I remember my first visit to Hugo's Cocina well, because it was weeks in the making. I had seen a list of Prescott's best restaurants, and Hugo's was tops in the Mexican category. In my travels, I saw an unassuming edifice with a sandwich sign in front that proclaimed it to be a Mexican restaurant, and my instincts told me it would be authentic and good. A second glance told me it was Hugo's, so I knew I was onto something.

The parking area was ...

<< MORE >>

All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

This is my next sport to try. Hurling.





Hurling Girl



One point!


He scored on this hurl.

... << MORE >>

I took a short trip on the Cherry Creek Bike trail, and just about a mile from my home is a weed-strewn patch of land between some of the Cherry Creek waterfalls and the John F. Kennedy Golf Course. I call it Prairie Dog City, and subsequently learned that the nesting areas of prairie dogs are called "towns."  This is where prairie dogs go to work, play and do their laundry.

Prairie Dogs are amazing creatures and oh, so cute!  Most of them are timid around strangers, but I found a few very ... << MORE >>

I traveled 45 days, and then lived in a temporary residence for another two months. It corresponded with the decennial census taking, not to be confused with the refrigerator cleaning that takes place every 10 years. Finally, I found a very nice place to call home in Denver, where every day I pinch myself to make sure I'm not just dreaming that I live in the most beautiful city in the greatest country in the history of civilization.  

Being transient has its drawbacks and benefits, but I felt it was my civic ... << MORE >>

It was the anniversary of my dad's birthday, April 3. I had a long day at Coors Field, and learned a lot for the week leading up to Opening Day. I walked five blocks to my car, and drove two before the car bucked me like a bronco. Every picture tells a story, don't it?

I missed Sunday's Sunrise Service at Red Rocks. But the irony of breaking down in front of the Samaritan House was grand. Gary, the resident who called a car-smart friend to try to help. The tow truck driver, ... << MORE >>

So, I'm looking for work, and Coors Field has lots of temporary summer jobs, although I learned "Pitching Coach" isn't one of them.  So I did a little Park-and-Ride using Denver's fabulous public transportation system.  I carefully checked online for the correct bus to get me near Blake Street and 22nd, and the #12 did the trick.  It stopped at Larimer and 18th, about six blocks shy of my goal.

But I forgot to see which bus would get me back.  I assumed it was the #12, but did not know where to pick it up.  Larimer is a one-way street, so any bus there would be heading the wrong way.  I crossed over one more block, where I saw a #9 bus pulled over and parked.  The driver opened the door.

"I'm new here," I explained.  "I took the #12 bus to get to Coors Field, but can't figure out how to get back.  Which bus should I take to get to Downing St. and Exposition?"

"Geez, I'm not sure," the driver said.  "I'm new at this and I don't know all the routes.  Let me think."  He put his head in his hands, like he was contemplating the final-round question on "So you Want to Be a Millionaire."  "Wait...  I'm drawing a blank.  I should know this!  Uhn... I was never good at taking tests, and I feel like I'm on the spot.  I think it's the six.  Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's the six."

"Where do I get the six?"

"Get in!" he beckoned.  "I'll take you up to Broadway.  It's just about five blocks up."

I got on the bus, and he closed the door.  There were no other passengers on the bus.

"I didn't realize there was nobody else on the bus."  The bus was not in service, yet he was driving me, chauffeuring me, to the bus stop.

Here's where the trip took a turn for the comical.
"They won't fire me for helping a customer, do you think?"  And then he confessed to having slammed on the brakes earlier when a car cut him off.  It was like Taxi Cab Confessions, reversed.  He was contrite.  Then, enlightened.  He reminded me of actor Judge Reinhold in Beverly Hills Cop, politely absorbing my problem as his own and trying so hard to help.

"It's the ten!  You want the number ten."  Six of one, ten of the other, I thought.  I believed him.  We pulled up to Broadway, and before he negotiated the left turn, he asked, "Is that the 10 over there?"  I looked and the bus was four blocks up the road.

"I can't possibly read that from here."

