Durango

Colorado! A couple weeks ago I headed out to Durango for a long-planned fishing vacation. Unfortunately I didn't take many pictures, so you'll have to make do with what's here. 

I arrived mid-morning Wednesday and brought the gray, drizzly St. Louis spring weather to Colorado with me.  (Though it had been about a hundred degrees in St. Louis when I left.)  As a consequence, we didn't do much Wednesday or Thursday morning except watch the rain wash out the river down in the valley below -- which actually was pretty cool to watch, but it did put a damper on the lovely view.

If you have to work while you're on vacation,

this isn't a bad place to do it.

The view, after the rains.

Thursday around lunch, things finally cleared up.  We offered the trunk to Roxy and headed off up the Colorado Trail for a hike.  Not too far from the parking lot there was a photographer camped out, waiting for the finish of the Colorado Trail race.  The Trail runs nearly 500 miles from Denver to Durango, and these guys had been riding for just over 4 days.  Can you believe that?!  100 miles a day on a mountain bike?  I can manage that on a road bike (for one day, or maybe two if I really hate myself), but 4+ days on a trail?  That's insane.  But they were doing it.

Dad, Me, and Rox at the turnaround

Unfortunately we finished our hike about 20 minutes before they expected the lead rider to come barreling through.  Patient though we are (haha), we didn't feel like waiting around.  We headed home, showered, ate dinner, and capped it all off with some delicious peaches which D turned into cobbler.

Friday was Fishing Trip #1, and Dad and I set off early for New Mexico (not as far away as you might think) and the San Juan River.  We met our guide, C, who had the unenviable task of rowing us around the river all day in the blistering sun.  (Apparently the St. Louis summer weather followed me too.)  Despite the heat, we got in a couple good hours of fishing and caught some decent, lazy trout before they settled in for their midday siesta.  About the time they did that, we settled in for lunch, in the form of some sandwiches we had picked up at Bread on the way out of Durango.

That night, we headed to dinner at a local favorite: Seasons. We started with calamari, and D and I both had the chicken saltimbocca (and each took half of it home).  Between the four of us (C went too), we shared two desserts and two delicious bottles of wine.  And as a testament to how good the peaches were, I got the peach shortcake rather than something chocolate!  (It's true; there were witnesses.)

After our very tough day of sitting in a boat on Friday, we opted for something a little more aggressive on Saturday.  Boy, did we get it.  We rented me a mountain bike and headed out to ride the Hermosa Creek Trail, which D assured us was "all downhill."  Uh huh.  Not so much.

It was 20 miles of up and down, or a "death march," if you prefer/are Dad.  While a topo map will show that it was more down than up, I'm not totally sure I believe it.  The bike I was riding was a Rocky Mountain, which was pretty badass.  If I find myself in the market for a mountain bike, I might look into that.  (The truth is, I already did look into it.  The closest retailer is in Bloomington Indiana.  Road trip, anyone?)  Plus, it looks especially awesome when it's covered with mud (which we all were, pretty solidly up to our knees, and intermittently thereafter).

A hard day's work

Dinner that night was delightful: steak, local corn, and wasabi mashed potatoes, and some killer wines.  It was a perfect night, and we ate outside on the back patio taking in the stunning view, and later relaxing by the fire.

After our beater of a bike ride on Saturday, we decided to do as little as possible on Sunday.  We started out with brunch at the Kennebec Cafe, which was pure delight.  The weather was lovely, there was a shady patio, and the scones were to die for.  From there, we cruised the mountain roads for a bit, then just relaxed.  I worked, we took Roxy for a walk.  We ate.  There was another delightful patio dinner: this time, salmon, corn, quinoa.

The amazing sky after dinner.

Fishing Trip #2 was Monday, and it was a stunner.  We had C as our guide again, and went as far the other direction from Friday's trip as it was possible to go.  Friday on the Juan had been packed with boats and people.  Monday we left the parking lot and hiked about four and a half miles up a little piece of paradise called Cascade Creek. All four of us went on the trip, but just a few minutes before lunch, we got separated while fishing two ends of the same pool on the creek, and mysteriously didn't see each other again until the end of the day!  C and I were fishing together, and Dad and D were fishing together, and we were each looking for the others, but the others were nowhere to be found.

A neat spot to fish on the way up

I can think of worse places to take a walk...

No matter for C and me.  C had the sandwiches in his pack, so we had a lovely lunch break, complete with chips and cookies.  Aside from the swarming, carnivorous flies, it was a perfectly civilized meal.  We fished our way back down the creek to find Dad waiting patiently in C's truck, having eaten every morsel of food he could find.  D was long gone with the other car to rescue poor Roxy from her house-bound isolation.

...and also worse places to fish.

We all went out to dinner again Monday night, to an open-air dive call the Balcony Bar.  I don't think I ate a thing that night that wasn't fried, but it was all crunchily delicious - fried pickles, fried okra, a burger whose sourdough bread trappings were slathered in butter and grilled (so, basically fried), tater tots.  Really, what's not to like?  (Perhaps the heart attack I'll have in 15 years?)

My last day ended up being far longer than intended.  But before I discovered those misfortunes, Dad and I took Roxy for a hike at Falls Creek, a lovely little spot just perfect if you need to stretch your legs for an hour or so.

The Falls

Just before I was getting ready to leave for the airport, I got the first text message that my flight from Denver to St. Louis was delayed. Then I got another.  I called the airline to figure out whether I'd make it back to St. Louis that night as planned.  Of course, no one had any idea, so off we went to the airport, fingers crossed.  Then this happened:

Eventually I did make it home, at about 2:45 in the morning, but I made it.