Yelowstone 2018-4

Searching for the Old West

Having vanquished my foe, I put the day’s plan into action.

Alabama Hills

For several years, I have been reading about the Alabama Hills; a movie shooting location from the early days of Hollywood. The “ranch” has served duty in some of my favorite movies; Westerns of course, but also other genre.  Humphrey Bogart made his breakout role in High Sierra as what else, a holed-up gangster.  Cary Grant, Victor McLachlan and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. saved the British Raj in director Howard Hawks’ Gunga Din. And Spencer Tracy meted out one-armed justice against bigots Robert Ryan, Lee Marvin, Ernest Borgnine and Anne Frances in Bad Day at Black Rock. And there are countless others.  If you have any interest in film history, you should to a little research to discover which of your favorite movies were filmed here.

You will automatically recognize the terrain.  It lies between the town of Lone Pine the and the Sierra Nevada tors.  The best way to describe it is other worldly.  Although most of the movies filmed on the site were Westerns, the odd shaped boulders look as if they were rock monsters suspended in time, awaiting the wave of a magic wand to bring them to life. Alas, there are no remnants of sets constructed for filming.  There are a series of interconnected dirt roads which are accessible to anyone.  I would recommend a higher clearance vehicle, like a SUV.  But even mini-vans and sedans can handle most of the roads.  Access is easy. Exit Lone Pine heading west on Whitney Portal Road; then right onto Movie Road.  After that, follow which ever track suits you. When finished, return to town by whatever route you like.

 

Alabama Hills

I have one more goal associated with my visit to Lone Pine, a visit to the Museum of Western Film History. This moderate sized but nicely done tribute to the films shot in the Alabama Hills is located at the Southern end of town on the west side of U.S 395.  It is easy to spot, they have made the façade of the building look like a 1930’s era movie house, complete with marquis.  The museum contains artifacts form movies shot here from the early days right up to modern megahits like Iron Man and the Star Wars franchise. But its most important function is as the epicenter of the Lone Pine Film Festival occurring every fall.  The duration of your visit to the museum is dependent on your knowledge of the material.  The less familiar you are, the more time you will spend reading display cards. I breezed through in about an hour.

                            

Having completed my self-assigned workload, I decided to take a short trip north on U.S. 395 to Bishop to indulge in Schat’s Bakery.  I knew I would acquiesce to the morning rush if I waited until tomorrow. Bishop is about fifty miles north of Lone Pine. It is a much larger town whose primary revenue comes from tourism, fishing and hunting.  It is a jumping off point for the ski areas farther north.  Schat’s bakery is famous among U.S. 395 travelers for its German themed pastries and confections

I selected a slice of chocolate cake, and as it seemed that it might enhance the epicurean experience, I asked if they had ice cream. The gentleman assisting me, speaking with a pronounced European accent said no but informed me that they were installing a gelato machine this summer.  I left it at that and ordered a bottle of milk to accompany my cake.  Anyone who believes gelato is a reasonable substitute for ice cream demonstrates anti-American leanings. I enjoyed my cake and drove back to Lone Pine occasionally checking the rear-view mirror to see if I had picked up an FBI tail after my visit with Herr Schat.

When I returned to my motel room, I discovered another visitor dragging its belly across the carpet. This time it was a black spider, and fresh off my victory against the cricket, I felled it in one deft move.  I don’t know if it was a black widow but it sure had the body configuration.  I was not inclined to maneuver it onto its back to see if it had the red hourglass on the underside of its abdomen.  “Kill ‘em all and let God sort it out”, that’s my motto.”  The killing blow left little evidence for species identification.

That night, I awoke feeling as if something was crawling along my leg.  I jumped out of bed, turned on the light and thrashed the bed clothes.  I found no evidence of bug presence.  But as I fell into an uneasy sleep, my thoughts were that it might be time to reassess my fondness for kitsch motels and look to something of a higher standard.            

Yellowstone 2018-3

Showdown at Cricket Gulch

So here it is, finally, the day of departure.  It promises to be an unchallenging experience as there are relatively few miles to cover and I have made this drive many times. U.S. 395 begins in the City of Adelanto where it separates from the diamond grooved concrete of freeway I-15 and swings NNW (north-north-west) onto the rumbling macadam of U. S. 395.  It has been some years since I last negotiated this roadway and I am surprised at the residential and retail development pushing civilization ever northward into the frontier.