"Well if it's not, it will be along soon."  He turned the bus and dropped me off, where a dozen or more people waited for their buses.  He opened the door, said goodbye and good luck, and shook my hand.  It was then that I started thinking he mistook me for Mayor John Hickenlooper.  I should have asked the driver his name.

The distant bus drew closer, and it was the #0.  Wrong bus, but after the passengers boarded, I asked the driver which bus would get me back to Downing St.  He thought about it a moment, and said, "It's either the #6 or the #10... no, it's the 10.  There's one coming up behind me in less than a minute."

He was right.  The #10 pulled over, and I got on.  I forgot to have my $2 ready, and fumbled.  After I fed it into the machine, I asked the driver the familiar question, "Is this the bus that goes to Downing Street and Exposition?"  He answered with a heavy Eastern European accent.  "No, this bus goes to (unintelligible) and (more unintelligible)."  For arguments sake, let's say he said "Prague St." and "Krakow Ave."
I could not understand anything he said, except the word, "No."  I protested that the other drivers said... "No," he interrupted.  "Prague and Krakow."  Without looking at me, he ripped off a transfer ticket.  "Get off ... Colfax ... #15, I think."

When the bus got to the stop, he motioned to me and I got off.  I asked two women if they knew which bus I wanted, and they both said no.  The shorter of the two pointed across the street, and told me if I went around the corner, I could ask there.  It was the RTD headquarters, and surely somebody would know.  Or not.

Just then, another bus pulled up, and I again asked the driver.  She said matter-of-factly, "Oh, you want the #10."  I turned away, befuddled.  She called after me.  "Sir, you can get on my bus,  I can drop you off at (some street name).  You can walk a block and get the #12 that takes you back to Downing street."  This bus driver, this Glinda the Good Witch, delivered me as she said she would. While I watched the houses on Downing street pan past the window of the moving bus, I thought of the old Kingston Trio song about Charlie and the M.T.A.  Charlie was destined to ride the subway and never return, and now, Boston calls their subway passes a Charlie Card.  I would be proud if the RTD began calling their passes the Kerry Card.  After all, I am mayor of this town.

Kerry on the RTD
(to the tune of "M.T.A." with apologies to the Kingston Trio)

Let me tell you the story
Of a man named Kerry
On a tragic and fateful day
He put two bucks in his pocket,
Packed his laptop and CV
Went to ride on the RTD

Kerry handed in his fare
At the Wash Park Bus Stop
And arrived at Coors Field just fine
Once there, the conductor told him,
"Here ya go, man,
Come back on the Downing Street line."

Chorus:
                        Did he ever return,
                        No he never returned
                        And his fate is still unlearn'd
                        He may ride forever
                        on the streets of Denver
                        He's the man who never returned.

Now all night long
Kerry rode the buses
Saying, "What will become of me?"
Crying "Larimer's a one-way street,
Where are these darn buses goin'?"
'Til one driver said "Take a seat!"

"I think it's the six
Or maybe the ten
Or the fifteen'll get you back
I'll take you down to Broadway,"
and he hands him a transfer
"I'm new, I hope I don't get sacked."

As buses rolled by
on the streets of Denver
Kerry looked around and sighed:
"Well, I'm lost and disgusted
And I'm absolutely flustered;
This may be my last long ride."


Now you citizens of Denver,
It takes the dang whole village,
to set an idiot free
You can ride to Lakewood,
You can ride to Aurora,
You can ride to the Highlands
But if you ride to near Wash Park,
Get poor Kerry off the RTD!

Chorus:
Or else he'll never return,
No he'll never return
And his fate will be unlearned
He may ride forever
on the streets of Denver
He's the man (Who's da man?)
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man (Oh, da man)
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man who never returned.


Thanks to all the kind bus drivers with the RTD.
They all went out of their way to be kind and
helpful.  I'd like to think they make everybody
feel like the Mayor of Denver.

        

(Editors Note:  Sometimes, I cry when I write.  I admit that.  I've learned that the things I write that make me cry are the things that inspire others to feel emotions that drag them from the mundane into my world.  I sat in a coffee shop crying as I wrote parts of this.  They were not tears of sadness, but tears of celebration.  I hope you feel that, too.)

