Chapter 5: Beneath a Sinister Sky
I bounced out of bed at the earliest hint of light, excited 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. There were handmade and hot sausage and bean breakfast burritos, boiled eggs, cereals, yogurts and fresh fruit. "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. He was full of 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. There was so much to see and so much left untouched. It was a bittersweet goodbye to a place that surprised us with its sunset views.
At 8:30 we took off from Guernsey in a giddy spirit, pressing down US26 with eyes wide open and aiming for I-25. We were full of anticipation about venturing into the belly of the beast. Today the Davis family would be driving into the heart of the mountains and possibly up among the snow-capped peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park.
As we crossed into Colorado the sky took on a more sinister look, and a cold breeze hinted at winter 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, and we were on the brink of something spectacular. As we pressed on, the plains gave way to the 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. 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 gray with hints of green moss and spots of snow, and they loomed steep over the deep gorge of the Thompson River. Every twist and turn of the road revealed a new perspective, and the sound of the rushing river filled the air.
Soon we pulled off at a turnout, unable to resist the view. We scrambled out of the van with cameras in hand, eager to capture 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 on, we couldn't help but notice the beautiful mountain homes sitting on the banks of the rushing water. Made of wood and stone, they blended with the rugged surroundings, their windows reflecting the sparkle of the river. It was easy to imagine the life within those walls. They were the homes of those lucky enough to wake up to the sound of the Thompson River every day, a sound 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. The road was a passage into the wild heart of the mountains, and the journey resonated deep within me on some existential level. The alpine village of Estes Park was full of idyllic mountain charm. Winding streets lined with quaint shops, cafés and homes filled our view, each building blending rustic style 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 outdoors in. The town had an organic, lived-in feel, and it was hard not to feel a tug of longing as we drove through.
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 through alpine scenery. Towering pines framed the road, and the distant peaks teased at us through the drifting clouds.
At the visitor's center there was the smell of damp earth and a chill in the air. I spoke with a ranger who showed me the apex of our drive on a webcam, with 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 the knowledge of someone intimate with the mountains.
"Is the road closed?" I asked with a mixture of concern and excitement, peering intently at the screen full of snow. "Not as of now," he replied with calm assurance, though he hinted 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, running through the clouds from the park's eastern entrance across the dizzying heights of the Rockies to the exit south. It was a drive of over two hours of pure amazement across the park. At its highest point the road reaches 12,183 feet, one of the highest paved roads in America. Trail Ridge is a path through the mountains, and it's also a passageway through history trodden by many feet. 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. It was a vital lifeline, a route that connected tribes and provided access to essential resources.
The Arapaho Indians, one of the tribes that regularly traversed this ridge, called the trail on the ridge "taienbaa," which translates to "Where the Children Walk." The name reflected how steep and treacherous the path was. It was so steep that children could not be carried by their parents and had to walk alone. Further south, the Ute tribe crossed the mountains at Forest Canyon Pass, on a path marked by stone cairns rather than signs. The cairns were carefully placed markers to guide the way across the unpredictable mountain terrain. The present park Ute Trail partially follows that ancient route.
The history of Trail Ridge is not limited to the Native Americans, however. On the west side, around 1880, 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 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. Like many booms, this one ended as quickly as it began. The camps were abandoned after a few years to a harsh and unforgiving landscape, and the road fell into disuse, traveled only occasionally by hunters and tourists.
Fall River Road is an emblem of the early 20th century's love affair with motor travel and the wilderness's sometimes uneasy adaptation to it. When its unpaved road opened to drivers in 1921, it was hailed as the first road to penetrate the park's high country. However, its steep grades of 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 alpine vistas. By July 1932 Trail Ridge Road had reached Fall River Pass with a maximum grade of a more manageable 7%. By 1938 the road had finally made it through the Kawuneeche Valley, linking it 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 they used long before engines came through the mountain passes. This seemingly untamed landscape had been known and navigated by humans for millennia. Yet the construction was not without controversy. Opposition to building the road through the delicate alpine tundra was fervent within the park's own management, who argued that the intrusion into such a pristine environment violated the very principles the park stood for.
National Park Service director Horace Albright overruled these objections because he wanted to encourage park visitation. He believed that access to the park's remote beauty would foster a love and respect for the wild spaces that lay beyond the city's borders. The road was designed with care and respect for the landscape. Its architects followed Park Service design principles meant to minimize environmental intrusion, and every curve and gradient was planned to fit the surrounding scenery rather than dominate it.