Finally, the exurbs are halted by the Mojave Desert. This part of the State is still heavily invested in mineral mining.  Although both sides of the road are littered with what appears to be abandoned mining equipment from an earlier period, you can bet there are intrepid prospectors who still tell the tale of the strike they almost had before the war (yeah, your guess is as good as mine) with a gleam in their eye.  And if you have a sharp eye you can see adits up on the hillsides with fresh tailings shading the earth a darker brown.  But miners are miners and since they tend toward the delusionary paranoid I pass through this valley at safe but steady speed.

Nearing the end of the mining district a sign invites the tourist/explorer to visit the authentic old-west mining town of Randsburg.  It is located a mere one-mile from the highway and for my money a must stop, if only to use the public restroom.  The town is generally deserted during the week but opens its doors on weekends and holidays.  There are a couple of bars (I’ve only seen them open on one occasion, Randsburg Days, which my traveling party made good use of) a general store with a lunch counter and a hotel (I’m not sure the hotel takes guests). If one inquires to the use of restroom facilities, thy will be politely if not a bit cool-ly, directed to the County Park mid town and the public conveniences therein. Go there first. Take care of business. Then buy de minimus something as a show of good will. If the residents ever give up their tenuous hold on the place, or die; it’s a fur piece to the next facilities, partner!

At this part of the trip, I always challenge myself to glimpse the earliest sign of the Sierra Nevada.  But as with every trip up here, the next thing I know is that the peaks are staring down at me from about fourteen thousand feet.  They are not as old as the Rockies.  They are not on average taller than the Rockies (although they do claim the highest peak in the Continental United States). But their sheer ruggedness is enough to make one cry for their mommy.  They serve as escort into the first town of the Sierra, Lone Pine.

It is that first 25 miles per hour sign that confirms for me that I am in a different era.  The buildings all seem to date from the first half of the twentieth century.  Driving this slowly gives one time to scrutinize their surroundings.  It brings to mind so many of the golden age films I love.  It looks much as I remember the Main Street Route 66 towns I’d been through with my parents when I was a tyke.  You have read of my affinity for older motor courts and motels.  I think they’re kitsch and just another connection with my childhood.  Although they may lack some of the more modern touches, as long as they are clean the primary mission is achieved.  How much time does one spend in the room anyway.

Tonight, I selected the Portal Inn near the south end of town.  After checking in and getting settled, I had some time before dark to explore. My plans included a drive to Whitney Portal, which is the trail head for Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the forty-eight contiguous states.  The road runs directly west from Lone Pine through the Alabama Hills (more on that later) and the first switchback up the side of the mountain becomes more intimidating as one approaches.  The road is steep and narrow but in good repair.  I didn’t count switchbacks as my concentration was better served by keeping my vehicle on the climbing, curving roadway.  Upon arrival I discovered the portal is no more than a parking lot accompanied by a small store vending memorabilia for those who wish to brag about their successful conquest.  As it is unlikely that I will ever make that ascent, I spent no time perusing the merchandise.  Yes, the trip down is a bit hairier, it always is.

Upon my return to Lone Pine, I opted to take a walk along the main street.  As I neared my motel, I realized I was somewhat puckish and turned to the coffee shop across the street.  Suddenly I realized nothing would sate my hunger but a cup of joe and a piece of pie. Their only offering for fruit pie this evening was strawberry-rhubarb.  Not quite boysenberry, but it would have to do.

When I returned to my motel room, I engaged in that activity all older men perform in the presence of plumbing, I peed.  Something on the floor of the bathroom moved into my peripheral vision. A cricket!

Crickets are the most insidious of beasts.  Not because the offer any real physical threat but because they employ psychological warfare.  As part of their efforts to attract a mate, crickets chirp. And it is an annoying chirp.  But here’s the root of the real torture.  As the mighty human predator seeks the location of the annoying little creep, the cricket senses the movement and stops chirping.  After a few moments the human gives up the hunt and resumes his activity.  Just when concentration or sleep is about to settle, the damn cricket chirps again.  And this drama will repeat itself until the cricket is successful in finding a paramour while the hunters nerves are frayed to the breaking point.  I was determined to end this combat swiftly.  After all, I had him in my sights.

