Moab photos here.

Colorado photos here.

So I left off writing once I arrived in Golden. I’d set aside one full day and two nights in Golden before I hit the road again for Montana. The rain and gloom persisted the last leg of the drive to Golden, and I was hoping the weather would cooperate while I was there.

I used the morning to sleep in a little and had a tasty ham and cheddar omelet at the hotel’s restaurant. Then I drove into Golden to visit my alma mater and see what changes have been wrought upon the campus.

The tiny turn-of-the-century sorority house I used to live in has been leveled, along with all the other houses on the entire block, to build a new student recreation center with weight rooms, a rock climbing wall, pool tables, and other amenities I wish I could’ve enjoyed when I was there. (Someone has vandalized the letters on the sign over the back entrance so it says “Stud Creation Center”.) The new sorority house is amazing, too. Built in 2003, it holds about 30 students, and has a formal dining room, living room with large flat panel television, huge kitchen with an island and three large refrigerators, plus during the year they have meals prepared 6 days a week by a cook. Damn, I missed the boat on that count. We were on our own with a tiny house we rented that accommodated 10 students.

Berthoud Hall, the geology building, no longer houses the geology museum. It has instead relocated down the hill to a building almost entirely its own save some research labs, and I was impressed at the displays it held. It has a large section devoted to Mines’ history, the school’s acquisition of the Edgar Mine where mining engineers now get hands-on training, and more general Colorado mining history. I knew the school was started to support the greater demand for miners in the area in the 1870s, but what I didn’t know was that it was specifically the discovery of gold ore in the hills outside Golden that resisted the available metallurgical extraction techniques which led to discussions about the start of a university where advanced extraction methods could be developed. There were even pictures of early mineralogy classes where the men were studying trays of rocks, and all of them wore suits and ties to class.

The museum also contains an impressive collection of mineral specimens and gemstones, some permanently donated to the college and some on loan from various collections. The downstairs wing has a display of mining equipment, fluorescing minerals under black light, and meteorites. What I was most impressed with there, though, was a display on the uranium mining that rose rapidly in the 40s and 50s as demand exploded for the ore. In it was a children’s board game with a finding uranium theme, an old Popular Mechanics magazine which contained instructions on building your own uranium detector, and other historical facts about how the safety aspects of uranium mining were handled (or more commonly ignored) in the quest for the valuable ore. Because most uranium miners were paid based on production, they were motivated to work long hours with no masks in unventilated mines where they inhaled large amounts of uranium dust. Many developed lung cancer as a result of the radioactive residue built up in their chests.

Downtown Golden was a mix of change and sameness. The Ace-Hi Tavern where Mines students have been going for years to get discounted pitchers of Coors still stands, as does Woody’s Pizza, the first bar I went to celebrate my 21st birthday. Foss Drugstore is still there, too, though the wonderful and reasonably priced breakfast and lunch restaurant that used to be above it—the Golden Ram—is long gone. What struck me the most was the sheer number of new condo buildings all over downtown, and from what I hear from a client who just returned from house-hunting along the Front Range, they’re ridiculously overpriced.

After leaving downtown, I headed up Mt. Zion to the Mines “M”, Buffalo Bill’s Grave (one of several locations that claims to be his final resting place), wandered down around to Red Rocks Park and Amphitheatre, and over to Dinosaur Ridge to pick up some squished pennies for souvenirs. As I was wandering around the Red Rocks visitor’s center, I kept questioning how I could’ve missed the fact that it even had a visitor’s center. Turns out it was constructed in 2004, well after I’d left Denver.

I considered seeing if I could still make my way to the Coors Brewery tasting room through the back entrance like I used to (”Coors lab” the students called it), but parking at the brewery was scarce, and I wasn’t really in the mood for a brew. Instead, I drove up to Boulder to see how much it had changed. The Foundry, where I used to shoot pool regularly, is still in its spot downtown. Except in north Boulder, the tofu-and-granola statists haven’t otherwise let Boulder grow too much.