I ventured to Boulder Saturday afternoon to investigate opportunities to set up shop in the greenest city in America for a new "green" industry.  I saw the Mork and Mindy House, and parked there, just two blocks from Pearl Street and the row of shops, restaurants and boutiques.  Several blocks up, heading toward the beautiful mountains, is the Pearl St. pedestrian mall.  I walked its length, stopped for a slice of garlic and pesto pizza because there's a lot of vegetarian offerings in Boulder.

Outside the pizza shop, a man selling newspapers tried to get my attention.  I kept walking.  I am selective about the strangers I talk with, and selfishly, I really didn't think he had anything to offer me. I began walking back to the car, and at the edge of the pedestrian mall, a lady with a black cowboy hat and a smile turned and looked me in the eye, asking if I wanted to buy a newspaper for a dollar.  Before I could process my answer, she added, "I used to be homeless, and if you buy a paper, I get to keep 75 cents of the price."

She stopped me in my tracks. "You used to be homeless?"  

"Yes.  I used to be out on the street with a cup, and this newspaper has given me a chance to make enough money to get a modest apartment and get off the street."  I eagerly bought a paper, but felt compelled to learn her story.  She told me about the newspaper, the Denver Voice, which is part of a nationwide program to give the homeless an option other than panhandling to earn a modest living.  I asked her name, and took in her countenance, which was friendly, but weathered, with blondish-gray, straight hair spilling from under her black cowboy hat.  On the brim of the hat was a colorful little stuffed bear.  Raylene wore a white turtleneck sweater and a black vest with blue jeans, not unlike many of the pedestrians shopping in the upscale stores.  When she spoke, her teeth were crooked, but after listening for a brief time, I no longer noticed that.

Raylene told me part of her story, leaving out much of the heartache, to be certain.  She downplayed much of the hardship while conveying the uncertainties of life on the street, not knowing what fate might bring her way on a daily basis.  As she spoke, I did not detect an ounce of bitterness in her voice.    

She talked about the other homeless people she would encounter.  I was standing with my hands in my pocket, and she reached in and pulled out my hand.  

"Feel my hand," she said, giving me no choice in the matter.  "Feel how warm my hand is?  That's what's kept me alive.  Other people don't have that.  Some of them died.  It gets cold out here."

She said the newspaper contained a story about the biggest problem , that Boulder police would write tickets to homeless people for $100.  If they weren't paid, the violators would be jailed at a cost of thousands of dollars to taxpayers.  Then the offender would be turned out to the streets again, in a worse position than before. Raylene admitted that she had been jailed.  A friend on the streets introduced her to the Denver Voice, and Raylene welcomed the chance to work.  Part of the problem being on the street, she said, is wondering who might ever hire you, and for what kind of job.

She said it took awhile, but before long, people got used to seeing her in the same place and would seek her out to buy the paper.  She started making money immediately, and the first thing she did, she said, was to pay the $100 ticket.  

Then, she saved, and found her modest apartment.

Raylene works six days a week, selling papers on the street.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, in season, she sells at the Farmer's Market a few blocks away, but the other four days, she's at the edge of the Pearl St. Mall.  With great pride, she told me that she was asked to write about her story for an upcoming issue of the paper.  An editor is working with her, and she knows exactly what she wants to communicate.

I'll tell you what Raylene communicated to me.  Hope.
Here is a woman who, for whatever reason, lost every worldly possession she owned and ended up in a terrible predicament.  She never lost hope.  She never lost her moral compass.  She never gave up on herself.  I have friends and family who have never come close to seeing what Raylene has seen, and sadly, they have given up on their lives and on themselves.  

But there's Raylene, waving to passersby on a February afternoon.  She's cheerful.  She's polite.  She has warm hands.  And as we parted, she said, "God bless you.  Come back and see me again."

I think I will.   

