Chapter 5: Beneath a Sinister Sky
I bounced out of bed at the earliest hint of light, an excitement igniting within me as I thought of the day ahead. The mountains were calling, and I was ready to answer. We had packed most of the van before turning in the night before, a practice instilled after only a few days on the road. The girls were still rubbing sleep from their eyes as we found ourselves at the breakfast table in the motel’s lounge by 7:30.
Gordon, the motel owner, had put together a humble but satisfying spread, worthy of a homestead in the heart of Wyoming. Handmade and hot sausage and bean breakfast burritos, boiled eggs, cereals, yogurts, and fresh fruit—a buffet that spoke of care and comfort. “Something for everyone,” Gordon said with a smile, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of years spent welcoming travelers.
I spoke with him over breakfast, and he had more places nearby for us to see than we had time to see them. His voice was rich with local lore and suggestions, and I knew, as we bid our farewells to the kind owner, that Guernsey was a place worthy of a return trip. So much to see, so much left untouched, a gem waiting to be rediscovered. It was a bittersweet goodbye to a place that surprised us with its sunset views. A perfect prelude to the grand adventure awaiting us.
The clock struck 8:30, and with a giddy spirit akin to pioneers on the edge of discovery, we took off from Guernsey, pressing down US26 with eyes wide open, aiming for I-25. Our hearts beat with the anticipation of venturing into the belly of the beast. Today, the Davis family would be driving into the heart of the mountains, possibly dancing with the snow-capped peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park.
As we crossed into Colorado, the sky donned a more sinister guise, and a cold breeze whispered winter threats as we stopped for a selfie at the state line. Maggie, a captain of the obvious, remarked on how “it feels more like February in Georgia.” I couldn’t help but agree. The chill in the air had a tangy excitement; we were on the brink of something spectacular. As we pressed on, the plains gave way to the majestic mountains as they slowly filled the horizon.
We soon reached Loveland and exited the Interstate for US34, and the excitement in the car reached a fever pitch. The intensity of the mountains was electric, almost spiritual. It wasn’t just a landscape but the heartbeat of Colorado itself. We found ourselves winding west towards Estes Park, following the Big Thompson River, hypnotized by its mighty rush.
As we made our way along the serpentine road, the towering rocky walls began to close in on us. They were adorned with shades of gray, hints of green moss, and spots of snow, creating an imposing yet mesmerizing scene. The rocky steep walls loomed over the deep gorge of the Thompson River, forming a rugged canvas that only Mother Nature could paint. Every twist and turn of the road revealed a new perspective, an unexplored angle of this wild masterpiece. The sound of the rushing river filled the air, a constant symphony that seemed to speak the ancient language of the earth.
Soon, we pulled off at a turnout, unable to resist the allure of the view. We scrambled out of the van, cameras in hand, eager to capture the essence of what lay before us. The girls danced and laughed on the river’s edge, their faces lit with joy and wonder. Diem and I exchanged knowing glances, realizing that these were the moments we would cherish forever.
As we continued our journey, we couldn’t help but notice the beautiful mountain homes nestled on the banks of the rushing water. They sat humbly yet proudly as if they were a natural extension of the landscape itself. Made of wood and stone, they blended seamlessly with the rugged surroundings, windows reflecting the sparkle of the river. It was easy to imagine the life within those walls, a life entwined with the rhythm of nature, where every sunrise was a painting and every nightfall a tranquil embrace.
The homes were not just structures; they were statements of harmony, a testament to human ingenuity meeting nature’s grand design. They were the dwellings of those lucky enough to wake up to the song of the Thompson River every day, a melody that was now a part of our journey as well. Diem window-shopped some houses, spinning tales of our future vacation homes, or her opening a shop in a small mountain town.
Our path was filled with the richness of the Colorado landscape, and it felt like we were part of something much bigger than ourselves. It was more than just a road; it was a passage into the wild heart of the mountains, a journey that resonated deep within me on some existential level.