I planned to visit my favorite sushi restaurant in Denver, but I had a couple of hours to kill before they opened, so I went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. Fun flick—faithful to the tradition of an entertaining, humorous time at the movies.

Then I drove into the Washington Park area of Denver to go to Japon, the place where I was first introduced to sushi—where it all began, and home of the best sushi I’ve ever had. The place has been remodeled and expanded, but I had a wonderful meal sitting at the bar, slowly enjoying an Asahi. Even got a free extra piece of maguro tataki from the chef. The food was as fabulous as I remember… amaebi (with the heads fried), spicy tuna hand rolls, sake nigiri. I left very full, satisfied, drowsy, and ready to rest up for the long drive to Montana the next morning.

Alright, first, some updated stats. I’ll do a full writeup on Colorado and Montana later. Plus pictures—I haven’t forgotten those.

Cop counts are as follows:

• Colorado - 19
• Utah - 8
• Montana - 7
• Oregon - 5 or 6
• Idaho - 4
• Washington - 3
• Wyoming - 2

Most expensive gas: still $4.40 a gallon for regular unleaded in what I now know to be Cimarron, Colorado. Though I managed to keep it under $4 a gallon the entire trip, Washington prices have gone up some 30 cents to $4.22 a gallon since I left. (Oil-speculatin’ bastards. Say hello to the oil bubble which has replaced the housing bubble.)

Miles driven: 3,657

Cities/towns visited: 8

Bottles of beer consumed: too many to count

Every time I come back from Montana, I have a progressively harder time readjusting to life here. Though there are quirks to small towns—and Philipsburg is no exception—I haven’t yet seen anything that would constitute a deal-breaker in terms of relocating permanently. It doesn’t help that some of the wonderful friends I’ve made urge me to make the move every time I visit.

I have much pondering to do about this.

My first morning at Arches was the obligatory Delicate Arch hike. One of the most strenuous in the park because of its climb in elevation, the hike is about 3 miles round trip. I was glad I started out early while the weather was still cool enough, and even then the steep climb up exposed sandstone with no shade and no downhill parts was grueling.

Once at the top, the view never fails to disappoint, even with the hazy thin cloud layer we had that day. It’s something of a triumph to me to make that hike, plus Delicate Arch was the eastern edge of our mapping area when I was there for field camp.

While at the top, I spotted a group of Aggie grad geology students. Brunton compasses, magnifying loupes, clipboards… there was no mistaking their purpose. It brought back memories of my first visit, when, during a particularly miserable 100+ degree day, a group of us encountered an entire team of Aggies, clean and unmussed, being led through the area by their professor. There were many jokes made at their expense after they passed, ones centered primarily on the fact that it was now mid-week and their professor was still giving them a guided tour. We, on the other hand, got a cursory half-day introduction to the geologic units in the area and the extent we were to map, and our professors turned us loose, saying we could ask any questions if we were lucky enough to find them in the field. After that, we were on our own until we returned to camp in the evenings.

When I returned to my car at the bottom of the trail, I discovered a regular traffic jam had ensued in my absence. Arches has small—tiny actually—parking lots, and they’re all first-come, first-serve. There were empty spaces when I left on the hike, and a swarm of cars waiting for spaces when I returned. Getting up a little early paid off, though I wasn’t anywhere near alone or secluded on my hike.

I decided to drive up past the Fiery Furnace to Devil’s Garden, but the parking situation was even worse there, and as I was hot, tired, and hungry, I decided to shine it on and return to my hotel for a shower and some lunch in town. I had lunch at the Moab Brewery, which, though it’s a little touristy, has some excellent microbrews. I highly recommend the Derailleur Ale, if anyone happens to be down that way. I almost ended up taking a growler of it with me, but as I lacked refrigeration facilities, it would’ve been largely wasted.

