US 9: From Eagle to a High Plains Super Storm

Our decision to end the day’s ride at Eagle was purely coincidental: a function of the time of day; the possibility of a storm; and, the falling temperature. We’d checked in at the Comfort Inn and then wandered up to the local, alpine-styled diner to assuage our hunger. And when, after our meal we’d taken a stroll along main street, we’d been impressed. Eagle, the town, was a neat, tidy, alpine-oriented, resort town aimed directly at the tourist dollar. It was a good place to break before heading from Eagle down to Denver and what turned out to be a high plains super storm.

After we got back from our walk around town, I kicked off my boots and stretched out on the bed. We’d stopped frequently to take photographs, so Mel had a great deal of fodder for his Facebook posts; he was completely absorbed by the process. I’d planned on brewing a coffee, but it didn’t get done. The last thing I remembered was Mel poring over his photographs.

I woke early the next morning while it was still dark. Because I was still dressed, I slipped out and headed down to commence my regular morning routine; get coffee, have a cigarette, watch the darkness morph into daylight and think – or not, as the case may be. 

No plan . . . just ride

Our ride plan for the day was really no plan at all. When Mel woke, we’d continue along I-70 through Vail to and Idaho Springs. We’d probably take a break in Denver for lunch. Then, because we needed to find our way north, we would take Interstate 25 towards Cheyenne. The early morning tranquility held no warning that we would be riding from Eagle to a High Plains super storm.

At the coffee station in reception, I found kitchen staff in the process of brewing a fresh batch of coffee. So, I continued on outside for a cigarette. About four octas of scudding cloud partially obscured the indigo sky. Between the clouds, stars seemed unnaturally bright against the deep darkness. The Comfort Inn had allowed us to park under the reception portico; so, there was no call to wipe overnight dampness off the paintwork or chrome. Lamplight highlighted the deep gloss on the tanks and front fenders, and seemed to add accent to the chrome work. I parked myself on a bench in the designated smokers area, lit a cigarette, drew a lung full of aromatic smoke, and contemplated my situation.

So . . . how did I get here?

It was Saturday morning, and here I was a little over a mile above sea level in the Colorado Rockies; and one of the two motorcycles, resting on their side stands, was mine. A week earlier at about this hour, I’d been at the fag-end of a flight from Sydney and about to commence descent into Los Angeles. I pondered the events, incidents, quirks of fate, and occasional considered decisions that had delivered me to this place at 5am on this morning in early August

I genuflected on motorcycles in general and speculated about the people who ride them; about road trips and the compulsion we feel to take them; and, about the seductive attraction of riding roads less travelled. Why was it that I found the whole motorcycle thing so compelling, so visceral?

The answers, I thought, were probably as disparate as the people who ride motorcycles. For me though, the fascination went back many years. In fact, back to when I was about eight years old and living on a mission compound in Port Moresby.

Motorcycles and me

In 1959, a young teacher arrived to take up his first appointment with the Commonwealth Teaching Service. His father and mine, both clergymen and missionaries, were close friends. Because of that and the fact that he was both young and single, he became a regular at our place. Most days, after work, he would arrive on his olive green BSA Bantam; and, I would harass him until he took me riding. I started as a pillion, of course. But, as time passed, I moved to the rider’s seat under supervision and then on to going solo. The Mission Office and Church were on either end of a flat compound bordered by Ela Beach Road; and, this became my rider training ground and opened, for me, a world of new possibilities and freedoms.

The Rocket Gold Star

Then a couple of years later, fortune smiled on me. It was one of those watershed events that seem of little consequence at the time; but which casts a very long shadow across a lifetime. Over the road, at the back of the mission, was a compound for single patrol officers comprising a dozen or so stand alone, one bedroom units. Under one of these units was the rolling chassis of a BSA 650 Rocket Gold Star.Whenever I found myself at a loose end, I would sneak over, sit on the engineless motorcycle frame and imagine I was cruising. Of course, I only did this when I knew that the guy was away at work. Except one day he wasn’t, and he caught me out.

Instead of getting angry and giving me a good cuff around the ear, he asked if I liked motorbikes; no prizes for guessing my response. Then he asked if I wanted it: again, no prizes for guessing my answer. Then he said I could have it, if my Dad agreed.

The backstory was that the motorcycle had been dismantled with the intention of rebuilding and restoring it. The dismantling was complete but then the owner seemed to have been sidetracked by a dusky, seductively nubile Papuan girl. The parts, he said, were all there in a couple of boxes. Dad gave his approval for the transaction; probably because he thought there was no chance that a ten year old boy could reassemble the motorcycle. 

There’s nothing like a challenge

Well, he was wrong. It took me the best part of two years, because I had no workshop manual. I just asked countless questions of anyone that might have some knowledge of, or experience with, motorcycles in general – and the 650 Rocket Gold Star in particular. Dad was away when I finally got the motorcycle running. So, registration, licence and helmet free, I rode up and down Kermadec Street at the back of our place. 

