The Rascal Diaries: 7/27/14 Just Passing Through

It's always about the ride and not the destination. In theory, we are supposed to be heading home. In reality, we will take whatever road is the best, no matter what the direction.

Today we headed due west, to run the edge of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, because it was a ride we just couldn't do without. Rimming this deep dark canyon, Route 92 follows geology and we flew above the river. Mythically carved ebony walls knifed down into an abyss thousands of feet below. For miles we followed the gorge, zigging the zag created by the river. Then the road dipped down toward a grassy inlet where we crossed to rise yet again on the other side. Vertigo seized me as I stared over the unguarded edge to the river below. This is a bucket list road and just because we've fulfilled it, doesn't mean we won't be back again.

We stopped at Crawford State Park for lunch and got nailed by another lonely senior volunteering to watch the park. Russ filled us in on all the water info of the area. The drought in Colorado has ended here as they had record snows . Not so everywhere else. He really wanted us to camp there because he had no one else to talk to, but we suctioned off from him - not easily.

Following the West Elk Loop, we turned onto 133 at Hotchkiss. All of these roads defy description. If you look at a map, the convoluted paths that they take show the mountain passes and descents. Too many to name, some just have a warning at the top about the upcoming down grade. A maze of mapping, we followed as many as we could. Passing through coal country, we headed into Carbondale, aptly named. Built by coal, this town's proximity to Aspen has it preening a bit too much.

Soon, Ferraris and Lamborghinis began to ride with us. We were heading into the town that defines the word presumptuous. The airport was lined with private jets and we were rife with attitude. Blasting Lady Gaga's "The Fame", we rode through Aspen proclaiming our ordinariness.

Faced with a dilemma, we didn't take long to make a decision. We were here only to ride Independence Pass, one of the most challenging motorcycle roads in these mountains. The afternoon storm clouds had settled into the pass and hunkered there menacingly. This pass in the rain is more than treacherous - we know from prior experience. But the choice between an evening in pomposity and a 12,000' ascent into the maelstrom was a no brainer. We flew out of Aspen like we had been propelled from a sling shot.

In T-Shirts, we gained altitude with some sun. The tricky switchbacks around blind mountain walls were challenging, but at least we were dry. Thrilled with our flight from Aspen, the decreasing temperature didn't affect us. Higher we rose, following a pioneer trail that makes one wonder why they ever tried. The meadows were thousands of feet below and the summit was still miles away. Gathering storm clouds chilled us even further and by the time we reached the top of the pass, reality trumped euphoria. Time to put some clothes on, including rain gear.

I can't describe the trip down because over the pass, it immediately began to rain - hard! With my head down to escape the needles, I saw nothing but the road. Amazingly, great music kept us rockin'.

We had solace in knowing that there was an old hotel in Twin Lakes, a tiny settlement at the bottom of the pass, where we had stayed before. Drenched, we slogged in the door, only to find they were full, and apparently the other two places here were also. Dejected, we were about to leave to ride 20 miles in the rain to the next town. Then, an angel ran up to us to say there was an opening in the road house next door.

A spa-like room, complete with fluffy bathrobes is our port in the storm. A gourmet meal next door in a crowded dining room proves that Aspen is leaching over the mountain. We talked to a local biker who had come in to shelter from the rain. He said that when he was a kid, Aspen was like Silverton, one paved road through the middle of town. Change is inevitable, but that doesn't mean one has to like it.

Surrounded by some of the tallest peaks in the Rockies, we sleep at 9,000 feet tonight. Away from the rat race on the other side of the hill, I once again thank Jules, my guide and savior, for seeing us out of the doldrums, through the storm and into safe haven.