The Denver Voice (www.DenverVoice.org) is a really neat paper, published by a man named Richard Barnes.  It is part of a national effort, and is a member of the North American Street Newspaper Association, in conjunction with the Society of Professional Journalists and the Colorado Press Association.  You can learn more about the program at www.nasna.org, or contact Executive Director Andy Freeze at andy.freeze@nasna.org.     

        

 All photos Copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

February 10, 2010

Better late than never.  I have been preoccupied wince my arrival in the Denver area, and it's all good.  So let me tell you about the last day of travel, from Durango up the Million Dollar Highway, which carried with it all the drama and daring of a Robert Ludlum novel.

See A Map

 I packed the car and was ready to leave the Adobe Inn at 7 a.m. but my friend Sharon at the front desk warned me that I better check the website to see if the passes were passible.  We had 3" of snow at the hotel, but she told me that could be more than a foot in the higher elevations.  It took almost an hour to get connected.  The internet said there was some ice and slush at the Molas Pass all the way to Ouray, but the roads were passable.  I checked out, and Sharon tried to talk me into staying an extra day.  I wished her well and said I'd write something nice on the internet about my stay, and she told me I was a nice young man.  Shucks!

And so I drove out Rt. 550 North, retracing my steps from the day before toward Purgatory.  I passed the resort and shortly after saw electronic signs telling all truckers that they better have chains on their tires or they'd be tied to a log and sent down the river.  Okay, I made up the punishment.  But I felt I was at a disadvantage because I didn't have any bling for my tires.


Snow-covered roads heading out of Durango.  My interest was peaked by the view.


Few cars ventured on 550 this morning.  Average speed was about 25 mph, and occasionally, I  was able to zoom at 40.  I did drive with the sunroof open.



In that area, elite housing tracts bear names like "Engineer Village" and you see Engineer this and Engineer that.  The road climbed skyward on Engineer Mountain, and I saw one sign that fascinated me:  "Engineer Mountain, Elevation 12,372 Ft."  (Number estimated within 200 ft.)  That's more than two miles closer to a manned space flight than I was just a few weeks before in Nebraska.  Or one ill-timed flinch, twitch or black ice slide off the road. Usually, I pass out at 12,350 feet, so this was a personal best. While the scenery was stunning, I did not take many photos because I was afraid to take a hand off the wheel or my mind off the driving.

Just when you feel some circulation returning to your hands, the road seemingly disappears around the edge of the mountain, and another sign tells you the road without guardrails is about to narrow.


Okay?  By how much?


I imagined a scenario in a log cabin home at the bottom of the mountain, which probably occurs with regularity.

"Maw, Maw — guess what I found?"
"You didn't find another skunk, did you, Junior?"
"No, Maw. I found a Bonneville nose-down near the side of the cliff!  Can I keep 'er, Maw?  Can I keep 'er?"
"Did you do your homework?"
"I sure did.  Whaddya say, Maw?  Can I keep the Bonneville?"
"Well, I don't see any harm as long as you promise two things.  You have to bury all the corpses in the spring, and... this is important, you have to promise to change the oil every 3,000 miles."
"Oh, I will, Maw!  Thank you!  I will!"


A view in the San Juan Mountain Range.


Heart-stopping beauty pervades, and I love the symmetry of this amazing view.

Such were my thoughts as I navigated the Holy Moley Pass along the way to Silverton and Ouray, pronounced Ouray, Ouray, I made it!  (It is the Molas Pass, but I like my name better!)  At Ouray, I pulled my car off to the left to a scenic overview and to make certain I had not wet myself noticeably.  The quaint sign promoted this area as the Switzerland of the U.S.  I was a disbeliever.   There were no St. Bernard dogs greeting me with little kegs of whiskey, no pigtailed young maidens offering hot cocoa, and not even the slightest whiff of cheese.  Just fresh air and a spectacular mountain view.  One of my favorite landscape pics from the entire trip was looking down upon a winding road that disappears into the mountains.




Ouray!  I made it!


How cool is this photo?  If I ever need to shoot a car commercial, here's the money shot!



Ice climbing is big in Ouray.

