CROSSING MONARCH PASS

…from the great Colorado auto tour of 2012…

Not my choice

The Harley roared up from the west and wheeled into the vast asphalt expanse.  We’d arrived only moments before, exiting our rented Lincoln MKX (not my choice) and were setting up a posed shot at a sign marking the continental divide.  An upslope wind sliced through our garb and if wind has thought, this one thought, “I’ve reached the summit. What do I do now?”  At 11,000 plus feet in elevation, teeth chattered. 

           

The rider dismounted his Harley, removed some heavy riding gloves and motioned to me and my little Panasonic camera.  I handed it to him.

           

“Vhere?” he asked, tipping the visor on his Schuberth Helmet.

           

I pointed to the chrome button that controlled the shutter.

           

“Gud,” he said.

           

Monarch Pass - a "high point" of the trip

We, my wife, myself, and the couple traveling with us, posed.  The photo(s) were snapped.

           

“Where are you riding from?” was asked.

           

He pointed west on US 50. 

           

“Where you headed?”

           

He pointed east.

           

Rapid fire, more questions ensued.  We all know the ones.            

           

Finally, he waved his hand, removed the Schuberth and said, “I can undahstand you vhen you speak schowly.  Not mit that machine gun style you use.” 

           

He looked me directly in the eye.

           

His accent was thickly Germanic.  White, close-cropped hair covered his head, but his beard appeared to have months of growth. His road-worn FL-something-er-other was beautiful and clearly lovingly maintained.

           

“The Harley,” my buddy asked, “Why?”

           

“I’ve had it for twenty-five years,” he said.  “I shipped it here from home for this journey.  Wouldn’t ride anything else.”

           

Motioning to my pal, I said: “He just bought himself a Guzzi.”

           

The German rider looked at me, then at my compadre.  Then he said: “German.  Italian,” raising one, then another finger: “Vun. Two.”  He paused.

           

We waited a long moment, and then he said, “Shit,” as a big grin broke over his face – a universal sign that, as motorcyclists, we were all brothers whether we hailed from Berkeley, Bainbridge Island, Boston or Bonn.

           

I chose, however, not to admit I had one each German and Italian in my garage at home.

           

Little chance his kin will access the blog

“Can I get a picture for you?” I asked, changing the topic and speaking slowly, per his request.  I reached for the huge Canon he’d pulled from nowhere.

           

“No!  No!” he replied as if with some degree of urgency.  “No pictures of my face.”  He stroked his beard.  “I vant it to be a bit of a surprise for them vhen I return home.”

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press

SEARCHING FOR A CINNAMON ROLL (V.5) – GUNNISON, CO.

…from the great Colorado auto tour of 2012…

We’d come in for a simple cup of coffee while “the girls” engaged in their morning constitutional.  The menu in the coffee house was one of those huge black boards littered with item after item – breakfast lunch and snack – calligraphed in colorful if distracting chalk, including eats and coffee drinks I have no desire of ever trying.  Without an eyelid or two full of caffeine, it was futile to try to make sense of the big board.  All I wanted was coffee.

As I ordered, the missy behind the counter extracted a dozen hand-coiled rolls from an oven.

“Cinnamon?” I asked.

“Uh huh.”

I looked the counter girl up and down, my gaze resting on…

…the tray of freshly baked goods.  I guess I wanted more than simply coffee.

The confection arrived still warm and nicely iced with what appeared to be a cream cheese based glaze.  Forgetting I’d determined to photograph the cinnamon rolls consumed on this quest, I immediately plied the fork.  Beneath the baked crust, the breadstuff was delightfully flaky with a hint of saltiness balancing that sweet cream cheese glaze. 

Inside each curl, the light dusting of cinnamon grew a bit more intense as I found the soft, warm and slightly doughy center.  Throughout this exploration, I sipped a nice Italian Roast afforded me from an institutional Bunn coffee urn.

As the end became apparent, I slowed my consumption, reminding myself that these are moments to savor.  As I type, a single bite remains on the plate.  It will serve as my reward for finishing this review.

o0o

Other Gunnison Attractions:

Western State College (of Colorado) – nice place for a stroll; nice place to study.

Ol’ Miner Steakhouse – Four (4!) fine high country steak dinners with superbly prepared veges and taters, and a nice bottle of California red, all for a hundred bucks!  Welcome to the west.

The Gunnison Pioneer Museum – great collection of antique farm and mining equipment, two relocated one-room schoolhouses and some preserved motive power and rolling stock from the old days of narrow gauge.

Some of the collection:

Rebuilt Denver and Rio Grande Station and Water Tower

Checking out the narrow gauge steam loco

Accommodations inside the caboose

A barn holds 40+ antique or simply old autos.  Each with a local story.

Antique tractors dot the greens...

...most appear ready fire over and provide another day's work.

Two schoolhouses have been moved to the property.  Check out the glasswork on this one.

Worksheets!  The bane of every child's existence!

Resources:
Info on the Gunnison / Crested Butte Pioneer Museum:  http://www.gunnisoncrestedbutte.com/activity/pioneer-museum

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press

IN HOT PURSUIT: BUENA VISTA, COLORADO

…from the great Colorado auto tour of 2012…

Buena Vista, CO Town Hall

The daily 2:00 PM thunderstorm had just swept into town.  I’d stood with our party and predicted as follows: “In about a minute in a half, we’ll be soaked.”  I missed it by forty-five seconds.

Each with a fish taco on a Chinet paper plate balanced on our laps, sitting in the plush, leather accommodations of the rented Lincoln MKX (not my choice) we watched the shower cleanse the streets of Buena Vista, Colorado and the drama unfold.

Back step to Town Hall

No matter how small the berg, constabularies in most towns seem to employ Ford Crown Victorias as their patrol cars of choice.  The smaller and more remote the village, the more whiskers on the car.  BV’s Crown Vic looked collectable were it not for the crease in the right rear fender and the salt rust forming beneath the car on the side I saw.  Its siren whooped, however, as it had been installed only yesterday and it was the bellow of that siren that got our attention initially.  Through the thick veil of rainfall, the cruiser was in pursuit of the suspect on Main.

The Saloon

Citizens in Buena Vista helped.  Two young maidens, who’d been enjoying the cloudburst, clad in cut-offs and string-bikini tops joined the chase, as did a young twenty-something on a bicycle.

The suspect was described as a middle-aged golden retriever, perhaps golden lab, clearly guilty of cavorting about town sans leash. 

We pulled away from our parking slot and monitored the fray.

The Picture Show

The girls seemed to be having the best time of things – next to the dog.  They whistled and hooted and clapped their hands, crouching on one knee cooing and coaxing.  Dog waggled to within an arm-and-a-half length and then bolted.  The lad on the bicycle circled, perhaps more interested in the knit tops the girls were wearing than the stray dog.  No blame assayed here.

The cop had parked the Crown Vic catty-wompus in an intersection and was now in foot pursuit armed with one of those long handled loop things that you lasso over the neck of the offending party – if you get close enough.

           

Tracks thru town

 A well-travelled state highway bisects town.  Visibility was, at best, limited.  The dog was headed for the highway.  The young ladies sprinted after him, their gleeful hoots now sounding more desperate.  Bike boy flashed past.  The officer hotfooted back to his vehicle.  A Coors Beer truck – Coors is big in these parts – pulled in front of us, blocking the view.  Blinded, we waited for the light to change and the traffic to clear.

Two cycles later we were heading south on the state route.

Dog had safely crossed; girls stranded on the other side.  Loping down the street, he looked over his shoulder and appeared to be laughing as only dogs can do.

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press