Friday, April 29
I had breakfast at JB’s (included in the night’s lodging. Nice.) and checked out.
Filled up in Richfield. The fuel gauge had two bars remaining. The fuel tank holds 10.6 gallons, but I suspect the filler neck holds another gallon.
| Odometer | Tank | Gallons | MPG | $PG | Cost |
| 67,281 | 605.4 | 9.720 | 62.3 | $2.719 | $26.43 |
“The ritual” took place at the gas station. “The ritual” involves “the question.”
Attendant: “So, what are you getting?”
Me: “About 60 miles per gallon.”
Attendant: “Ohhh. That’s good.”
This one went on a little further:
Second attendant: “So, how big’s the battery?”
Me (pointing behind the seats): “From about here to about here.”
Second attendant: “We used 24-volt batteries in the Air Force. What’s this use?”
Well, I didn’t know then, but I do now. The answer is 144 volts in a metal hydride battery pack.
Then the ritual took a little different turn:
Lady at another pump filling her Jeep: “My son wouldn’t fit in there. He’s 6-3.”
Me: “I’m 6-2 and I fit in there.”
Lady at another pump: “But my son wouldn’t fit in there. He’s taller than I am.”
OK, perhaps her son wouldn’t fit in there, but Carl Martin fits in there and he’s 6-4.
Next services 108 miles
I drove 30 miles on I-70 and saw three cars in that distance. It cluttered up after that, but you surely want to be ready to take care of yourself, like with ALL the bars lit up on the fuel gauge.
When I-70 leaves Richfield, it goes up quite a ways before it tops out in the Fishlake National Forest. On that day, a little snow fell just to acentuate the fact that elevation was being gained. And the wind blew.
“Elk next 12 miles.” Well, I’d seen three cows and a deer dead at roadside, but no elk.
Rush hour hit. I saw three cars and a bobtail truck all at the same time!
I-70 crosses a part of Utah’s red rock country. Incredible forms eroded into red sandstone line the road. The Salt Valley Viewpoint is one of several rest stops. Of all the rest stops, this is my favorite.
The parking spots face the Salt Valley spreading away forever to the east and south, red sandstone capped here and there by white snow, steel blue sky reaching down at the horizon. The twisted trunks and limbs of gnarled trees and low-lying shrubs illustrate the harshness of the environment while showing their own hardiness. Lupine pits its purple blooms against the red sand. Navajo turquoise and silver spread across blankets at the foot of the “No soliciting or vending” sign, watched by the vendors from the adjacent pickup cab out of the wind.
A group of Asian tourists laugh and talk loudly as their picture is taken, the photographer’s back to the vista. A lone member of the group wanders, camera in hand, looking for the right place to capture the immensity of the image before him on a 1.5x2.5 inch piece of film. It can’t be done, but he, and I, enjoy the attempt.
Drowsy drivers Pull over if necessary Exit 2 miles Drowsy drivers cause crashes
The signs were big, bright green and carried a powerful message. It was hard to believe that drivers could doze while driving through this country. Another 50 miles down the road, sure. That monochrome stretch was better than any long-winded speaker or sleeping pill.
Green River is in the middle of all that sleep-inducing landscape. It’s also the first fuel stop since breakfast. It’s also where the first fuel gauge bar winked out. That’s 113.7 miles before the “needle” moved. The second one turned off at 141 miles. A little math shows that it took only 28 miles for the second light to go out. Thirty miles per light bar seemed about average. That’s what makes me thing the fuel tank neck holds a gallon or more of gas.
(An aside: We just bought the car. a 2001 Honda Insight, in January. This is the first really long trip we’ve made in it. We’re still figuring it out. It’s a wonderful puzzle.)
Eagles on highway
Didn’t see any of them, either.