The alpine village of Estes Park was saturated with idyllic mountain charm as if it were an ambassador to the high and mighty Rockies themselves. Winding streets lined with quaint shops, cafés, and homes filled our view, each structure embracing a unique mountain aesthetic that seamlessly blended rusticity with elegance. The architecture was a fascinating mix of log-cabin motifs, steep gabled roofs to fend off heavy snow, and expansive windows that beckoned the stunning outdoors in. Everything seemed to converse with the natural surroundings, giving the town an organic, lived-in feel. It was hard not to feel a tug of longing as we drove through; this town understood the allure of the mountains and invited its residents and visitors to become a part of it.
Rocky Mountain National Park
As we made our way towards the gates of Rocky Mountain National Park, we found ourselves in a queue that snaked beneath low clouds and alpine scenes that seemed to leap straight from a storybook. The towering pines framed the road, and the distant peaks teased at us through the drifting clouds. It was a landscape charged with a sense of mystery and promise, a tease of the adventure that awaited us.
At the visitor’s center, the smell of damp earth and the chill in the air reminded us of our proximity to something grand and untamed. I spoke with a ranger who introduced me to the apex of our drive—a webcam showing whiteout conditions at the heights we were soon to reach. His face was weathered from seasons spent in this wild land, and his eyes sparkled with a knowledge that only those intimate with the mountains can possess.
“Is the road closed?” I asked, my voice betraying a mixture of concern and excitement, peering intently at the screen that showed a world transformed by snow.
“Not as of now,” he replied, his voice carrying a calm assurance, yet hinting at the unpredictability of the mountain weather. That response sent a rush through my veins that was more potent than the cold wind outside. The mountains were calling, and we were about to answer.
The famous Trail Ridge Road stretched before us, a pathway through the clouds from the park’s eastern entrance, across the dizzying heights of the Rockies, to the exit south. It was a journey over two hours of pure amazement, a road that traversed the park and seemed to transcend earthly constraints. At its highest point, the road reaches 12,183 feet, proudly standing as one of the highest paved roads in America, a marvel of human ingenuity woven into a landscape that defies description.
Trail Ridge is not just a path through the mountains; it’s a passageway through history, a route trodden by many feet, each carrying its own story and purpose. Long before modern roads and highways, Trail Ridge was used by Native Americans to cross the mountains between their homelands in the west and their hunting areas in the east. This wasn’t just a convenient path; it was a vital lifeline, a route that connected tribes and provided access to essential resources.
The Arapahoe Indians, one of the tribes that regularly traversed this ridge, called the trail located on the ridge “taienbaa,” which translates to “Where the Children Walk.” This name reflected the steep and treacherous nature of the path. It was so steep that children could not be carried by their parents but had to walk alone, their little feet treading the path that generations before had walked.
Further south, the Ute tribe crossed the mountains at Forest Canyon Pass, a path marked not by signs but by stone cairns. These cairns were not mere decorations but vital markers carefully placed to guide the way across the unpredictable mountain terrain. The present park Ute Trail partially follows that ancient route, a tangible connection to a past that feels remote and intimately close.
But the history of Trail Ridge is not limited to the Native Americans. On the west side, around 1880, a new chapter was added to its story. A wagon road was constructed along the Kawuneeche Valley, connecting the town of Grand Lake to the mining camps of Lulu City and Gaskill.
This was a time of excitement and ambition, a short-lived mining boom that drew men and women to the mountains in search of wealth and opportunity. The camps buzzed with activity, and the road was a constant stream of wagons and horses, each carrying dreams of a better future.
But like many booms, this one ended as quickly as it began. The camps were abandoned after a few years, the dreams of wealth replaced by the stark reality of a harsh and unforgiving landscape. Once bustling with life, the road fell into disuse, traveled only occasionally by hunters and tourists.
