Rocky Road in the Rockies

We have been married an entire month now, so it's about time we give birth to something.  After talking with experts and researching the gestation period for different organisms, we figured a blog would be the easiest and most painless way for us to bring something into the world.  After all, if we ignore or stop taking care of the blog, we won't have human services or animal control needlessly breathing down our neck.  However, if we're able to take care of this, I think we'll be able to progress into something that requires slightly more responsibility like a cactus.  I would still like to be addressed as the Blog-Father, though.  

I'm not vain enough to think that you care about what I'm up to every single day.  I'm not a high school girl on Facebook; "At tHe MaLL WiTh My BfF!" "OMG! I'vE CaUgHt BiEbEr  FeVeR!!"  After all, I'm enrolled in law school, and I don't even care about what I'm up to every day.  Motion to dismiss for failure to state a claim; actus and mens rea; bilateral and unilateral contracts: I'm already boring myself with the daily minutia that I have to endure, so I know that you certainly don't want to hear about it.  But if you clicked on this link, I expect that you were looking for some humorous insight and stories from the world of a couple of newlyweds every once in a while.  That's exactly what I hope to provide.  If I wanted something that I had to keep up with everyday I would switch Ashleigh's birth control with tic-tacs.  

We've been in Colorado for a few weeks now trying to get our feet wet in the world of married life.  I'm sure you're thinking we've been painting the town red with our newlywed zeal.  In between invigorating activities such as decorating and organizing the apartment, I've been playing chauffeur while Ash tries to find a job.  I wish I could say that I've been helping Tim Tebow on his release point or helping Melo find his jump shot, but we've been keeping a low profile trying not to attract too much attention from vicious paparazzi .  The past couple of weekends we have escaped to the mountains.  The weekend before last we traveled up to Vail.  There we were able to hike as well as film this future award winning video.  The video is rising slowly with hopes of reaching BasilMarceaux.com fame.  

This past weekend we took a trip to visit our friend Kim in Glenwood Springs which is about 3 hours west of us.  On Saturday, Kim showed us around town.  We were also able to raft down part of the Colorado River which cuts out a 13 mile section known as Glenwood Canyon.  We tamed the class III and IV rapids like Kevin Bacon in The River Wild.  

On Sunday, we traveled down to Aspen since we were close by and neither of us had ever visited.  In between looking for Lance Armstrong or knife wielding Charlie Sheen, we had lunch in Aspen and then hiked around the Maroon Bells.  We are looking forward to visiting in the fall when all of the aspen trees will have turned yellow.  

After finishing up our hike at Maroon Bells, we thought it would be a good idea to drive over to Crested Butte.  My family has been going there since I was seven, and I had never seen it in the summer.  After all it was only 38 miles away (as the crow flies).  I plugged in the address into my handy Garmin GPS unit.  The GPS gave an arrival time of a little under two hours.  We began winding our way along picturesque highways near Mt. Sopris.  We drove through the small town of Marble which is home to quarry that has provided marble for the Tomb of the Unknown soldier among other landmarks.  We passed pieces of marble strewn along the side of the road.  About this point in time we lost all cell service.  

After driving through Marble, we came upon a dirt road that began along a quaint lake known as Beaver Lake.  We also passed a small side street named Brookie Drive.  We got out and took a picture smiling and unassuming of what would come next.  Little did we know that this would be the last piece of heaven before we entered hell.  

A short distance past Brookie Drive the dirt road began to climb steeper and steeper.  The road also began to narrow from a two lane road to a one lane road with an occasional pullout.  The road began to fill with rocks jutting out of the ground.  I slyly commented to Ash that I had always wanted to use the four wheel drive on my 4Runner.  We drove up to a split.  Following the always true direction of the Garmin, we chose the path to the right.  A sign warned that the path was for recommended four wheel drive vehicles from this point due to the steep gradient and rough terrain.  

Thinking that we would not have long to travel on the rough path, we decided to forge ahead.  After all, the Garmin had our arrival time at a little over half an hour and the next turn was listed as 10 miles.  How bad would this be?  I had previously heard that the road to Crested Butte was unpaved.  With these things in the back of my mind, I was determined to make it to our destination.  

We pressed onward.  Just like the little engine that could, we moved slowly and roughly.  Imagine filling a path as wide as a 4Runner with as many razor edged rocks as possible.  Then imagine trying to take a 3 ton vehicle up those rocks as someone who has never even had to use their four wheel drive.  I had Ashleigh pull out the manual to figure out how to correctly configure the four wheel drive while I'm bouncing the car back and forth.  Literally, there was not a moment that the car was not swaying one way or another.  I now know what Parkinson's disease feels like.  Loose rocks shifted underneath the tires with every rotation with many floating off the edge.  

