look back at Crested Butte, I headed back up into the world of winter.

The road was quite icy, and also very busy. It was jam-packed with elk hunters. How could such a mass of humanity ever surprise even a single elk? There was even a traffic accident right on the summit. Having to stop on an icy grade just short of the summit to wait for the road to be cleared was not in the plans. Somehow the car managed to get enough traction to get started. Once over the top, there was a definite commitment to make it the rest of the way. It seemed unlikely that the car would be able to get back up the long steep grade on the far side of the pass.

The pass was fairly close to Crested Butte. It was still more than 20 miles down to pavement on the far side. Fortunately the road became mostly clear of snow well before that. The views of the rugged Elk Mountains were outstanding. Bare aspens lined most of the distance. Here and there, occasional trees were still ablaze with autumn color. Lower down, large stands of aspen were cloaked in color. Toward the end, there were sweeping vistas south to the West Elk Mountains. Then the road turned north, with one last good view before dropping down into the canyon of Anthracite Creek. At Erikson Springs, a life flight chopper was landing. I assumed then that the score stood at elk one, hunters nothing.

Back on pavement, heading north toward McClure Pass, the road climbed above Paonia Reservoir and into more mountain scenery. Shadows were very long by the time I reached the artsy little town of Redstone. It was a very homey little town, and it was time to fined a home for myself for the evening. Just south of town was a Forest Service Campground.

Before setting up camp, I drove another couple miles north in search of Penny Hot Springs. I hadn't bathed in days and although the rock-dammed pool on the edge of the Crystal River was in poor condition, it sure felt good. The air temperature was in the 20s, and the water temperature varied from freezing to scalding depending on which side of my body it was in contact with. I was surprised none of the locals had taken the time to improve the site. As it was, fluctuations in the river level would quickly make the pool unusable. Probably, spring floods always destroy any improvements, but this was fall, when the hot springs could be most appreciated. There were a number of steam plumes further upstream. Perhaps there were better bathing sites there.

That night was the coldest of my trip. It was 14 degrees when I got up in the morning. I could have built a snowman from the frost I shook off of the inside of my tent. Its amazing how much moisture one breathes out overnight. I quickly packed up and went for another dip in Penny Hot Springs.

Driving on to Aspen, I heard the shocking news on the radio of John Denver's death just minutes before arriving in the singer's home town. There was to be a candle light vigil that night, and the town seemed to be in a state of chaos. The traffic was horrible, which in my experience was normal there. Flowers were already accumulating in the park where the vigil was to take place.

Following in John's footsteps, I headed quickly for the mountains. Fall is probably the best time of the year to visit the Maroon Creek Valley. During the busy summer season, access is restricted during peak daylight hours to shuttle buses, similar to some National Parks. In October, traffic in the valley is much lighter and open to personal vehicles. Just above the forks, the first view of Maroon Bells is a stunning invitation to follow the road on to its end at that most photographed of Rocky Mountain landscapes, Maroon Lake

The huge parking lot was all but empty when I arrived at 10 AM. I grabbed my day pack and headed up the trail toward the Bells. A sign at the trailed warned of the "Deadly Bells". I had no desire to climb, just to get a closer look. Several alternate trails follow Maroon Creek above the lake. I preferred the one that stayed closest to the creek.

Before long, the trails joined into one and began a climb through an aspen forest. Occasionally, there were good views back to the rocky towers of Sievers Mountain and down stream over Maroon Lake. Pyramid Peak was a towering presence above the far side of the creek. The snow glittered with a crust of huge frost crystals. One lone frost crystal in the middle of the trail made for a good abstract photo.

Soon the trail leveled out and then dropped slightly to the already ice covered Crater Lake. I found a snow free rock to balance the camera on for a self portrait of me and the Bells. The upper end of the lake still had a bit of open water which reflected the mountains up valley. I continued above the lake, passing a roaring waterfall hidden in the woods, and emerged from the trees onto the massive talus cone built by eons of slides from between the Bells. That seemed like a good place to turn around. I posed for another self portrait looking back down to Crater Lake. The noon time sun was feeling warm, and rock falls constantly echoed from above as the freeze and thaw process continued its eternal task of tearing down the mountains. I couldn't help but think of John Denver, and wonder how many times he had taken in this most classic of Rocky Mountain scenes. That day, I had it all to myself.

I did pass two groups of two heading up the trail on my way back down. Unlike the rock climbers of Penitente Canyon, these folks were exceptionally friendly. We all took the time to revel with each other in the spectacular weather and scenery of the day. The parking lot was much more crowded when I got back. I decided to kick back there for awhile and dry out my wet footwear and frost dampened tent in the midday sun.

I shared lunch with a number of Blue Jays and Camp Robbers. They certainly enjoyed all of the left over bread I had and no longer needed as my trip was drawing to a close. I even caught a few winks while stretched out on my sleeping pad beside the car. The gear dried quickly, and I packed everything up tight, getting ready for tomorrow's flight home. It was after 3 PM when I headed back down the road to Aspen.

I was hoping to get over Independence Pass, the shortest and most scenic route back to Denver. Last year I snuck over in October by driving around the barricades a few miles below the summit, but now the gate just above Aspen was locked tight. I suspect the snow was deeper up there this time around. Had the pass been open, I might have stayed for the vigil, but the morning flight and the pending longer drive on the less scenic freeway broke my will to stay. I latched on behind a speeding "blocker", and made incredible time back to Denver. I'm sure I could have never made it that fast by the much shorter Independence Pass route.

Daylight hung on almost all the way to Denver. The freeway through the canyon along the Colorado River above Glenwood Springs is actually very scenic. Unfortunately, its all but impossible to photograph at 85 miles per hour. Condos line the way from Gypsum and Eagle, off and on all the way to Dillon. At the Eisenhower Tunnel, which passes under the Continental Divide and Loveland Pass, the sun was bathing the mountains in alpenglow. Then the full moon guided me down that last descent into Denver. It was a serene ending to my Rocky Mountain Road Trip.