Silverton Thunder

While thunder and rain grace the huge mountains that surround us, we are warm and dry in a lazy Silverton cafe, being serenaded by Chicago, playing on the little TV set in the corner. We decided this morning that the spot we picked out along Hermosa Creek in the Purgatory Wilderness area did not afford enough privacy, and decided to just keep driving along our long route back to California and find another camp spot for the next few days. We packed up such that moving around the van requires acrobatics, but at least all the dishes were done and put away. And, having a second dishpan makes a world of difference in my enjoyment of the task. Next to the rushing of the creek, in dappled sunlight, I went about the task standing up at our roll-up table (another improvement), trying to let it sink in that doing dishes in the woods next to a creek is unusual and wonderful. It worked for only a moment. I find that I get used to the beauty and freedom of my surroundings so quickly, and the little irritations are harder to dismiss as normal.

We spent most of the afternoon yesterday driving around Purgatory, looking for a spot without other people next to us, and with as few mosquitoes as possible. As soon as we hit about 8,000 feet on the way North from Durango, I got incredibly sleepy and remained so until we went to sleep around 10 or 11 at night. We pulled off the road at one point and Adam led us down a hill to one of the many streams. Inspired by Adam's gleeful look and apparent disregard for temperature, I dunked myself in the shallow water of the creek, screamed loudly, bonked my head on a rock below the surface of the turbid water, and leapt out, grinning.

On the way up the mountain toward Ouray, the place we think we'll be happy with, we saw a stalled motorcyclist, still inside the line on the mountainside of the two-lane, winding highway. We pulled over on the cliff side and called out to see whether he had cell signal. We waited a minute while he tried to make a call, and then offered him our satellite phone. This is cool, I thought, we're helping someone out with our techno gadgets. We got out some flares to put out on the road around the corner, given his dangerous parking spot. It took about half and hour for him to get in touch with whoever he was calling, and he finally moved his cycle off the road, to our relief. So, no need for flares uproad, and truckers would now stop yelling obscenities at him as they rounded the corner. Turns outs he had seen a rock come out from under a car he was following and misestimated where it would land. His front rim is in bad shape. His name is Gary. He works at Google. So that makes him...Gary the Googler.

So, now we're talking a breather in the thunderstorm here, checking email, making a few calls, mailing a few things, and drinking warm beverages. The narrow-gauge train we heard so often in Durango comes all the way over the 10,000 foot passes, about 50 miles to this mountain-ringed old mining town. The downtown street is wide enough for diagonal parking on both sides and wide wagons passing each other in each lane (which I'm sure it once accommodated). The post office is a small blue house with red trim and a wooden sign announcing its establishment in 1875. I am surprised to find that there are all the same sorts of chai and tea as there are anywhere else. The snow-speckled mountains around us, the black smoke of the train, and the old buildings make this place seem more remote than it is.

I have been retooling my sense of "remote" as we pass through towns like this one, and those that are so unbearably hot that a truck drive through them seems like punishment (though I think most truckers have air conditioning, which we do not). If there's a road, it's just not very remote. No matter how high and windy and bumpy the road, supplies can get there. And people move there. I feel ever more fortunate that the places I have lived are not unbearably hot or incredibly remote (although the latter has its plus sides, certainly), nor ugly sprawl. Perhaps it's just that I am used to my sense of home in California. But the constant increase in California's coastal population indicates otherwise. There are places we've passed through where I could see myself living, particularly Flagstaff and Durango, where there seem to be some ex-Californians who got sick of the traffic and the lack of distinct seasons.

Every time we arrive in a new town (that is not gross like the oil field town of Farmington, New Mexico), my excitement for being on the road rekindles and I drink the place in. I love figuring out where things are on the map, and successfully finding the real places. Or just wandering around seeing where my instinct takes me. Still, there are always things that crop up like weeds late in the growing season that can only be removed by hand or hoe. There was the internet cafe that had friendly staff, hormone and antibiotic free beef...but no power outlets. In a city, one can only drain the batteries only so much before the generator is needed (or a long drive) to charge it back up. One expects to find sources of power that will not incur the wrath of locals like the generator will. An internet cafe seems like a good bet...they ARE inviting you in to use a laptop. Then there was the restaurant recommendation, complete with directions, that did not materialize after several hungry blocks. Upon asking some obvious locals where the place was, they proclaim they've never heard of it. I balked at walking those hungry blocks back to a place we had already been, so we perused the menu of the closest breakfast joint and headed in. The room was stuffy. One mediocre breakfast later, we head back down the street, semi-satisfied. I see the place originally recommended to us, with a slightly different name. Such is the life of wanderers.