  I picked up an ad hoc weapon, a small, round waste bucket.  The cricket retreated in the corner where the bath tub joined to the wall.  A quick strike, the cricket was still.  Wait, no he moved.  Another blow.  Then he stirred again. The bucket came crashing down on the cricket three, four, five times.  But each blow only served to temporarily stun the invincible creature.  The curvature of my weapon prevented full contact.  You can’t kill a cricket with a round bucket in a square hole! I retreated to get reinforcements but by the time I returned with the New Balance platoon, the enemy had disappeared.  But there was not a single peep; I figured he was incapacitated or had died of his wounds.

Yellowstone 2018-2

The Owens Valley

This will be a much-abbreviated lesson of one of the most important events in the history of the California.  Under the direction of City of Los Angeles engineer William Mullholland, the watershed of the Eastern Sierra Nevada in the form of Owens Lake was diverted to the City of Los Angeles providing water and hydroelectric power to the citizens of Los Angeles. To date, customers of the L.A. Department of Water and Power still enjoy rates low enough to make a San Diegan have an apoplexy.

While not criminal theft, it was abusive enough that Owens Lake was drained completely which ruined a thriving agricultural industry. I would recommend that as a citizen of California, you do some reading on this subject.  But for now, you want to know what this has to do with my road trip.  Well, U. S. 395 runs through the Owens Valley. (Isn’t clever the way he weaves two boring topics into one hyper-boring history lesson?) But the journey begins a little bit further south.

U.S. 395 came to San Diego in 1935 with its southern terminus at the intersection of Ash and 11^th streets, downtown.  Over the years several pieces were brought together resulting in a highway running north to south the length of the country and into British Columbia.  The route did not continue south of downtown to the Mexican border, but in those days only sailors and movie stars visited Tijuana, for their own nefarious reasons. (I’ll bet he makes up those big words!)

The economic drivers of U.S. 66 remained the same for the new I-40, so its path parallels closely that of the original “Mother Road”.  You could still get off of the freeway and visit the somewhat depressed Main Streets, but you did not have to; you could zip right by looking for the Best Western sign glowing in the desert twilight.  

Not true of U.S. 395.  Economic realities, and probably more than a few “fiscal initiatives”, saw the route of I-15 moved several hundred miles east into the State of Nevada and it’s sparkling new gem, Las Vegas. The leisure set got a new freeway and the Owens Valley and U.S. 395 was dealt another blow.

Okay, that’s it for the history lesson and I hope it gives you some sense of why this little corridor of California fascinates me so much.  Forthcoming posts consist of my experiences on this trip, and as little history as possible.  (Oh! Is there going to be a test?).    

 

Yellowstone 2018

I know what you’re thinking: Who looked under that rock and let him crawl out into the sunlight?  Just when we we’re able to get the children to sleep at night. Well armchair travelers it’s true.  I’m back… on the road.

(A note to the reader: Italicized passages are meant to be the voice of the reader …you… and will seem somewhat more insightful if read aloud.  Now go back to the start and try again.)

There are so many questions deserving answers, let me try to address some of them.  “Yes. No.  Maybe. If you won’t tell either will I.” Now on to new business.

I have been hankerin’ for a road trip for some time now (since the last one) and decided to quit making excuses and just drive.  If you are a faithful follower of my wanderings, you know I favor travel and adventure in the Four Corners states.  But this time I thought I’d obey the court orders and give my rustic old-west buddies a break.  So, for this year’s exercise in Marco Polo-ry. I have selected the lesser known step-child of the Mother Road (Is he talking about US-66?): US-395, Del Camino Sierra!  Okay, I did not coin that phrase, I saw it on a roadside billboard. But it seems pretty apt for a highway running parallel the Eastern Sierra. (So, what makes US-395 worthy of all that travel time?  Isn’t a road, a road?)