Fall River Road is an emblem of the early 20th century’s burgeoning love affair with motor travel and the wilderness’s sometimes uneasy adaptation to it. When it opened its unpaved paths to drivers in 1921, it was hailed as the first road to penetrate the park’s high country. However, its steep grades reaching up to 16%, tight curves, and a short annual season because of heavy snowpack soon made it inadequate for the evolving demands of motor travel.
The need for a better road became pressing, and in 1929, construction began on a project that would reshape how visitors interacted with the park’s stunning alpine vistas. By July 1932, Trail Ridge Road had reached Fall River Pass, its maximum grade tamed to a more manageable 7%. By 1938, the road had finally etched through the Kawuneeche Valley, creating a link to Grand Lake.
What made this road remarkable, beyond the engineering challenges, was its connection to the indigenous history of the area. The route followed what the local Arapaho Indians knew as the Dog Trail, a path that had guided their steps long before engines roared through the mountain passes. It was a poignant reminder that this landscape, seemingly untamed, had been known and navigated by humans for millennia.
Yet the construction was not without its controversies. Opposition to the road’s development through the delicate alpine tundra was fervent among those within the park’s internal management. They argued that the intrusion into such a pristine environment was a violation of the very principles the park stood for.
National Park Service director Horace Albright overruled these objections, driven by a vision to encourage park visitation. He believed that the accessibility of the park’s remote beauty would foster a love and respect for the wild spaces that lay beyond the city’s borders.
In line with this vision, the road was designed with a deep care and respect for the landscape. Its architects followed Park Service design principles that sought to minimize environmental intrusion. Every curve and gradient was planned to coexist harmoniously with the surrounding scenery, rather than dominate it.
Trail Ridge Road thus became more than a mere pathway. It symbolized a growing nation’s longing to connect with its wild roots and a testament to the complex dance between preservation and accessibility. Constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps, Its legacy continues to whisper through the trees and over the mountain, a gentle reminder of when the wilderness opened itself up to a world on the brink of modernity.
The echoes of history still linger on Trail Ridge. The stone cairns, the steep paths, the abandoned wagon road – each one a silent witness to the lives and stories that have crossed these mountains. Today, travelers on Trail Ridge Road can still feel the presence of those who walked before them, a timeless connection to a land that continues to inspire, challenge, and awe. And I had every intention of conquering America’s highest continuously paved highway.
As we reached Rainbow Curve, the world began to shift. The snow, that constant flirtation on our journey, began to set in earnest. It fell not as individual flakes but as a unified curtain, a seamless blend of earth and sky. Momentarily becoming children again, we leaped into the white wonder, laughing and stumbling as we made snow angels and playfully lobbed snowballs at each other. Our fun was cut short by the chill and the suffocating elevation near 13,000 feet. As the mountain air grew thin, we felt the weight of our laughter and joy, and we rushed back to the van to warm up, catch our breath, and reflect on the wonder we had embraced.
Just before Milner Pass, the snow intensified further into almost whiteout conditions. Most of the park’s scenic overlooks vanished into a monochrome world, hidden by a wintry veil that made the usual distance and perspective irrelevant. It made no difference. The views we could see were beyond amazing, a series of frozen snapshots that seemed to capture the essence of the Rockies themselves. The weather added to the experience, creating an intense adrenaline-fueled drive as I piloted our home away from home through hairpin turns and sweeping curves.
At Milner Pass, we crossed the Continental Divide, the very backbone of the Americas that runs some 6,745 miles from the Bering Sea to southern Argentina. It was a moment of understanding and connection, a geographical lesson transformed into a profound realization. All water west of the divide flows to the Pacific, all water to the East flows to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. This divide, this line in the sand, was more than a mere geological feature. It was a reminder of the intricate patterns nature weaves, the hidden connections that bind us, and the overarching design that underlies it all. Just awesome! The words rang true, but they also fell short, mere placeholders for emotions and thoughts that transcended language. At that moment, on that road, we were part of something greater, participants in an ongoing dance between humanity and nature, a dance that was both timeless and fleeting.
