If you remember from this blog's beginning, we packed the trunk and set-off to visit friends and family and see some of the nation along the way, before we move into a backpack and wander to other countries.  Our idea of "untourism" is a way of travelling that doesn't include crossing off must see sites and hurrying on to the next.  It is more of a belief in "seeing what you see" and having local experiences.  Our Denver-or-bust night drive prevented us from having the time to hook-up with some family friends in the area but left us some time to explore.  After our driving day in the Rockies, and a call to our friend, Dan Alexander, we couldn't resist a bit of sightseeing before heading to Salt Lake City where our next set of friends awaited us.  Rock aficionado, Dan has for years been telling us about these amazing places in Utah country.  Then, we found out from some free rest stop literature that the area also included preserved ancestral pueblo sites.  Now these would be cool for anyone, but for Fred they were a must see. 

When I was in third grade, my teacher let the kids who could already read proficiently complete independent projects during phonics time.  I fell in love with Amelia Earhart and ended up studying her for an entire semester, presenting lessons to younger grades, making a bulletin board...I mean, going all out.  Well, the ancient pueblos were Fred's Amelia Earhart.  So we left Rifle, hit the "Million Dollar Highway" for a scenic drive through the heart of Colorado's Rockies with the aim of ending up at Mesa Verde. 

Route 550 is titled such because it was so expensive to cut the route:  up and over mountain peaks, alongside cliffs, burrowing straight through.  We left our soak in Orvis Hot Springs to travel route 550 for 73 miles to Durango.  It took us over 3 hours!  You know how HBO and Showtime promise to make your TV viewing experience something more?  Well if you think driving is boring, or not a good way to experience a new place, try route 550.  We stopped off to see an iron fen, the only wetland of its kind in North America.  We saw the entrance to an old mine shaft that runs over 5 full miles under/through a mountain.  We saw a ghost town where the mine workers used to live.  We had coffee in a town dubbed "little Switzerland" for its picturesque valley layout. We saw immense stretches of breathtaking views.  We climbed to over 11,000 feet while craning our necks to look straight up at 14,000 foot peaks.  And we prayed for our life as each hair pin, switch back curve of the road hung us perilously close to the cliff’s edge. 

We slept well in the sleepy town of Cortez, UT.  At Mesa Verde the next day, we wound a couple hundred feet down a cliff face, climbed a two-story, strung ladder to enter a reinforced ancient dwelling…and decided I'd missed my calling.  Tucked up under an overhang, you'd wake up each morning in your cave house, step out onto your balcony some 2,500 feet above the valley's floor and look out over what must have seemed like the rest of the world.  While Fred scooted along the inner wall, I scurried in and around the rock rooms and imagined myself a puebloan scout, one they'd send free-climbing to find a good spot before building a rough trail to provide access to the rest of the tribe.  Still, after just half a day in a National Park, we were feeling quite un-untouristy. 

There is no doubt the U.S. National Parks provide an amazing asset.  They preserve and make available to the public amazing natural features of this vast country's landscape and history.  Key word: public.  As in people.  As in established paths and chirping children and bus pull offs.  And this is mid-September, past summer rates, much too late for the masses, the real crowds.  In the upcoming days, we would discover how, even within the boundaries of a National Park, we could get off the pre-laid path, away from any other visitors, and enjoy the sites in peace.  But we'd had enough for that day and fled, set-off on an unplanned drive figuring we'd no doubt benefit from the plethora of scenic byways in the area.  And we were rewarded.

We weren't exactly lost.  We had an idea of how to make our way back out to actual highways with names designated on the map.  We had a full tank of gas and plenty of daylight left, so we weren't worried.  Our first discovery was what I guess you'd call a tractor pull.  Except it looked more like a bulldozer, which was pulling a semi-truck with a tanker attached.  It was $5 dollars a vehicle to get in, which consisted mostly of Harley’s and pick-ups.  Ours was the only convertible.  If we thought the array of local folks was interesting here, we needed only wait for our next find--the Navajo fair.  The set-up was basically the same as a small-time county fair, except for being in a desert-like plain, having no permanent facilities and piped in water.  What caught our eye from the road was the rodeo, but what held our attention was the traditional dancing complete with drummers and singers, which I'd describe as wailers.  And just outside the fence that confined the festivities, entrepreneurism was alive and well.  I'll skip writing one, since I can already imagine you, the reader, just skimming through the ridiculously long list of items for sale out of make-shift tents and lean-tos, obviously the kiosks of seller's who hadn't paid to be included as official fair businesses. 