I stopped at Thompson Springs just because I could. It’s an old railroad town, probably dating back to the time when a natural spring was needed every now and then to fill steam engines’ boilers. The Desert Moon Hotel although occupied is closed. The cafe is closed. The motel is very closed although the doors of most of the rooms stood open. The school looked closed. Most of the residences are abandoned. The rail maintenance yard looks open. The gas station/convenience store out by the highway is open, $2.899 a gallon, not all that much more than most places in Utah. It seems a quiet enough spot except for the railroad on one side and I-70 on the other.
Dust storm area Do not stop Maintain 30 mph Stay in lane
Gratefully, the wind was not blowing hard enough to have to obey the roadside sign. Don’t get me wrong; the wind wa blowing hard, just not hard enough to pick up sand.
Keep right except to pass
That’s one of my favorite signs. Colorado uses it rather than “Slower traffic keep right.” Who wants to admit that they are slower than anyone else? There’s no loss of face in keeping right if you’re not passing.
Fruita, Colorado, $2.799 per gallon.
West Rifle, 5,280 feet elevation, $2.599 per gallon. Storm clouds in the east. Red drilling rigs all over the place, “Halliburton” on the doors.
Glenwood Springs. It starts to sprinkle. Into a tunnel. Out of the tunnel and into heavy rain. The rain stops, the clouds continue.
East of Vail it starts to snow; dirty, wet, sloppy snow and rain and sleet. It continues over the top of the pass. I wonder just how much traction those skinny little high-pressure tires will generate in a couple of inches of slop. The weather eases a little as I pass Copper Mountain. The runs show as much dirt as snow. I decide to see how Breckenridge is holding up without our annual visits.
It’s about 10 miles from I-70 to Breckenridge. It’s snow-lined all the way. About 20 percent of Lake Dillon is free of ice. It’s a very large lake. Breckenridge shows signs of a recent snow when I get there, but the roads and parking lots are clear. The mountain is shrouded in clouds, but the ski runs are clearly visibile and clearly covered in snow. Just as clearly, no one is skiing at the moment.
While I’m checking in to things, I decided to take a run over to Black Hawk and Central City where my niece and nephew lived for quite a few years. Colorado voted a local option gambling law just before Kelle and Heino left Black Hawk. Gilpin County voted to allow casino gambling. Central City and Black Hawk took up the challenge.
Black Hawk was long the stepchild of its big mining sister, Central City. The small collection of mining-era buildings strung out along the creek for a short way off to the south of the road that went up the canyon to Central City. Central City had all the Victorian homes, the opera house, all the good stuff. Black Hawk was just a utilitarian little town that seemed to live to support Central City.
Well, that has changed despite a magnificent parkway that carries drivers directly from I-70 to Central City. There are no signs in Central City acknowledging Black Hawk just down the canyon.
Central City has the parkway and Black Hawk has the casinos. The unpaved little street that used to go just a short way south, now extends (I’m guessing) a mile. Casinos line both sides. Not talking just mom and pop, one-story bars with a roulette wheel and a blackjack table, we’re talking casinos with covered parking, valet service, hotel rooms, restaurants; the whole magillah.
The street is no wider than it ever was, which is to say two tourist-filled buses over flow it.
I thought I’d stop at the casino on the spot where Kelle and Heino ran their One Stop Print Shop. I figured the casino would be delighted to spring for a dinner for the traveling uncle of the former landowners. I couldn’t begin to locate it. The wooden two-story buildings that used to mark the corner of their street, gone. The large warehouse-like structure across the street and down a little ways, replaced. Even the fire house has been moved up the canyon a ways. The vertical wall on the east side of the canyon road has changed from rock to casino front. Truly amazing.
Amazing, but too much for me. I went up the canyon, past the park where Kelle and Heino were married, on to Nederland, then east on Boulder Creek road down, down, down, to Boulder.
There was another Vixen for sale in Boulder, but it was too late to visit. When I called later, it had been sold. I was getting frazzled anyway.
I stayed the night in a Motel 6 on the north side of Denver, ready to make the plunge in the morning to find the Martin’s “university” home in Lakewood, south of Denver. It was a quiet night except for the freeway on one side, the railroad on the other, and the early morning wake up calls from truckers working the nearby warehouses.