Later, after I’d become a little more brazen, I would take the Gold Star out to Ward’s Strip – an old WWII aerodrome – where I could do runs along the runway at higher speeds. For the first time, I felt the vibration of a parallel twin and the solid, rhythmic thump of the motor; heard the bark as burnt gasses exited the twin exhausts; sensed the power available in a twist of my wrist, and experienced the wind in my hair. I worked for hours on the routines that would integrate and hone my instincts, reactions and balance; and, practised with controls until they became second nature. 

Back in the day, the 650 Rocket Gold Star just about set the standard for engine capacity and speed; and I had one. At just under twelve years of age, the whole arrangement was completely illegal, of course. But, I was very proud of my motorcycle and of the fact that I’d got it assembled and running. It was the beginning of a love affair that still causes my pulse to beat a little faster.

An inadvertent colonial

As an aside, you may think that my Dad’s attitude might have been a bit less than responsible. If you do think this, you need to remember that it was another place and time. From the age of nine, I’d been working six hour shifts, during my school holidays, plowing fields in order to get the rice crop planted just before the wet season broke. My best mate’s Dad was the Police Commissioner; and, we lived in the Australian Mandated Territory of Papua and New Guinea.

At the time, if anyone had asked if I was a colonial, I would have been shocked. My Dad was a missionary, I spoke the local languages and most of my mates were Papua New Guinean. As I look back now, though, I have to admit that indigenous Papua New Guineans would have been in little doubt that I was a colonial. The point is, my activities, including the unlicensed motorcycle riding, were largely insulated from the normal consequences of legal due process. It is true that, in this respect, I lived a charmed life.

Giving up the prize but keeping the passion

Unfortunately, a new academic year was due to commence within a few months of getting the motorcycle on the road. I was scheduled to fly off to boarding school in Australia; and would be gone for four years. My Dad said that the motorcycle had to go. The young Patrol Officer who lived across the road offered me twenty pounds for it; and, I let him have it back. It had, after all, been his motorcycle in the first place. Often, over the years since, I have wished I still had that motorcycle; a BSA 650 Gold Star in good condition is worth a small fortune.

Later, as a young guy in my twenties, I raced dirt bikes in Papua New Guinea; indeed, the mission organisation fired me because of my racing. Much later, as a not so young adult, I rode motocross and enduro in the Northern Territory. Eventually my good lady persuaded me, after a particularly painful get off, that there was definitely something incongruous about a grandfather racing dirt bikes.

Early morning meeting

Now, you may think I’ve got myself sidetracked here, but the point is that my being in the Rocky Mountains on a Saturday Morning in early August, was a very long term but directly linked consequence of learning to ride a BSA Bantam in the late 1950s.

It still wasn’t light enough to call it day, so I wandered back into Reception, poured myself a dark Columbian and walked back outside to watch the day dawn. And, while I was sitting there in the designated smokers’ area, I saw a white haired gentleman walking slowly across the parking area towards the forecourt. As he got nearer, I could see that he was distinctly olive complected with a full head of long, flowing white hair.

He’d also taken a long hard look at me as he slowly approached my bench.

‘Do you mind if I join you for a while?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said, ‘Please take a seat.’

A white-haired raconteur

He very deliberately eased himself onto the bench, being careful to observe the protocols of personal space; and, took out the makings for a roll-your-own cigarette. I watched, mesmerised, as with steady hands he pinched tobacco from a hand-tooled leather pouch and proceeded to rub the dark fibres between his two gnarled hands. With fingers deformed by arthritis he slipped a cigarette paper from the flap of his pouch; laid the fibres on the paper; rolled it between his thumbs and fingers; dampened the paper’s edge with the tip of his tongue; sealed the tobacco fibres into a tube; put the completed cigarette delicately between his lips; and, lit up. He drew a long breath, and held it for a couple of moments before releasing it in a log, slow exhale. Then, he turned to me.

‘Where do you come from?’ he asked.

‘From Australia,’ I responded.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry . . . I thought maybe you were First Nations.’

‘Because of my dark skin?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry I interrupted you . . . I thought you might be a brother.’

A brother from another mother

‘You didn’t interrupt. I wasn’t doing anything . . . just having a coffee and a smoke – anyway, maybe I am your brother.’

‘And what would bring you from Australia to the Colorado Rockies?’ he asked.

So, I told him about our road trip: about where I lived; what I did, or used to do, for a living; and about my family – my daughters and grandchildren. In return, he told me that he was a direct descendent of the Ute Nation who had lived in the area now known as Glenwood Springs. The Ute, he said, had hunted and gathered food along the Eagle River Valley. His wife had joined his ancestors but his children and grandchildren lived near Denver. He further offered that he was travelling with his son and on his way to spend time with the grandchildren.

‘See,’ I said, ‘We live on opposite sides of the world, but we are alike. We have families we love and care about. We are old enough to be wise but young enough to do foolish things anyway . . . I am your brother.’

His shoulders shook as he laughed with a deep chesty rumble.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I see you are wise too.’

