As P.G. heads on out of a rut and over to Colorado. Follow your intrepid Big Horn as he straddles the Continental Divide, so to speak....
Sleeper
The plane from Washington ambers its way through a mauve evening finally stretching us out over a patchwork of fields, stitched together with dry riverbeds, that cover the land on the run over to the long corridors of Denver Airport.
Denver seems, looking at the view ahead, to have been formed when the Pioneers crossing the plains reached the foot of the Rocky Mountains and wagon trains no. 3, 7, & 12 looked up, shook their heads, and with sullen eyes declared, ‘Nope, not us’.
We jump into a shuttle bus for the evening ride up into the mountains to Avon. The two hour journey is made together with a silent Czech searching for his love; a pretty student of cuisine from Delaware who dreams of opening a cheese cafe where folks can nibble while they hobnob; and a Dallas oil engineer with a cigar the size of Texas who beared an unnerving resemblance to Jabba the Hut, allerdings with blonde hair and some terrific tales to tell.
Shuttle runs often seem more rewarding than rent-a-car deals—unless you collect hitchhikers for a living—because of the chance you have to indulge in rolling conversations with strangers. Turning those strangers into companions. By the time we he pass that Sleeper house, the Texan flatlander is relating how a pitbull had bitten its way out of a cage in the hold on a 
domestic flight and proceeded to chew any cables it could find; taking out the radio connections, the toilet lights, and the inflight entertainment system as it did so. Some discussion leads to the decision that although the Chinese spent 3000 years breeding dogs that were little more than a jaw to bite with a muscle behind it, it is high time Pitbulls were bred to kiss intimately instead.
Behind us a gargantuan peach and cream cloud head, working together with the sunset, amasses its beauty to stand off against the mountains ahead of us for the prize of the evening´s most spectacular sight.
A Rocky Mountain High.
Avon Calling
Morning calls and we awake with bleary eyes to find ourselves in Avon at sunrise. At 5:30 in the morning all of the diners in this part of Vail have yet to open and, venturing to the kitchen, one look at the minibar tells us that this is no ordinary lodging.
A Town Called Independence
While the rest of America was panning for gold, Colorado was going wild-eyed for silver. The high altitude road we are driving along
writhes its way past ghost mining towns in the lyrical San Isabel State Forest like a silver snake. The road takes us over the looming Continental Divide, where East meets West with a breathtaking dynamic. Up here in the peaks that split the rainstorms the stunning Tennessee and Independence Passes curl our horns somewhat. 
These contemplations are compounded amid a town called Independence. The abandoned ruins of silver miners´ huts in what is left of Independence beckon our company amid their skewed portals and forgotten treasures. Grizzly Adams eat your heart out...
Maroon Bells
Aspen is where the Scandanavians landed. Going further back it is also where the Ute Indians discovered their 'Shining Mountains'. Jack Nicholson has a pad here too, but I digress. Although the character of Aspen has changed from a hippie hangout of the 1960s to that of a powder-snow hangout of the glamorous and famous, the mountains on the other side of
town have retained their composure. Three peaks in a row called the Maroon Bells—coloured maroon as a result of oxidization—soar up to the sky. Just three of the 52 mountains over 14 000 feet in Colorado, but what a trio and what a view back down the valley.
The mountain walk up to Crater Lake at the base of the peaks involves negotiating the rockslide debris that cover the three mile path and absorbing the sheer, scenic beauty and closeness of nature up here. Snakes sliding swiftly into the undergrowth, chipmunks chipmunking, beavers beavering, and a long moment gazing into the beautiful eyes of a graceful deer. Next time we should bring moccasins.
Bighorn Returns
The Skandinavians landed in Aspen and fittingly enough they also depart occasionally from Denver Airport. Squeezing into the SAS seat—those fluffy white pancakes just go straight to the hips—One can deduce that all Vikings, contrary to the images in the inflight magazine, are in fact very thin with stumpy legs and a predeliction for bread rolls.