 “Compare and contrast!” Do those words evoke painful memories from high school?  Are you one of the millions that grew up learning to hate essays?  Did you ever ask an English teacher, “Does spelling count?” If any or all of those conditions apply to you, then come along with me and see how language can be fun.  But don’t blame me if you learn something.

A Tale of Two Roads

After World War II, President Eisenhower established a national initiative to create, across the face of the United States, a super highway system that would allow rapid movement of military personnel, equipment and supplies in response to enemy attack. Never mind that we had been invaded (Pancho Villa) only once since that little dust up with Great Britain known as the War of 1812 (more romantically, the Second War of Independence). During peacetime the network of freeways would be available for use by private citizens and commercial transporters.  So began the knitting together of a great nation determined never to lose her sovereignty… as long as we could afford to subsidize the civil construction industry, the automotive industry, and various state and local government buy-offs.

In several instances, the new interstate highways would replace long existing routes of the federal highway system, like I-40 for US-66. (Pronounced “interstate forty” and “Route sixty-six”) The new roads were to be super-freeways with limited access via on/off ramps and no cross traffic. And they were engineered to allow higher driving speeds than were the pre-war roads. This meant fewer stops for fuel, sustenance and sleep.  Prior to the new freeways, the US highway system connected rural agricultural communities where the local merchants could generate additional revenue from the itinerant commercial and tourist traffic.  But the winds of change were blowing up as much dust as a passing Buick Roadmaster (What’s a Roadmaster?  Is he talking about bondage and discipline?)

Over the coming decades, Steinbeck’s (read The Grapes of Wrath) small-town diners and service stations would disappear in favor of conglomerate gas stations/fast-food multi-marts strategically located at the edge of the modern autos fuel range, or if you are really lucky the intersection of two or more of these super highways.  And thus, the traffic to these old towns now surviving on the antique trade and nostalgic nomads looking for a bit or yesterday. There are intrepid entrepreneurs who are making a living off of the old roads, but when you wipe away the patina of faux traditionalism you understand that it all delivered up from the same plastic containers stocking your local Wal Mart.

But there is this one particular highway that exists much as it did fifty or more years ago; the posted speed limit in town is 25 mph; and main street is U.S. 395.

Montrose, June 9th and 10th, 2016: Epilogue

Well it seems that my choice of route home was validated by all but one element, the town of Escalante.  It is not a one horse town, more like a one jackass town that ran away years ago.  The motels are old but utilitarian, not beginning to approach quaint.  The desk clerk was not at all receptive to my attempts at humorous repartee.  There was one operating restaurant offering a surprisingly high-board bill of fare.  It had drawn, or perhaps coerced a rather large patronage this evening as it was the only game in town.  One of the waitresses approached and asked me where I would like to sit and in my usual self-effacing manner indicated that any table she wished to assign me would be satisfactory.  This seemed to throw a well-forged monkey wrench into her mode of operation.

Once seated and presented with a menu she assured me she would return for my drink order tut suite.  Fifteen minutes later, and ten minutes too many, I retreated from the establishment flashing a look of disdain at my waitress as I made for the door.  She seemed taken by surprise, but there is one thing I will not tolerate, and that is being ignored when I have cash in pocket.  There are more than a few exotic dancers that will affirm my assertion.  Sometimes, sadly, my sense of indignation at maltreatment leaves me with few and much inferior choices.  I dined on Trisciut Crackers and Pepsi in the bump in the road known as Escalante.  And I doubt that the waitress who spurned me will have remembered by shift’s end.  So much for righteous indignation.

 As I was still in the Grand Staircase-Escalante complex, the views remained among the most intriguing one can encounter in the American West.  This is cowboy country, plain and simple.  An aside about Escalante.  You may be wondering why they named this region for a Cadillac.  No, the region is named for the aforementioned river (see yesterday).  The river was not named for a Cadillac either, but for Silvestre Velez de Escalante, a Franciscan priest who, along with Father Atanasio Dominguez and cartographer Bernardo Miera y Pacheco and eight others from Santa Fe (capital of Nuevo Mexico) conducted an expedition to establish and overland route to Monterey, Norte California in 1776 (Who can tell me what other important historical event occurred in 1776?).  They failed to achieve their goal but did, in their attempt, leave an invaluable legacy in maps of the Utah Valley (present day State of Utah). If you don’t understand the connection to Cadillac, perhaps your sense of humor is too high-brow for my humble offerings.