I got a little more brave, almost to the point of being cocky. See the video

Between Ouray and Ridgway, I saw avalanche warning signs.  I worried briefly that my perforated muffler might trigger a landslide, but reasoned that I probably just watched too many cartoons as a child.  Within 24 hours, a landslide near Ridgway would claim the life of two skiers, but it was attributed to other skiers.  I pulled over because I just had to have a picture of the avalanche sign.


I stopped, I stood, I took the picture.


All good things must come to an end. 


Frog Angel loved the San Juan Mountains.  He knows St. John personally.  Because he didn't see him, FA said the mountains should be renamed the Sans Juan Mountains.  Just a little perk from my friends who love wordplay.







The Million Dollar highway took me up to Montrose, which I found to be a very cool town.  I stopped there and had a bad Wendy's experience, so I made a lunch stop at a Safeway, and for the second time in three days I enjoyed a Virginia baked ham sandwich with horseradish cheddar cheese and an orange.  What did those early settlers do without Safeway? 

Back in the car, and on to Gunnison.  There, I stopped at a McDonalds for a bathroom break, and to ask directions.  Three older gentlemen sat at a booth.  One reminded me of Mr. Whipple, the second had a long face and did not speak, and the third was a robust man in a tan cowboy hat, tan shirt and brown pants who looked like he may have broken a few jaws in barrooms back in the day.  The men did not mind my interruption.  "What's the best way to get to Littleton from here?"
"Take a left out of the parking lot and you'll pick up 285," said the man in the hat.
"How far is it?" I asked.
"244 miles," he replied, without hesitation.I thought he was putting me on. 
"You seem pretty certain of that."
"Well, I used to be a trucker, and I would stop at the Conoco Station that you passed exactly a mile up the road, and I would get paid for 245 miles.  So, yes, I'm pretty certain of that."
Mr. Whipple said he just drove those roads yesterday, and there was some blowing snow up at Monarch Pass, but that today it would be clear.  I could have asked a dozen or more people in that restaurant, but I picked the right three guys.

I longed for some flat terrain, but that was not to be.  When I reached Monarch Pass, there was a trace of snow on the ground.


The gift shop and cafe... buried in snow.


The scenery there was beautiful.  I passed the entrance to a ski area, and Monarch seemed to be a place I'd love to visit again.

Before I knew it, I hit Poncha Springs, and I turned north on 285.  Now that the treacherous mountain roads were behind, I felt giddy from the drive.  The view made me smile.  Three mountain peaks, broad and brown, with white, snow-covered peaks, perched in the distance against a blue, blue, blue sky.  The way the sunlight and shadows played upon the mountains, they looked like American Bald Eagles protecting the land that lay beyond to the West.  Here, Frog Angel and I posed for two photos, and then my camera battery died. 


Like giant bald eagles, the mountains tower over the flatlands near Buena Vista.


We were near Buena Vista, a fine name.  I reflected on this, the 45th day, the final travel day of my journey.  Four words came to mind:  THIS IS MY AMERICA.  I crossed 10 states, five that I had never visited before.  I passed birth markers where presidents, athletes and celebrities were born and raised; I passed cemeteries where countless people, no less important, but with names less famous, had been laid to rest.  I saw smiling faces, and some without, and I hope I added one, or a few dozen, along the way.  Every day, and like this day, sometimes every minute, was a challenge and a mystery.  I lived in luxury and I slept in my car.  Believe me, waking up to 8 degrees F builds character and a fond appreciation for a hot shower.  I asked Divine Providence for a safe journey, and it was granted.  All that I saw, all whom I met reaffirmed that THIS IS MY AMERICA. 

But the journey has just begun.  I have a new life ahead, with more mountains to climb, more sunny days, more adventures to awe and inspire.  Maybe an avalanche or two.  Note to self, get the muffler fixed.  I am here only by the love and support of my friends and those who care about me, no matter how far away you may be. Moving forward, I aim to be worthy.    