Around every bend, we naively expected that the road would smooth and straighten out.  It was the only thing that kept us from getting out of our cars and walking back to civilization.  However, had we done just that, one of us would have certainly broken an ankle on the rocks.  Still labeled as County Road 3 on our trusty GPS, the path stretched just to the left of the serenely named Crystal River.  The only thing separating us from the Crystal River were thirty vertical feet and the boulders below that would slow our fall.  Any time we came close to a cliff, Ashleigh leaned as far as she could to the other side.  Shifting her weight wouldn't have done anything, but it made her feel slightly better.  Had the path been an actual two lane road with guardrails, it could have been considered a scenic drive within a canyon as mountain peaks towered above.  However, that wasn't case.  

My pupils didn't deviate from the path.  My knuckles were white.  My racing heart rivaled the RPM's being registered on the dash.  My lips were pursed with determination.  My palms were sweaty.  Both my hands were glued to the steering wheel.  I haven't had both my hands on the steering wheel that long since driver's ed.  We cruised along at a blistering pace of anywhere of 2-5 m.p.h.  The arrival time on the GPS began climbing higher and higher.  Apparently, it thought that we were driving a small hovercraft.  Our distance also began to drop like a feather in a tornado.  We had traveled 4 miles in a little under an hour.  We passed a car or two, but I acted like I knew what I was doing because I didn't want to look like I was from Tennessee.  Why would I ask someone a question?  We had a Garmin in all of its infinite wisdom. 

We finally came upon a sign that said "Slow Through Town."  We were saved.  We had come upon a town and the road would certainly straighten out.  We crested a hill and found only a handful of people and a handful of buildings.  We would later discover that this town was actually considered one of Colorado's ghost towns.  The wooden buildings looked like the only resident would be Casper himself.  I'm not sure what designates a collection of houses a town, but I know that it is more than 4 log cabins. 

After thirty seconds of getting our hopes up, we had passed through "town."  A quarter mile down CR 3 we came to these signs.  Our hopes had gone from high as the mountain peaks to the depths of the canyon.  We had traveled 5 miles over the course of an hour and were merely twenty minutes as quoted by the Garmin from our destination.  I could walk faster than that pace.  The last thing we wanted to do at this point was turn around and drive the same path.  We decided to talk to one of the five people in "town."

We drove alongside a couple and asked them if it was possible to get to Crested Butte from this "road."  The older gentleman scratched his head and said that he had never been there and he wasn't sure if it was possible.  My stomach had already been in knots but somehow it turned a little tighter as though a vice grip had a hold of it.  We told him how the sign down the road wasn't the most inviting.  He then told us that a jeep had flipped about a mile up the road the previous night.  He then mentioned that it was a common occurrence.  I intelligently responded, "That doesn't sound very fun."  We then asked if there would be a different way to get to our destination.  The older man said that the best way would be to go back the way we came and then travel another hour and a half.  We thanked him and pulled off back towards the way we had come over an hour earlier.  Later we would learn that the trail past the warm fuzzy sign is actually one of the deadliest trails in the state.  Over a dozen people have died on (or more like off) the trail.

At this point the sunlight began to fade.  I had concerns that we would be trying to make our way back across the rocky terrain in the dark.  I had suggested that we could sleep in our car over night and attempt to make our way back over the five miles.  That was quickly shot down by my better half.  She was not thrilled to stay in the woods without any cell service overnight and then having to make the journey once again in the morning.  She told me that she wouldn't be able to sleep if we stayed.  There may or may not have been a salty discharge coming from the eyes of the passenger at this point.  So we made the decision to drive back.  

We made the five mile trip back in 45 minutes.  I was determined to make it out of the wilderness before nightfall.  On the journey back, I knew what I had coming, but it didn't make it any easier.  Twice I felt the car slip down the rocks.  I can truly say that I was prepared for the car to careen off into the canyon.  I gripped the wheel even tighter and accelerated up the path.  Eventually the road began to tame and we came back out where we had entered.  A beautiful sunset painted the sky.  It made it a little more enjoyable knowing that we had just been attempting to drive on the edge of a cliff.  

We then began the hour and a half drive which would end up being another 60 plus miles.  We also had to cross the dirt road that I had heard about.  Thankfully, the dirt road was actually two lanes and passable.  Even though the road didn't have any guardrails just like County Road 3, I was able to drive in the opposite lane like a Brit making me feel much safer.  We made it to Crested Butte late but alive.  We were able to climb Mt. Crested Butte the next day which increased my masculinity points even more.  


Coming from the 2000 D.L.M.S. geography bee champ, always carry an atlas, buy Toyota, and never trust your Garmin. 

-The Blog-Father