In Nevada, they call Highway 50 “America’s Loneliest Road.” The first time I saw that sign it made sense. The next 40 times felt like they were rubbing it in. There is something to be said for seeing the country, including the desert in Nevada, but once seen it is ok to move on. The only problem is that, when you are driving a car, moving on means moving through. Highway 50 is a long, straight, lonely road. I pushed on to Utah, only to wind up in a campground next to the highway. With the prospect of being up all night before me, I figured it was better to greet the sun in Colorado.
I-70 lead through Grand Junction, which was lit up like Kurtz’s village in Apocalypse Now, and on to Glenwood Springs where I ordered the “Moons Over My Hammy” in a Denny’s just off the Interstate. Just the thought of them makes me reconsider vegetarianism. Leaving the highway, the road dipped down to Aspen where they still have Aspens and where the cops drive SAABs. From what I understand, the cops used to drive Beetles, which tells you what has happened to Aspen lately.
I took a nap in the parking lot of the Aspen International Airport. I bet you $12 that you couldn’t do that today. But this was 1998, a more innocent time. Even more innocent was the time some poor schmucks decided to settle up in Independence Pass at over 12,000 feet. It was way cold in August, and all the coffee I had been drinking made me need to pee. Unfortunately, nobody left an outhouse in the ghost town. I remember that it was hard to sneak off the peak.
Somehow the mission was accomplished and I proceeded down the pass following water that was now a part of the same great drainage as my home waters (that would be the Mississippi.) The nap and the coffee and the Moons Over My Hammy had done an admirable job, but having driven across Nevada, Utah, and half of Colorado, I needed to sleep for real. Winding through the pines, I sought the first camp ground available. Pulling in amid a light rain, I paid for my spot and quickly fell into a deep sleep.