Day 4: You Can See Chicago From Here

Day 3 was actually Day 4, as we stayed a day in Cedaredge relaxing and, as is unavoidable at my grandmother’s, eating. We were concerned this day for the passage over the Rockies, given the circumstances of driving the truck outlined previously. Uncle Tom and Aunt Pam advised us as to our route, which was a highway following the Colorado River toward Vail before climbing a couple passes and dropping us down in Denver. Dawn in the Rockies takes one’s breath away as quickly as in the Gorge, only with a harder, drier feel like giants turning into stone. Sometimes the river just narrowly cut through the mountains, taking us through tall, jagged gorges that hid us from the sun. Other times it opened up into wide flood-plains that grew green and lush and provided ground for small villages and homesteads to dig in.

At Vail the road climbs some thousands of feet to the summit of the pass over 10,000 feet – that means we were nearly as high up as Hood’s peak. It seemed all our truck could do to hang out at a steady 35mph the whole ten-mile climb. We rolled down the windows, flipped on the hazards, and just sat back for the ride as everyone else – including a horse and a couple kids on skateboards – passed us up. If the question of even making the climb wasn’t exciting enough, there was the additional question of having enough fuel. Uncle Tom recommended a filling station some miles after Vail Pass, which, considering only the miles, should have been within reach. However, on a climb that truck chugs gas like a sloppy lush – one can just see the engine in there, tipping its head back and letting the fuel spill all out of the hose all over its fat, greasy mouth. I don’t think it caught my sardonic tone when I patted the dash and told it, “Drink up, buddy, for tomorrow we’ll die!”

Obviously, we made it, or there would be more violence in my description of the trip to this point. And it was really the last exciting bit. On the far east side of the mountains the road lifts one last time, and one can see where the rocks stop and the plains begin spreading out, flat and plain and dull for as far as the eye could see, which, one was inclined to believe, had to be very far. Katie put her hand to her brow, peering at the horizon, and cried, “I think I can see Chicago!” to which I replied, “No, Chicago’s right there, those are the Appalachians.”

To prove that I’m only slightly exaggerating about the prairie states: when we checked into our motel that night, we asked the clerk about the storm clouds that appeared to be already pulling in overhead, and she showed us on the news how they were really _two-hundred miles_ north of us, though moving in quickly. So there. It’s really flat.