Almost immediately after crossing the great divide, the weather changed to a cold and misty scene. Continuing down the back of the Park, we sleeked away from the dizzying heights, descending into a valley drawn from a painter’s wildest dreams, all verdure, and mist. An arresting view caught our eyes – a massive elk herd lounging in a lush field. They appeared so at peace, so perfectly in tune with their surroundings, that they added a pristine touch the landscape.
On to Denver
We pressed on, leaving behind the white embrace of the Continental Divide, and the road ahead of us unfolded like a ribbon through landscapes that were nothing short of extraordinary. They seemed to leap from the pages of a travel magazine, beckoning us into a world we had never known. The grand valleys and towering peaks slid in and out of view among the cloaking gray clouds that rolled over the land.
First was Grand Lake, where water and mountains met in a serene embrace. The lake, sparkling in the almost absent sunlight, a silvery sapphire nestled amid the rugged grandeur of the mountains shrouded in clouds. The town was a charming cluster of buildings, all pitched roofs and wooden facades, like a postcard from a more tranquil time.
Granby followed, where the peaks stood sentinel over a town wrapped in nature’s beauty. It was a place that seemed suspended between earth and sky, with streets that wound around hills and houses that clung to slopes. The town seemed to hum with a quiet sort of life, it’s every nook and cranny a testament to the enduring allure of the wilderness.
Then there was Tabernash, a little haven nestled between slopes and valleys, a place that seemed forgotten by time. It was a town where the past lingered in the air, in the creak of wooden porches and the rustle of leaves, where every glance revealed another picturesque scene.
Fraser followed, with its rugged charm, a subtle blend of wilderness and civilization. The town felt like a frontier outpost, with streets that were lined with local shops and houses that bore the marks of many a harsh winter. Yet, it was a place that felt alive, teeming with a spirit that was both indomitable and inviting.
But it was Winter Park that stole our breath, a gem of a place that seemed to epitomize the very essence of Colorado. Nestled amid the mountains, it was a town that seemed to sparkle, its streets alive with the buzz of shops, restaurants, and people enjoying the high-altitude air. The town seemed to rest in the very palm of the mountains, a sanctuary for those seeking both adventure and solace.
The road began to change here, leading us through breathtaking switchbacks between Winter Park and Empire. This stretch of road was a series of twists and turns that had us gripping the wheel and holding our breath, not only from the steep dropoffs but in sheer awe of the world around us. It was as though the road was alive, winding and weaving. Each bend reveals a new vista, a new marvel.
In those switchbacks south of Berthoud Pass, I captured what was perhaps the most beautiful Rocky Mountain Alpine picture of our journey. Red Mountain, capped by low clouds, framed by tall and lanky evergreens that seemed to dance, a lone car driving along the road. The image was pure harmony, a fleeting moment of perfection that summed up everything that had made this day so extraordinary.
Finally, we caught I-70 towards Denver, leaving behind the wonderland of this section of the Rocky Mountains. We were beginning our relationship with the Rockies. But even as the road straightened and the landscape grew more familiar, the images from our drive lingered, imprinted on our minds, a reminder of the beauty that lay just a drive away. On to the city we pressed.
In Denver, the anticipation of meeting an old comrade from the culinary trenches quickened my pulse. Jessie, my first Sous Chef at my first Executive Chef post, was something I had looked forward to for some time. Our time together was a repository of memories from the rambunctious golden years of my career. Skinny as a rail, with a mouth that could make a sailor blush and humor that bordered on the inappropriate, Jessie had been a vital part of the most colorful chapter of my professional life.
We convened at Romanos Italian in Littleton on Denver’s south side, a joint that served as an unassuming backdrop for our reminiscing. The food was pure, handmade pasta and sauces, draft beer. But, it was the conversation that was the true delight.
Our past was a rich tapestry of experiences that blended hard work, camaraderie, endless debouched nights, and shared dreams. As the Executive Chef at Sala Sabor de Mexico, I saw Jessie grow into a calculated culinary killer. And together, back in the days of the mid-2000s, we had forged an inseparable team. Those years were filled with early mornings, runs for unique ingredients, and trips abroad to discover our works’ true culinary delights. My daughters now tell me I am a rich palate of culinary diversity. I am always in search of culinary fruit.