About an hour before sunset, I returned to the park to capture some photos, which I’ll post later. The rich red sandstone looks most amazing in early and late sunlight, and I wasn’t the only one obviously driving around looking for that perfect photograph.

Day two saw me get up even earlier than before. I was determined to be at Devil’s Garden by 7AM both to secure a parking space and to start my hike before the sun started to bake the landscape. Our cloud cover from the previous day had almost entirely dissipated, and I wanted the cool morning breeze on me as I hiked. As it turns out, the time and location made for an incredible, secluded hike where I saw few others.

Devil’s Garden has about half a mile of good trail up to Landscape Arch, after which the path becomes what the park service calls “primitive,” meaning less maintained and more challenging. I’ve done the full 7.5-mile primitive trail loop once. It takes you over and through some amazing sandstone fins and crevasses, and you could likely cover much of the distance without seeing another living soul, but after that it dumps you out to walk uphill across half a mile of fine, dry, sand with no shade save some scrub brush hardly tall enough to squat behind, and which gives you the added bonus of having to swat the gnats that hover around it. Thanks, but not again. Once was enough.

As a compromise, I hiked the primitive trail to Double O Arch (it’s all about the O), which is 4.2 miles round trip. At one point the trail runs along the top of one of the sandstone fins, and that morning the wind was blowing so hard I was afraid I’d either topple off (40+ feet on the leeward side), or I’d lose my hat. So I sat on the top of the ridge for awhile, completely alone, and enjoyed the moment while I rested a bit until I felt ready to brave the gusts and make my way to flatter ground further along the trail.

As before, when I finally trudged back to my car, the parking space seekers were out in full force, and the number of people I saw on the return hike grew exponentially the further I walked. Getting up early was definitely a wise decision. I saw some lizards and ground squirrels that probably wouldn’t have been out later in the day, or would’ve been scared off by the throngs of camera-wielding buffoons who don’t know how to observe nature without trying to interact with it.

I decide to forgo Canyonlands because the park service has eliminated the twofer one used to get where admission to either Arches or Canyonlands gave you admission to the other. What can I say? I’m cheap, and while Upheaval Dome is fascinating geology, it’s not something I’d pay $10 for all by itself. Oddly, when I was at Upheaval Dome last, there was much back-and-forth about the cause of the dome’s creation (meteorite strike or salt dome). The dominant theory was that it was the remnants of a hot salt-sucking anticline (a description I owe to my professor). That is, a salt intrusion had risen up from deeper in the earth’s mantle, deforming the land into a dome. Then the salt had dissolved in solution, causing the dome to collapse. Now, however, researchers have found shocked quartz in and around the dome, lending significant weight to the meteorite strike theory, because a salt dome wouldn’t have created the intense pressures needed to generate shocked quartz at the site. Sorry, a little geology digression…

Anyway, I’m now in Golden, Colorado. I decided not to take the most direct path from Moab, which would’ve taken me over I-70 and through the Eisenhower Tunnel, because it’s a route I’ve traveled more times than I care to count. Instead, I went down through Cortez to Durango, up to Molas Lake and Silverton (locations of the final weeks of field camp), had lunch at Handlebars, and then drove north along the Million Dollar Highway to Ouray. From there, I went up to Montrose, east to Gunnison, with a brief stop in Salida (week 4 of field camp) and then northeast to Golden. Again, I’ll have pictures later. Suffice to say there was still a lot of snow at Molas Pass. Those poor field students will be wading in it waist-deep trying to map rocks they can’t see if it doesn’t thaw soon.

Not sure what my plans are here in Golden just yet, other than seeing what Mines has done with their geology museum and wandering around the campus.

On the negative sided, my mp3 player has been acting up. Please, please, FSM, in the name of all that is sacred, don’t let me drive through Wyoming without a functioning mp3 player. It can break once I get home, but listening to nothing but country and preachin’ will likely make me want to ram my car into a tree.