        

Durango Days
February 8-9, 2010

I was excited to route my trip through Durango.  My brother, Mark, lived there years ago and worked at the ski resort bar The Lodge at Purgatory.  Quick story which is one of my favorites, and I may have a few details askew.  Mark left me in charge of his dog, Gulliver, back in Rochester when he went out to Colorado for a friend's wedding.  He decided to stay.  I was very happy, because Gulliver was a beautiful, russet-colored mix-breed with features of an Irish setter, a little Golden Retriever and the athleticism of Jim Thorpe.  It was fun taking Gulliver over to the Eastridge ballfields and honing his Frisbee-catching skills.  The fun ended, and the dog was flown to Colorado.  He adjusted well to life at the ski resort.  Mark took him into work, and Gulliver was welcomed.  As Mark worked the lunch crowd, Gulliver would take off and do his own thing, and then return at the end of the day.  What was Gulliver's thing?  He used to take the tram up the mountain to the top, where there was another cafe for the hungry skiers.  They would order their burgers and sandwiches, get their beverages and chips or whatever and come back to an empty tray.  Gulliver had scarfed their burgers from the tables, to the amusement of some, and maybe not so much for others.  Gulliver became the Robin Hood of Purgatory Mountain, although he could only give back in garden fertilizer.

I like that story better than many of the great train robbery tales, and I'm sure Durango has a few of those.  It's a railroad town, and there is a daily run between Durango and Silverton. 



Durango is a quirky little town with something for everybody.  Main Street is a pretty happening retail center, with several upscale hotels surrounded by jewelry shops, clothing stores, t-shirt shops, many sporting goods, bike, ski and snowboard shops. There are bones thrown to old hippies in the form of smoke shops, advertising pipes, hookahs and other smoking apparatus.  Sprinkled between the banks were antique shops, and at the very end of the street, a classic old movie theater next to the train station.  The people were friendly and the old town community seemed devoid of any sense of hustle and bustle.

 
The Bank of the San Juans — Morrie and Sheldon San Juan.  You definitely know it's a mountain town when the UPS truck has tire chains.  On my way out of Durango, all trucks were required to have chains on to go through the mountain passes.


We felt like we were back in NY again!


On Day 2, Frog Angel and I set out for lunch at Purgatory. I heard they had a "bobsled," but a call to the resort revealed it is an Alpine slide that only operates during the summer months.  One of my dreams is to fly down a bobsled run.  Little did I know that thrill might be reserved for the ride to my new home the next day.

It was quite a bit further than my new friend, Sharon from the Adobe Inn front desk, had indicated.  But 550 cut through tall mountain peaks on both sides of the road, and the drive made me a bit giddy for no other reason than the snow-covered mountains.  I turned into the wide driveway for the Durango Mountain Resort and plodded up the switchback roads past parking lots A, B, C and D, and all were reserved for Lodge guests.  I found a series of cottage rentals, and one that did not have a "Parking by Permit Only" sign.  I parked, and it was a short walk to The Lodge.


Frog Angel arrives at Purgatory.




We entered the big main door, and the front desk clerk directed us to the hallway at the left, go up the stairs and take the hallway to the end where you'll see the doors leading outside, and then to your left, you'll see Purgy's, the lodge's bar.  Well, we followed the hall to the left and walked the entire length and found no stairs.  We doubled back, and no stairs.  At the very end, there was an elevator, and so we took that up one level.  We were emptied into a hall that promised a Purgy's Restaurant.  Instead, all we found was a moderately lit hotel hallway.  We walked the hall, finding no restaurant, no signage other than a poster claiming that a Purgy's Restaurant existed, and nothing other than a hallway with many doors, all locked.  We walked back, and forth, and found nothing.

It dawned on me that this is indeed what Purgatory must be like.  A hotel hallway with many doors, but none that would open.  Frog Angel gave me courage that we would escape an eternity of life without a room key. Ten minutes felt like an eternity.  Door after door after locked door.  A few looked like service closets or hallways, all locked.  No stairs.  But wait!  I did find the fire exit and the concrete stairs leading up or down.  I didn't have permission to use that door, but the worst that could happen was I would set off an alarm and get kicked out of Purgatory.  I went down, and came out on the original floor.  This time, I saw a carpeted staircase, and on the 1-1/2 floor, saw the exit that led to Purgy's. Whew!