Back on the road in our now thoroughly dusty Solara, we spot a little sign and arrow, "Valley of the Gods Road".  How could we resist?  I almost just have to let the pictures do the talking.  18 miles of red dirt road (I guess we'll call it a road) wound, twirled, stretched through a canyon valley, around giant rock formations, and between cliff walls and mountain sides.  In the hours we spent in the loop, maybe 10 other cars passed by.  When we parked and hiked to the top of one of the rock creatures, the uninterrupted view seemed as old as the rocks themselves.  No roads, no power lines, no subdivisions.  Just earth for as far as we could see.  And past that, because beyond what our eyes could report, there was a sense of endlessness to the terrain.          

I mentioned pictures, so I'll leave you with those.  I set up a flikr site (per Robert's great suggestion in the blog comments) to provide more illustrations of our travels for those interested.  Check it out at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/42679370@N06/sets/

Okay, Fred's brilliant idea.  We've seen the Midwest, the cornfields of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois so can bet the ones in Iowa and Nebraska are pretty similar.  Let's drive, by which he meant let's drive all night, let's drive as far as we can get before we can't keep driving anymore.  Let's see where we end up after a marathon of interstate driving.  I was game, so off we went across the width of Illinois at 65 mph, through Iowa at 70, then loving Nebraska for its posted speed limit of 75 mph.  We got as far as North Platte, NE until we couldn't trust our sleepy eyes and pulled in with the truckers for a early, early morning nap.  We weren't woken by the sounds of engines, or even the sunrise, because the cold beat them both to it.  Somewhat rested, and shivering, Fred's plan had worked.  We'd cleared the cornfields and in the 6:00 AM sunlight, we could see the Rockies off in the distance. 

Neither one of us has ever been to Denver so we decided to do an early morning driving tour of the city before heading deeper into mountain country.  We caught a glimpse of the scenery our Western travel leg was going to offer as we cruised up along Rocky Mountain National Park, then to Cheyenne, WY to score a much deserved proper night's sleep.  Oh yeah, and a shower.

Hauling ass paid off.  The next morning, we leisurely toured through Medicine Bow National Forest.  This is the stuff of novels and beer commercials.  Soaring mountains, trout-filled streams, cabins tucked into forests at impossible angles.  We took the road that is closed in the winter, up and over 12,000 feet of mountain, passing signs that warned of the possibility of snow, year-round.  You can pick a spot, any spot, pull off and begin walking.  We saw them, the trout, in cold mountain streams as water gurgled past them.  A herd of elk, munching on a meadow of grass until they heard us, from what must have been a 1/2 mile away, and took off into the woods.  Strange birds and mouse-eared deer which google has since taught us are called mule deer.  The state has a slogan "Wyoming Wildlife - Worth the Watching" and after our day, we had to agree.

Now I refrain from ranting when I can.  However, something is up with nightly lodging.  We wanted to take the scenic route, drive through what we imagined to be a series of small, cute railroad towns.  We envisioned the family-owned bed and breakfast that would gladly take in a wayward, weary traveler in their little town for a small fee.  No.  Podunk motel, after rundown motor lodge, after crusty roadside inn, we were disheartened at $70 and up price tags for accommodations that looked more suitable for livestock than humans in towns with populations less than your typical chain hotel can hold.  It had gotten late, we were tired and fed-up, so we headed to the big town of Rifle, CO (pop. 6,784) to secure a very pleasant and affordable stay at the Red River Inn, along the Colorado River, the view only slightly obscured by the McDonald's and gas station across the street!  When we could see it in the sunlight, Rifle turned out to be one of those cute, little towns we'd been looking for, so we bargained an even better second night rate and decided to relax and explore, gearing up to forge further West, cut straight through the great Rockies and lose ourselves in the mountain terrain.

The Windy City did its thing, sucking us up in a whirlwind of big city living, visiting, and fun. We are out of the vortex now, steadily climbing Colorado's plateau toward the Rockies, but have a lot of catching up to do! Is there a better way to kick off a Chicago visit than a ball game at Wrigley Field? We rolled into Chi town and headed over to the world's largest outdoor sports bar to party with friends, oh yeah, and to watch the Cubs. Somewhere into the second or third inning, some seat scavengers settle in behind us and I'm outraged to see they managed to secure the giveaway ball caps despite arriving later than us. (OK maybe not outraged.) We did not receive the game's freebee due to a first round Wriggleyville bar decision that caused us to miss opening pitch. Anyway, I get joking with these fellow fans and they graciously offer me their hat. We snap a celebratory picture before I go traipsing off in search of cracker jacks...quintessential Wrigley.

