Highway 550 north out of Durango is sublime.  And I never use that word.  It winds through high mountain passes.  Two lanes.  Huge dropoffs with no guardrails. 

After a couple of hours we descended into Silverton, an old mining town populated by locals who all walk around with big dogs, mostly labs and retrievers who are all wet from the neck down.  Not sure what they were up to, but it was good to see, like coming across an SUV with real mud on the flaps.  Good lunch at an old cafe called The Pickle Barrel.

Highway 550 from Silverton climbs back up into the mountains.  Not good with adjectives, but in comparison all other scenic drives look like Sepulveda Blvd.

Took highway 550 north to the town of Montrose and then started heading east on highway 50, nicknamed "America's loneliest highway."  With the exception of Day 1 from L.A. to Jerome, we've done a good job of staying off of the big interstates.  Which I recommend.  We stopped at an tiny general store.  The  old couple running it seemed glad to see us.  I bought more snacks and drinks than we needed because it seemed like they could use the business.  Bubbles found some postcards that she liked.  As I was flipping through their jerky collection the old man, a John Huston type, started asking me about our car.  He was really fascinated.  I guess a silver Camry is a big deal on highway 50.  He wanted to know if I'd ever driven a Prius.  I wish that I had and that I could have regaled him with tales of adventure at fifty miles per gallon. 

Bubbles needed a toothbrush.  Huston went into the cupboard and pulled out a pack of 5 tiny toothbrushes.  "Last one" he declared, "Guess I oughta reorder."  They were single-use disposable toothbrushes, with the toothpaste built into the brush.  I'm not sure what they taste like, but from the sound she made that night, when she put the first one in her mouth, it's kinda like jerky.  And not the good stuff.

Much of Highway 50 runs along the Arkansas River.  Near Canon City there are scores of whitewater rafting companies vying for customers.   We passed them all up, as we passed up a visit to Royal Gorge, where some acid-freak built a bridge 1,000 feet above the river.  He charges $30 to enter the park and walk or drive over the bridge.  

We made it into Pueblo under dark skies filled with rain and flashes of lightning.  Checked into an unsatisfactory Days Inn.  Later, a close burst of lighting knocked out our cable and wi-fi at the same time.  I moved away from my perch near the window.  It didn't feel safe.  Bubbles took my place.  And lit a cigarette.

Epiphany - Canon City is actually pronounced "canyon city"  There should be a tilde over the first n.  But I don't do tildes.  (Nor umlats, for that matter, not since Nirvana killed metal).  But "canyon" sounds much better than "cannon."  Shakespeare said something about a rose by any other name smelling as sweet.  Shakespeare was a hack.  Driving down America's loneliest highway I had time to contemplate how much flavor words have.  How the right words provide seasoning to the objects they describe.  Call a rose a moldy sock and it does not smell as sweet, Bill, because we are physically affected by powerfully descriptive words.

Beef Jerky - I'm saving the jerky I got from Huston, though it looks good.