I ate breakfast at a quaint restaurant in Tropic, Utah.  There was no chance I was going to give the Escalante dining establishment another chance.  I can really hold on to a grudge; there are more than a few exotic dancers that will affirm my assertion.  From Tropic it is a short sprint past the entrance to Bryce Canyon National Park (that’s number two, I’ve been there several times so opted not to take the side trip... but from the highway one can see the features that make this a destination) to highway US-89, which is to Western scenic travel what Route (US) 66 is to kitsch nostalgia travel.  If you visit the five Utah National Parks (have you named them all, yet) you will spend a considerable number of miles on US-89.  My route home took me through Zion National Park which is the shortest if hardly the fastest way home.  But the vistas are without parallel, in fact I don’t think there is a straight stretch of road in the park (That’s a geometry joke, son!).  The road in too narrow and the park too crowded for stop and shoot photography so the following picture was stolen from Google Images. Be prepared, Zion is a way-through park, and they charge you $30 per vehicle just to use the highway.

The route from Zion takes us post haste back to I-15 in the vicinity of St. George (day one) and a turn toward home.  It was early in the afternoon when I neared St. George so opted to proceed onto Las Vegas for the night so as to minimize the hours and miles on the last day of my trip.  I am a strict adherent to the admonishment, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” but I am pleased to share there are no criminal charges pending. Like Hillary, I’m hoping to ride it out until after the election!

The hop to home was as boring as ever so I ratcheted up the excitement for my fellow drivers by sticking to the speed limit in the passing lane.  Yeah, that was me!

Montrose, June 8, 2016

What a view!

Well I am sure you are all relieved to read that I have completed the first leg of the homeward journey.  I know what you are thinking, “Thank God I won’t have to read any more of these travel blogs; my eyes are developing callouses!”  Well don’t get to comfortable because I traveled a far piece today and took lots of pictures.

 

But before we get into the substance, let me lay a little groundwork.  For the last few days in Montrose, I was spending a good deal of time looking at the map and wondering if my original plan for the return trip might be rerouted in the name of exploration.  Originally, my plan was to traverse the San Juan mountains to the south via US-550 trough Ouray, Silverton and Durango, better known as suicide alley.  It is a beautifully scenic drive but it is, as I have noted before, a bit of a white knuckler.  Cowardice however, was not the cause for my pause.  This route would have taken me to Cortez (been there) then southward through New Mexico to Gallup and the I-40 westbound to Flagstaff.  I have nothing against this shadow of Route 66, but I have traversed the real estate so many times the Tumbleweeds wave to me as I whiz by.  So I decided on another route.

I left Montrose fully fed at 0730 hrs and headed north to Delta on US-50 until it joined I-70 in Grand Junction, CO.  The direction of travel took me west past the Colorado National Monument (a must see by the way, especially if you like western landscapes) and into Utah.  Continuing this direction to I-15 takes one through the San Rafael Swell (a geologic feature, not a glandular malfunction) and its haunting starkness.  But I have done that a couple of times in the past decade as well. I decided to take the longest, slowest path I could find: UT-24 which runs between the San Rafael Reef and the San Rafael Desert.  If you are skittish about traveling alone on secondary highways that offer no services (for well over one hundred miles), this would not appeal to you.  It is barren, desolate country.  The geological features appear as they might have been sculpted by ancient aliens (eh, Quicksand?) and break into a tribal war dance, but are just a warmup for what’s coming.

Henry Mtn

Ancient Aliens?