We reminisced about the ladder to our makeshift office, which had been placed in the attic as an afterthought to push the plans through zoning. Climbing that ladder daily was a ritual, and the office’s precarious location above the back prep kitchen, with the cooler at the end, added a unique charm to our daily operations.
We were blessed with a fantastic team, like Haji from Gambia, our 40-year-old Apollo of a prep cook, a disciplined Muslim who was chiseled like a Nubian God. Our line cooks, led by Isidro and Gerardo, two spirited boys from San Marcos, just outside Acapulco, infused life and energy into the kitchen. Isidro’s wife, our cleaning lady and resident tortilla maker, added to the warmth and authenticity of our culinary haven. I sometimes thought Gerardo would cut anyone in the slightest of heated debates.
Those days began with the firing up of the grills and ovens at 7 am, setting the stage for a symphony of food orders, liquor, beer, and wine deliveries, hand-pressed tortillas, tamale creations, and the slow, aromatic baking of heavy cream flans, and Veracruz style corn cakes in the oven. The laughter, the hustle, and the endless culinary creations were the defining essence of my career’s golden age and some of my favorites.
We reveled in our success, even as we continued to push culinary boundaries, like filling the tilt kettle for blanching seafood and throwing a bunch of habaneros in. The result was a giant steam cloud of pepper spray that would hilariously empty the office above.
It was fun to share these stories with the family, someone to confirm that Dad wasn’t always this lame. The evening was more than a meal; it was a delicious interlude, a chance to relive the moments that had shaped our lives, colored our past, and cemented our bond. We spoke of accolades, like earning the best authentic Mexican for Atlanta in Creative Loafing in 2007, and laughed at our escapades. And as the night wore on, the richness of those memories settled around us, a comforting reminder of a time when we had danced to the tune of loud Spanish rock, driven by passion, creativity, and the pure joy of culinary exploration.
Dinner couldn’t last forever. We still had miles to push. We bid our farewells, smiles, and memories rekindled. The buzz of the city filled the air as we walked to the car, thinking about those early years that had shaped so much of who I was. Jessie had been more than a colleague; he was part of a time when cooking was not just a profession but an adventure. The reminiscing over dinner had not just been an exercise in nostalgia; it was a reminder of the raw passion, the hustle, and the pure, unfiltered joy of those years spent in the culinary trenches.
After dinner, the road guided us to Colorado Springs, where we found our resting place for the night at La Quinta Inn. By then, the sky had begun to clear, and the sun, like a master artist, began to cut through dark grey clouds, heralding the close of an unforgettable day. It was a magical ending to a series of moments woven together by contrasts, emotions, bonding, and an endless canvas of beauty we had experienced.
What an incredible day it had been. From menacing clouds to awe-inspiring clear skies, we traveled through landscapes that challenged and captivated us. Each twist and turn of the road had revealed a new facet of nature, a new perspective on life. The bonding we had experienced with each other and the natural world’s spectacle connected us profoundly. We had taken strides toward understanding the incredible complexity of our world, and with every passing moment, we had felt smaller and more a part of something magnificent.
As we drifted off to sleep that night, our minds buzzed with the excitement and beauty of the day. There was a gentle and profound realization that our adventure was beginning. We were stopped for the night, catching our breath beneath a sky filled with a dynamic that seemed to stretch into infinity and preparing ourselves for what lay ahead.
In the quiet room, beneath soft sheets and the hum of distant traffic, we were a world away yet right at home. It was the journey of a lifetime, and we savored every step of the way, knowing that tomorrow would usher in new roads, new horizons, and new opportunities to discover more wonders of America’s wilderness. The road had become more than a means to an end; it symbolized exploration, connection, and the simple joy of being alive and on the move, beneath an endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we’ve explored and more, click here for the National Park Services.