Trail Ridge Road came to symbolize a growing nation's longing to connect with its wild roots and the complicated balance between preservation and accessibility. It was constructed by the Bureau of Public Roads. History still lingers on Trail Ridge in the stone cairns, the steep paths and the abandoned wagon road, each one a silent witness to the lives that have crossed these mountains. Today travelers on Trail Ridge Road can still feel the presence of those who walked before them. And I had every intention of conquering America's highest continuously paved highway.
As we reached Rainbow Curve, the snow that had been flirting with us all trip began to set in earnest. It fell as a curtain rather than as individual flakes. Becoming children again for a moment, we leaped into the snow, laughing and stumbling as we made snow angels and lobbed snowballs at each other. Our fun was cut short by the chill and the suffocating elevation near 11,000 feet. As the mountain air grew thin, we rushed back to the van to warm up, catch our breath and reflect.
Just before Milner Pass, the snow intensified into almost whiteout conditions. Most of the park's scenic overlooks vanished into a monochrome world. It made no difference. The views we could see were beyond amazing. The weather added to the experience and made for 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 backbone of the Americas that runs some 6,745 miles from the Bering Sea to southern Argentina. All water west of the divide flows to the Pacific, and all water to the east flows to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. Just awesome! The words rang true, but they also fell short. At that moment, on that road, we were part of something greater.
Almost immediately after crossing the great divide, the weather turned cold and misty. Continuing down the back of the Park, we sleeked away from the dizzying heights and descended into a valley of verdure and mist. A massive elk herd caught our eyes, lounging in a lush field and looking perfectly at peace.
On to Denver
We pressed on, leaving the snow of the Continental Divide behind, and the road ran through landscapes that were nothing short of extraordinary. The grand valleys and towering peaks slid in and out of view among the gray clouds that rolled over the land. First was Grand Lake. The lake sparkled silver in the almost absent sunlight among mountains shrouded in clouds, and the town was a charming cluster of buildings, all pitched roofs and wooden facades.
Granby followed, with peaks standing over the town, streets that wound around hills and houses that clung to slopes. It seemed to hum with a quiet sort of life. Then there was Tabernash, a little haven between slopes and valleys that seemed forgotten by time, a town where the past lingered in the creak of wooden porches and the rustle of leaves. Fraser followed with its rugged charm, a blend of wilderness and civilization. The town felt like a frontier outpost, with streets lined with local shops and houses that bore the marks of many a harsh winter, and yet it felt alive and inviting.
But it was Winter Park that stole our breath. Set amid the mountains, its streets were alive with the buzz of shops, restaurants and people enjoying the high-altitude air. The road began to change here, leading us through spectacular switchbacks between Winter Park and Empire. This stretch of road had us gripping the wheel and holding our breath from the steep dropoffs and in sheer awe of the world around us, and each bend revealed a new vista.
In those switchbacks south of Berthoud Pass, I captured what was perhaps the most beautiful Rocky Mountain Alpine picture of our journey. It showed Red Mountain capped by low clouds and framed by tall and lanky evergreens, with a lone car driving along the road.
Finally we caught I-70 towards Denver, leaving behind this section of the Rocky Mountains. We were beginning our relationship with the Rockies. Even as the road straightened and the landscape grew more familiar, the images from our drive stayed with us. 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 Romano's Italian in Littleton on Denver's south side, an unassuming joint for our reminiscing. The food was pure, handmade pasta and sauces and draft beer, but it was the conversation that was the true delight.
Our past was a rich mix of hard work, camaraderie, endless debauched 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 rush 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 a chance to relive the moments that had shaped our lives. We spoke of accolades, like earning the best authentic Mexican for Atlanta in Creative Loafing in 2007, and laughed at our escapades. As the night wore on, we remembered a time when we had danced to the tune of loud Spanish rock, driven by passion and creativity.
Dinner couldn't last forever, and 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 an adventure as well as a profession, and the reminiscing over dinner had reminded me of the raw passion and hustle of those years spent in the culinary trenches.
After dinner the road took 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 began to cut through dark grey clouds at the close of the day. It was a magical ending to a day full of contrasts and bonding.
What an incredible day it had been. From menacing clouds to clear skies, we traveled through landscapes that challenged and amazed us, 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 of the day, and we realized that our adventure was beginning. We were stopped for the night, catching our breath 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 tomorrow would bring new roads and more of America's wilderness, beneath an endless sky.
It was the journey of a lifetime, and tomorrow would bring new roads and more of America's wilderness, beneath an endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we've explored and more, click here for the National Park Service.