The upcoming weekend filled up with good times. A scrumptious dinner and backgammon tournament, trying out a new bar with my long distance BFF Jenna and her new fiance, John (congrats!), catching up with Kelly and the kids (after all Rick is just a big kid, right?) on a beautiful, sunny day in Millennium Park. As well as making Home Depot runs to secure supplies to complete Ken's list of home improvements. It's become our thing, trying to contribute something each place we stay. In appreciation of our Connecticut condo writing retreat, we played maid, making sure my brother and his wife returned from their vacation to a spotless home. You've already heard about the Syracuse feast and the Michigan roofing. In Chicago, Ken offered up his condo as our home base, fronting us a front door fab, a unit key, even workout room access! In return, we replaced faulty track lighting, caulked bathrooms and added our own touch by indoor/outdoor carpeting his great balcony which overlooks Soldier Field. We might have something here, will work for room

On the South side, it was college assistance I had to offer, as Ashley and I poured through options, went on a campus visit, and devised an SAT study plan. In between doing my homework, I got time to chill with my favorite Chicago Auntie and eat some great home-cooked grub. This whole extended visiting idea is the best. Let me explain a typical trip to Chicago. Most of my friends, and Fred's, live in the city. Then, Susy and clan live so far South now that they're actually in Indiana. The other contingent of my family and friends lives in the far Western suburbs. The three groups might as well live in three different states. Imagine packing it all into a long weekend. I'm usually trying to arrange lunch dates just to at least get to see everyone. This time, I roll South leisurely on a Monday afternoon. Stay two nights, Fred meets me down there Wednesday afternoon, has all evening to visit, then we head back to the city for a good night's sleep and time to see some more folks throughout the next weekend. Much better.

We manage to sneak in a few writing days before we catch up with the infamous Matt Mitchell and Mike Fowler. We meet Mitchell for a few beers and think we are heading over to Mike's for simple cookout. We arrive to a monster sized platter of Artisan cheese, crackers, and nuts. This isn't just any cheese. A friend of the Fowler's became frustrated after returning from a Europe trip and being unable to find the types of cheeses he'd become accustomed to. You'd think you could find anything in Chicago, but even after shopping a bunch of ethnic districts, he came up empty handed. He must have one of those determined personalities, or is like Fred and sees a business opportunity in just about every situation. This guys ends up contacting the Wisconsin Cheese Maker's Association. Certainly, these varities of cheese are being made somewhere in the cheese state? Wrong, but he does meet a farmer with the whole cheese making set-up that invites him to come out and give it a try. He does just that, and has so much success making cheese that now he owns his own dairy farm, is importing special milk cows from France, and is selling cheese faster than he can make it to high end restaurants and private buyers like Oprah Winfrey! This is Ellen's (Mike's wife) first course. We wine and dine the evening away, and before it ends manage to assemble all of the Fowler and Mitchell kids, minus Andy, who lives far, far away. It's a spectacular gathering of good folks, great stories, slow grilled food, and late night straight-poured vodka which Mike unearths from a forgotten cabinet.

Labor Day brought Fred's annual Fantasy Football Draft, organized by Commissioner and long time friend, Dave Baratka, who treated us to a great dinner party with his family later in the week. Are you getting the picture of how we ended up in Chicago for, what was it, three weeks total, forgetting to log in and blog? Because we aren't done yet. We finished off the trip by heading to the suburbs to Aurora to spend a few days with Phyllis, who got us all caught up on our movie watching! Then we skipped over and joined the Terry Easley household as if we were part of the family. Silous and Colby running around, Robin keeping a spread on the table, and Randall coming up for one major Texas Holdem' tournament in which I had to show them all how it's done.

Then, we left town with a bang. Ken snagged us PGA tickets for Sunday, so after Colby's little league football game, we joined Ken on the course, met his caddy brother-in-law Heath, then went Tiger hunting so we could see the legend up close and personal. We got home in time to watch The Bears, a serious endeavor at the Easley's. The kids take pre-game showers so there are no interruptions when bedtime rolls around, all four family members are clad in Bears jerseys, beers are in the cooler and the table is laden with food. It's the next best thing to tailgating at the stadium!

So here we are on Route 80, pulling into Denver just so we can check out the city we've heard about but never seen. What has transpired over the last 24 hours to get us from Glendale Heights, Illinois to Denver, Colorado? Well, I'll have to save that for next time, which I promise won't be weeks away!