At Hanksville, not much of a town, the highway bends a bit more westerly and after forty miles or so enters Capitol Reef National Park (Utah boasts five National Parks.  Can you name the other four?).  What can I say about the park?  I think I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Capitol Reef

Capitol Reef

Capitol Reef

Capitol Reef

The road through Capitol Reef leads to the town of Tobey, where I taught the local deli operator how to make a proper pastrami sandwich (On rye, provolone cheese, 1000 island dressing, coleslaw. She charged me sixty-six cents for a side of coleslaw.)  After my repast, I troubled the owner for directions out of town. I suppose his look of derision was because there was only one intersection and I had missed it coming in.  Never the less, I successfully navigated myself out of town on UT-12 which lifted me out of the desert and into the Dixie National Forest.  This also, as it turns out, is a rather impressive drive.  There is quite a bit of elevation gain with the summit at 9,900 ft.  The highway then gives up its heights rather rapidly and dumps us into the coup de grace, the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. (No, a National Monument is not a National Park so it is not part of the answer to the question above. No, I do not know the difference between a National Monument and a National Park… what do I look like to you, a ranger?)

Dixie Natl Forrest

Dixie Nat'l Forest

I had been through parts of the Monument before it was a monument.  It is an other-worldly environment.  I will let the pictures tell the story.  But the driving experience must be described:  for the first part of trek, the road is atop a sort of plateau looking down into a confusion of canyons created by the relentless flow of the Escalante River. The Escalante River eventually joins the Colorado in Glen Canyon (Lake Powell). Some sections of the roadway are just barely wide enough for two full lanes with no shoulders and severe drops of hundreds of feet for both directions of travel.  Eventually the road winds down the grade and into the canyon.  There are plenty of picture taking opportunities if your trigger finger doesn’t give out.  I ran out of film.  Wait minute, I have a digital camera!

Escalante

Escalante

Escalante

Escalante

Escalante

The travel day ended in the town of Escalante.  So far, I’ve not seen much to impress me here.  I will relay anything of interest if such should occur.

Montrose, May 31, 2016

Montrose, May 31, 2016

Thinking you might be getting bored in my absence, I decided to go a wandering in hopes of discovering something that would amaze you.  You’re welcome.

Since arriving in Colorado, I have been inundated with recommendations for places to go and things to see.  One of the conundrums associated with traveling in this state is the ubiquitous tors.  I have travelled extensively on the highways and byways of the American southwest and while there are myriad roads beckoning the automotive adventurer within each of the states, it seems none have outdone the ambitious Coloradoans in their effort to build a pass over ever mountain range, a route through every river valley (and I haven’t even been tempted to leave the pavement yet).

A case in point is Colorado state route 133 (CO-133) which crosses the ridge in the vicinity of the Maroon Belles-Snowmass Wilderness at McClure Pass (8,755 ft. elev.) and drops down rapidly into the Crystal River Valley and the quaint town of Redstone.

The route starts at Delta, an agricultural center in the shadow of Grand Mesa (you know it when you see it, and yes it is grand, really grand… but I digress).  A trip down the central thoroughfare brings on a wave of nostalgia that we are really too young to experience.  Main Street is old US-50 (a frequent byway in our travels), no freeway bypass here. US-50 turns west out of town and our route (CO-92) steers ENE.  Once you are through the town its basically fruit orchards and alfalfa fields with the aforementioned mountain ranges as background.  The next town of note is Hotchkiss and a switch to CO-133 where you join the Gunnison River.  The landscape offers so many opportunities for photographs it is easy to get hypnotized into pulling off at any wide spot and start snapping away.  And as this is a visual medium, I will let you decide.

The road is not at all challenging until you reach the crest at McClure Pass, then the highway descends a steep wet of switchbacks, but still not too challenging, into the valley where we encounter Redstone, the cliff walls that give it its moniker and the lodge therein.  We arrived at about 1400 hrs and were the only patrons in the grill. The food was excellent, although as the experienced nomad would anticipate, resort priced.  But then, when breathing rarified air, a twelve-dollar cheeseburger is not quite as offensive.

Redstone Coke Ovens

Although CO-133 continues north, it eventually tees into I-70 which is all freeway; not suitable for earning your “I’m not lost, just a little confused.” merit badge.  So we opted to retrace our route over McClure Pass to the junction with 12 RD (no, I don’t understand the road-naming protocol either) and turn our voyage in the direction of Crested Butte.  Unfortunately, about one hundred yards after the turn, we encountered one of those generator-powered, portable, traffic-advisory trailers that informed us Kebler Pass was closed (no, I don’t know if there are cookie-baking elves living there).  That put the kibosh to any further exploration that day so back to Montrose we went.