I apologize for the dearth of posting lately. Work has been putting some serious demands on my time, and though I’m enjoying it, the 60-70 hour weeks are getting a little old. I don’t have time to blog from work (er, I mean, I would never blog from work, honest!), and when I arrive home, the muse has left me and I have little energy to pen anything here.

But all is not lost. I’m on a much-needed sitting vacation (my first real vacation in a year) getting ready to go hiking in Moab, Utah. This is my fourth visit to this gorgeous sandstone country. My first week of field session in college brought me here for the first time, and it enchanted me so much I’ve repeatedly wanted to return. After I leave Moab, my trip plans may just lead me to cross paths with the current field session’s crop of engineering students, too. They should be around their third or fourth week of the six-week session, placing them in a handful of possible locations in the mountains of Colorado, some of which I’ll be passing through.

It never ceases to amaze me how a long road trip can clear my mind of all extraneous thought and open it up to memories and emotions long buried. Mostly I’ve been inundated with memories of driving to and from college, the memories of that first trip to start my freshman year, and of field session. All the extraneous garbage and clutter—the mountain of work and professional challenges facing me this summer, the constant drone of the news about the economy/war/elections—all of it has been blissfully, gently nudged aside for a great calm accompanied by some beautiful scenery.

When I arrived, the characteristic scent of Moab smacked me in the face, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. I’d forgotten the distinct smell here. It’s slightly minty, a sweet odor with a hint of floral overtones. Moab has grown in the 7 years since my last visit, but the surrounding country is as amazing as I remember it.

Anyway, time’s a-wastin’. I’m off to Arches National Park, and perhaps Upheaval Dome today. But I’ll leave you with this: the restaurant I had dinner at last night had a note in the drink menu saying that Utah law allows you to take home the unused portion of a bottle of wine you’ve purchased as long as it’s been cork-sealed again. For resealing the bottle, the restaurant charges you a ridiculous $5. I’d pay $5 for them to stuff a cork in it, but when I say “it”, I’m not referring to the wine.

I know I’ve been largely silent on the blogging front, and you’d probably never notice the difference, but I’ll be in San Francisco for the next few days, which gives me a justification for the silence, this time.

A friend of mine has invited me down to L.A. for a Kings-Avalanche game in a couple months. Now the question is, do I accept and fly down there, or turn the opportunity down and wait for his visit up here for New Years Eve?

When the Tyrannical Scam Administration started confiscating toiletries, I concluded I’d flown my last, except in case of emergency or a rare work-related trip. Boxing myself in with a vow never to fly, ever again seemed unrealistic, but I thought I could stick to avoiding vacation flights. Somehow, my line in the sand was the threat of having my shampoo confiscated by uneducated goons unfit to scoop dog shit off the sidewalk.

And since then, I’ve adhered to it. Even when my grandmother passed away in Southern California, though it cost me two days of vacation, I drove down to my parents’ place and rode with them the rest of the way.

So what now? If I am to be at all honest, I really do want to go. I haven’t seen a hockey game since I left the Bay area, and before that, I watched the Avs bring Stanley home in 2001 in Denver, where, for a time, I had been on the wait list for season tickets. I miss it, and I hate the closest NHL team so much they aren’t ever going to see a dime of my money, for tickets or anything else.

What say you? To fly, or not to fly? Do I stick to principle, or eat my vow and have a good time?

Maybe I should rethink this “overcoming fear” theme for the year.

Just a smidge over two weeks ago, I wrote about having my sunroof smashed by a rock thrown from an overpass. Yesterday morning, I was rear-ended on my way to work. Fortunately there were no serious injuries beyond some stiffness and soreness on my part, and it was pretty clearly the other driver’s fault.

My heart aches for her. She’s just barely 19, and I remember all too well what it was like causing an accident at that age. She was changing lanes, looking over her shoulder to make sure the lane was clear, when traffic (and me) came to a stop. How many times have we all taken that momentary glance over our shoulder only to find traffic at a stand-still, our own vehicle headed straight for the guy at the back of the line? It could’ve happened to anyone, and I think inexperience is primarily to blame. Not a cell phone, not the radio…just inexperience and bad luck. Man, have I been there.