FA and I were surprised that the entry to Purgatory was rather understated.  At the lodge, the decor was that of stacked logs.  Is it possible those logs would be used to stoke the fires of.... naw!  Really?!!


A happy Frog Angel, after finding Purgy's Restaurant.
The ski lift takes 'em up...
... and snowboards or skis bring 'em down.  Fast!



People in ski boots walk funny.  FA and I had a personal pizza, and I sat at a table with a view of the entire dining room so FA could people watch while I wrote a press release for a client.  I came to the conclusion I'm not really a ski resort kind of person.  This did not seem like the same place that would be tolerant of a red-haired dog swiping sandwiches.   Or anyone looking for free parking.


This was the sign a worker was putting out next to my car as I left.  Obviously, Purgatory is filled with parking Nazis.


Looking for a honey.  The Mountain Honeys sounded like the ticket. 
I bought some honey wine (mead) too. 


FA perches on top of a giant, non-scary honey bear.  FA insisted she was Rosie O'Donnell.


 

        

All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

It was a full day of travelingand as usual, featured several highlights along with spectacular visuals.  I met some very nice people everywhere I went, including my new friend Leslie in Prescott, all the fine people at the various coffee shops, my Super new friends Pam
 and Nicole (Go Saints!) and Norma from Safeway, who watched me working late hours outside the closed Starbucks kiosk, and then told me "You WILL get a Safeway member card.  Oooo, that sounded threatening, didn't it?"  She saved me some money and I admired how nice she was to all the customers and not just me.  Most importantly, I'm appreciative of all of my dear friends and readers who commented, emailed and let me know that my blogs and photos meant more to them than just another travelogue.  I'll do a wrap-up blog that might provide some great insights.  For today, just spectacular photos from yesterday's travels from Sedona to Durango.  Really spectacular!


The view from the Motel 4 outside the Safeway market.  It was nice when it snowed.



On this day, God painted the trees and mountains pure white with glistening snow, providing yet another gift of beauty and another glimpse of ways this part of the world can thrill just by being.  "To be," just to be in and of this world, is a treasure we often overlook on our daily path keeping schedules and arbitrary business. 


Perhaps my favorite landscape photo from the whole trip, purely for the aesthetic value.


Sliprock Creek, Sliprock State Park near Sedona. 

The last three pictures came from the Cacaninny National Forest, no, wait — the Coconino National Forest in Arizona.  I'll be criticized for that I'm sure.   This trip was about finding laughter and joy, or bringing it.


A little blurry, from the moving car on Rt. 89A North.  The sun had just stretched its early morning rays around some heavy clouds, illuminating just the tops of the trees on the mountain, creating a halo effect.  It made me smile.



Much of my day was driving through Navajo Indian territory.  I captured some neat photos out the car window along Rt. 160 East.  One of the billboards touted the "Interactive Navajo Experience" at a museum.  I envisioned myself staggering out, three arrows in my back, my hair haphazardly scalped and tomahawks whizzing past my ears.  All because I forgot to remove my Cleveland baseball caps with smiling Chief  Wahoo from the rear window.  I was glad to see the Red Mesa High School emblazoned with its Redskin team name and logo.  I think the political correctness people have gone way too far, and many of the sports teams with Indian names are paying tribute, and not denigrating Native Americans and their contribution to history.  On the other hand, Chief Wahoo kinda crosses that line, although he's too much a part of history now to ignore he exists.


The weather was funky this day.  Snow conflicted with parched desert, sun with clouds, warmth in the lower elevations with chilly cold higher up.


Through the windshield.   The rocks look like a throng of people.  This is called Baby Rock.



Between Cortez and Durango, this was a beautiful mountain concealed by the clouds.  I found a safe road to turn off and got out of the car.  I climbed down the roadside, and learned a valuable lesson.  The snow at roadside may be 12", but off the road it can be three feet or more.  The bunny tracks on top were deceptive. 

Next:  Durango pics and then a trip wrap-up