Montrose, June 2, 2016

Yes, I was remiss in getting May 31 all polished up and posted before we took to the road again on June 2.  This outing targeted a man-made object of curiosity, The Gateway Auto Museum, in Gateway, Colorado.  Gateway isn’t a town per se but an area defined by the confluence of West Creek and the Dolores River (yes, the same Dolores… even more mobile than we previously credited her as she was active all the way up to Mesa County… tramp) in BLM land west of the Uncompahgre National Forest.  It was at this junction that John Hendricks, founder of The Discovery Network, decided to build a retreat resort and automobile museum. No, I do not know what one has to do with the other: Rich people, sheesh!

The museum is very nice and concentrates its collection on American cars from the early 1920s to the 1970s with cultural commentary as one would expect in such a museum.  But, not surprisingly, the star attraction of the trip is the geography.

The route begins with US-50 from Montrose to Whitewater where we transition to CO-141, cross the ever-present Gunnison River and enter Unaweep Canyon.  If you ever attempt this tour, note that the signage for the left turn onto CO-141 is scant and gives little warning that a left turn is at hand.  When you get to the Utah border (about 40 miles), you’ll know you missed it (I nailed it!).  And when they say canyon, they mean C-A-N-Y-O-N!  This is a spectacular drive with red walls rising vertically on both sides of the meadowland through which the road curves back and forth.  There are even a couple of waterfalls cascading down the north wall which you can photograph from wide spots in the road.  The terrain, geology and vegetation are more Utah than Colorado.  At this time of the year the meadow grass on the canyon floor and pinyon pine on the canyon walls are at their verdant best making for a picture post card contrast with the red cliffs.  It would be enough to make the cliffs at Redstone (no, you just read about it in the May 31 trip above… pay attention) blush.  That’s a joke… Redstone… blush. Aw, c’mon!

This drive is one of the best I have taken, and we’re only half-way through the day.  At any rate, John Hendricks decided to build a resort here and house his collection of classic American Iron.  They have everything from Model “T”s to a 1970 Chevy Malibu SS and a Chord to boot.  There is a 1956 Buick Special convertible that is original; no restoration.  The museum and restaurants are open to the public but access to the residence areas is pretty tightly controlled.  Probably to keep me out.

We ate lunch in the Paradox (the name’s a mystery to me… God I’m funny!) Grill.  I know it seems contrary to the nature of an accountant, but I had to try the nine-dollar homemade tortilla chips listed on the appetizer menu.  What could possibly justify nine-dollar chips?  It turns out they are served with freshly made guacamole and red and green hot sauce.  Would I pay that much for chips in San Diego?  No.  But this place is remote and they have to get their produce from Grand Junction, I imagine.  My sandwich was a combination of black forest ham and pulled pork.  Oh, yeah?  Well think again, it was excellent.

After lunch and maybe an hour in the museum we headed out to the southeast on CO-141 alongside, you guessed it the Delores River.  We traced the river through a series of deep canyons and when available, a look down a side canyon made us appreciate that we were in a maze of canyons that would be impossible to navigate without the aid of the Colorado Dept. of Highways and the effort they had expended to build this highway.  The road is so convoluted the trip takes about three hours while the road in was about one and three-quarters of an hour.

The Dolores River eventually combines with a confusion of smaller water tracks at Shamrock Mines and emerges as the San Miguel River.  The highway continues as it gently elevates to bring itself out of the canyons and onto a mesa.  Once through the farming and uranium mining area of Naturita, we transitioned from CO-141 to CO-145 and continued on to Placerville (yes, California has one too).  There we transitioned onto CO-62 which took us through some impressive pasture land and into Ridgeway (remember True Grit?) which put us on US-550 to Montrose.

One more thing:  Just outside of Ridgeway (north) is a park dedicated to local resident and television personality, Dennis Weaver (look it up, Tumbleweed).  We were coerced into stopping to view a twenty-two-foot-tall eagle statue commissioned by his wife.  The theme of the park is very spiritual.  I stated it should have been a statue of a carrot.  He was a vegetarian.  Yeah, my traveling companions didn’t think it was funny either.