Here’s what really bothered me about the adversarial nature of the aftermath of a car accident. She kept doing the ONE thing insurance tells you not to do–she admitted fault. She apologized repeatedly. And because of the evil trio of insurance, lawyers, and liability, not only could I not tell her it was alright, I couldn’t tell her to shut up and stop admitting fault. Doing anything humane such as patting her on the arm and telling her it would be alright might hurt MY case.

Her insurance company called me today to take my statement, and they specifically asked if she admitted fault. As much as I wanted to gloss over that fact, she DID admit it, and I told them so. And I’m not trying to be an asshole here. I’m not some lawsuit-happy pain-in-the-ass jerk looking to use a fender bender as a get rich quick scheme. But I feel like I threw her under the bus in order to save myself. Maybe her insurance would’ve paid anyway, whether or not I told them that information. Maybe this all strikes me as incredibly unfair because I’ve been in her shoes.

It seems to me that the law shouldn’t exist to prevent us from acting like human beings with even an ounce of compassion. In this case, the law forces you to be the dickhead lest it steamroll you instead of the other guy.

So, to teenager B. who hit me–at the scene of an accident, for God’s sake, SHUT UP! Exchange the necessary information with the other driver, but otherwise keep quiet. I know you that when you’re at fault, you want to fall all over yourself apologizing (and God love you for it–only a completely heartless asshole wouldn’t yearn to apologize for their mistakes). But for your own sake and my peace of mind, please, just shut up.

Regarding my entry about my moon roof incident, B.W. Richardson said…

Not really surprising - they would have had to report it as an unsolved case, bad for their percentages, so they scared you out of reporting it (well, that, and the idiot insurance companies exist to keep your money and deny as much of your claim as legally possible).

I’ve been thinking about this comment for days. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t fear they used against me.

No one wants an insurance hike, but that possibility didn’t really frighten me. It wouldn’t be pleasant, and I don’t like having my wallet squeezed, but I’d have survived.

Make no mistake, what they used against me was my impatience, and to a lesser extent, my anger. I’m a driver–a doer. Minutes after it happened, I was already on the phone reporting it to my insurance (which, incidentally, is covering the damage under my comprehensive policy). I wanted it (the problem, not the crime) solved, repaired, and off my plate, and THAT is what the state patrol was able to use against me most effectively. Any delay makes me angry, and THAT they used against me. They gambled on the possibility that I wouldn’t pursue it out of a desire for resolution. Folks who know me would probably say that’s not much of a gamble…

Playing the blame game can be such a waste of time and energy–the problem lies there staring everyone in the face while they all point fingers at who caused it. Solve the problem, then worry about how to prevent it from happening again. If that involves laying blame at someone’s feet, THEN it’s appropriate. We saw it when Katrina blew out the levees in New Orleans. The finger-pointing had already begun while water flooded into the city. Precious energy and effort was wasted playing Pin The Blame On The Bureaucrat.

So what if someone had caught the person who damaged my car? Other than some personal satisfaction, it would solve nothing. My window would still be broken.

Am I upset that my impatience was used against me? The jury is still out on that count.

Why on earth do I continue to be surprised at government idiocy? You’d think that by now, I’d have long since accepted the fact that stupidity has no bounds… that we have, indeed, invented a better idiot at every junction in social evolution.

As I was driving home yesterday, someone tossed a rock (or something heavy–I never found it) off a freeway overpass and smashed my moon roof. Fortunately I had the sun shade closed, so there were no injuries.

Knowing my insurance would ask, I reported it to the state patrol. And even now, I’m astounded at the level of warped thinking that led to the response I got. First, they didn’t get back to me for 20 minutes, ensuring that whoever threw the rock was long gone. And then they drop the bomb on me–if they file a report, it’ll go down as a collision on MY driving record.

Unreal.