Joshua and Oscar standing above the Black Canyon.
Pink pegmatite intrusions 
Black Canyon.
A view of the San Juans.
April 30, 2011
During the middle of night, we burrowed deeper into our sleeping bags. Outside, the wind buffeted the sides of the tent.
By the time the sun rose, we were ready to go. Nothing like freezing temperatures to get your ass in gear. All of our water bottles were frozen shut. Oscar’s nose was cold, but the jacket seemed to do the trick.
In the car, we followed the reservoir West. At Sapinero, we turned North onto 92 heading towards Crawford. For nearly 50 miles, we hugged the rim of the Black Canyon on Gunnison. Ranches with thousands of acres abutted the road, and silvery birch trees passed the window like an old, stuttering film reel.
In the fields and on the rim, large mule deer with white, tufted haunches graze on grass frosted with dew. Below them, the canyon dips low and out of sight. We pull into an overlook and peer at the green, rushing water of the Gunnison River.
Eventually, the road turns away from the canyon rim, and we drive out into a beautiful, green valley. To the East, the West Elk Mountains are covered in snow, but here, the Crawford Reservoir is sparkling in the sun. Unlike the scrub and sage near the Blue Mesa, this valley looks like rich farm land, and horses and cows graze in the pastures. It’s story-book beautiful.
Just outside of Crawford, we turn South, headed for the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. Behind us, the sky is blue, but in front of us, low, grey clouds color the canyon, well, black. We’re beginning to discover a few things about our new state, and one of them is, the weather can turn on a dime, from mile to mile and minute to minute.
At the rim of the canyon, we pay the park entrance fee and apologize to Oscar. He has to stay in the car while we hike the North Vista Trail. He curls up in the back seat and lays his nose between his two front paws. He sighs. He falls asleep.
From the trail head to the lookout point is three and a half miles. We run most of the way, pausing to take pictures of gorge and admire the view. The trail is lined in Pinyon and Juniper, and the canyon is stripped with pink intrusions of pegmatite. The walls are dripped with black stains from Iron and Magnesium mixing with bacteria. It’s beautiful and strange, and once again, we’re all alone on the trail. There weren’t even any cars in the parking lot.
At the lookout, we take photos of the panorama, but it’s cold, and we don’t stay long. We run back down, feeling the thin air burn in our lungs. We’re at 8,000 feet.
Back at the car, Oscar greets us with sloppy kisses. We joke that Oscar’s affection is better described as “tongue” rather than “kiss.” Joshua starts singing the Talking Heads. “Give me sugar on my tongue,” he says, as he ruffles Oscar’s ear, and Oscar slobbers over his nose and cheek.
For lunch, we drive up along the rim and stop to walk the short, informative trail. Using the pamphlet, we pause to read about each place marker. Unafraid to go meta, the National Park authors explain just how the canyon should make us feel small, big, inconsequential, and yet, deeply meaningful. We groan with each paradox and file away useful pieces of information like pegmatite, magnesium/bacteria stains, and the life cycle of a juniper tree.
From the Black Canyon, we head back on 92 towards Delta and then take 50 going South towards Montrose. I can’t keep my eyes open, and I fall asleep as Joshua drives.
In Montrose, we decide that Lesson 16 of Pimsleur will get the blood flowing, and as we drive out into the dry, scrubby plains, we practice Spanish.
The scenery changes again, and now we’re driving into the San Juan Mountains. Just as we hit our first set of switchbacks, we pass through the cute, tourist mountain town of Ouray. A sign announces that this town considers itself ‘America’s Switzerland.’
550 crosses several passes and cruises through the old mining town of Silverton. We drive through, heading the signs that tell us to ‘Keep Moving, Avalanche Danger.’ Joshua is a bit white knuckled, but mostly, we’re in awe of the landscape. I was here once before in my Sophomore year of high school, but that was in the middle of summer. Spring here looks a lot more like the thick of winter. The hills are covered in thick, pillowy blankets of snow.
The drive to Durango takes us a couple of hours, but the scenery is gorgeous, and the conversation is easy (as usual :)). The sun breaks through as we drive into the Durango valley, and we point at homes, saying, ‘I could live there.’ Joshua laughs when I point at mobile homes, but I’m only half-way kidding. Who cares if you live in a double wide if you get to wake up to THIS?
In Durango, we turn onto Junction Creek Road. Up in the hills, we past geodesic domes and adobe homes with solar panels. A couple of homes are barn/home hybrids. We think this might be where the hippies live
Luckily, Junction Creek Campground opened yesterday, and we’re one of the first to arrive. We get our pick of the campsites, and the fee is half price. Joshua and I set up the tent, and then we play Frisbee. Oscar runs back and forth between us, but when we try to get him to fetch, he looks at us with disappointment. “I’m far to dignified to fetch,” he sneers and plunks down to chew on his paws.
For dinner, we make pasta. We eat it wearing mittens (no small feat) and predict another cold night. When the sun sets, we dress up Oscar in my rain jacket, don every last layer, and burrow into our sleeping bags.
