With one arm resting half-in, half-out of the diver’s side window of our white Chevy Crew Cab pickup truck the wind raced over my skin, cooling it, while tugging gently at my arm hairs. A periodic errant gust would collide with my skin before diverting inward to tickle my face and fill my ears with the sound of the fresh black tarmac whizzing by beneath rugged truck tires. My eyes locked forward on the road, one hand on the wheel casually navigating the high mountain two-lane highway that threaded through the passes near Silverton in south-western Colorado.
It was late September and the morning was crisp. The first frosts of the year had come to the high places while the lowlands struggled to soak up the deluge of water recently dumped by a series of late summer monsoons. The Aspen, which always stand a slow vigil and carefully mark the passing of the seasons, were starting to trade their rich green hues for the golden and amber colors of fall. On the radio old country-western and bluegrass music was playing as I sipped away at an extra large can of Arizona Ice Tea. Our discussion wandered through topics as diverse and plentiful as the Aspen trees that coated the surrounding hills. Our eyes constantly in motion, scanning the nearby vegetation for gaps with a view of the nearby river. The water was clearing up after the storm, but still murky – too murky to fly fish? A few miles down the road we’d pull over, find a place to pause, and give it a go.
Ahh – the San Juan Mountains in Colorado. Truly, my heart’s home.
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