‘No, I’m not wise,’ I said. ‘My good wife tells me that I am the only person she knows who has grown old without growing wise.’

And then we both laughed.

‘My wife too, used to speak of me in that way . . . perhaps you are right, maybe we are brothers.’

An ancient Indian blessing

I slipped inside to pour my new brother a coffee. Then we talked and sometimes laughed about the way things used to be; about the time that had slipped away; and, about some of the things – foolish and wise – that we had done. He was your quintessential raconteur; eminently articulate, courteous in an old fashioned sort of way, with a low gravelly voice, a deep easy laugh and a subtle sense of humour. And, before we knew it, we had arrived together at the full light of a new day.

Eventually he said he needed to be getting along. He stood, looked at me with eyes that seemed to see into my soul, and shook my hand.

‘I leave you,’ he said, ‘with a very old Indian blessing.’

May your dreams run wild and free, and may you be brave enough to follow.

And with that, he turned and walked slowly but deliberately away.

I just sat there for a while reflecting on his blessing; and, the generosity of spirit that had moved him to offer it. Then decided I would see if I could find out something about his ancestors; the Ute Nation. I opened my IPad, typed ‘Eagle County, Colorado’ into Google and read with growing interest.

Original inhabitants

According to an Eagle County Historical Society Monograph, the Ute people had, for four hundred years or so, used the area now known as Eagle County for hunting during summer. Then, before Winter set in, they would return to their winter camp in the area known today as Glenwood Springs. By the mid-seventeenth century the Utes had obtained horses courtesy of the Spanish. This acquisition increased their mobility and changed their culture: horse racing became a popular pastime. Indeed, the Utes had a horse racing track at Bush Creek in what would later become known as Eagle County.

Then, from early in the nineteenth century the Arapaho, who lived predominantly on the plains, began making seasonal treks into the Rocky Mountains to hunt. These incursions brought them into conflict with the Ute, and the two tribes developed a fierce rivalry. Legend has it that in 1868 the Utes and Arapaho clashed at Battle Mountain in southeastern Eagle County.

Early explorers

In 1845 John Frémont, led an expedition to find the source of the Arkansas River. Reports have it that, after locating the source, Frémont continued west into the Eagle River Valley before heading north toward Wyoming. Other explorers, including John Wesley Powell, followed. Powell made the first Anglo-American ascent of the area’s highest summit. The mountain, at a little over thirteen and a half thousand feet, was subsequently named Mount Powell.

Fur trappers that followed close on the heels of the explorers, found the Eagle River valley, with its lush pine forests and network of pristine streams, to be prime beaver country. These trappers continued to work the area through the 1830s and established amicable trading relationships with the Utes; which is not to suggest that all encounters with the Utes were friendly.

Eagle County

Tensions escalated as white settlement increased until, in order to resolve conflicts, the US Government promised the western third of Colorado to the Utes in a 1868 Treaty. However, as settlement continued and mining claims multiplied, tensions continued to intensify until the Meeker Incident. The Utes at White River killed an Indian agent, Nathan Meeker, and other white staff. The ensuing outrage among Colorado’s white population culminated in the Utes’ expulsion from western Colorado by 1882.

So, my new brother’s forebears appear to have been dispossessed in order to satisfy the homesteaders’ hunger for land and the prospectors’ insistence on staking claims. It seemed that the old common law principle possession is nine tenths of the law was alive and well; those with the readiness to dominate by force would be most likely to have the law find in their favour.

Eagle, County Seat for Eagle County, has a population of a little over six and a half thousand. Like the County itself, the city derives its name from the Eagle River; a west-flowing tributary of the Colorado River. In recent years, the city has gained popularity for its extensive trail system; for mountain biking, hiking and trail running.

Moving on

Now this was all very interesting, but increasingly there was movement afoot at the Comfort Inn; guests checking out, loading luggage into cars and heading to . . . well, to who knows where? It was probably time we started moving too. No point in paying for breakfast when we could get it as part of our tariff. I sauntered inside, poured a couple of coffees and headed back to the room to see if Mel was awake. He wasn’t, so I put the coffee on his night table and set about the business of shaving and showering.

By the time I was done, Mel was a wake.

‘Morning Mate, sleep well?’

‘Not bad,’ he said. Went low some time around 2am. I got up and had a snack, but then went back to sleep. What time is it?’

‘A bit past nine, Mate,’

‘Wow, I did sleep a long time . . . better get down to breakfast,’ he suggested.

And we did. A pretty basic affair, but it did the job.

Then, it was back to the room to pack, down to reception to check out, and out to the motorcycles to load. Before reaching the on-ramp for I-70E, we pulled into a service centre to refuel and check engine, primary and gearbox fluids. It was just after 10am when we got back to the Interstate and accelerated to keep pace with traffic. The day had warmed up; there was virtually no wind; and, the sky was mostly clear. All in all, a great day to be on the road.

Vail

We headed east of north east and continued to follow the Eagle River upstream. Because we were already well into the day, the traffic was reasonably heavy; sedans were regularly interspersed with RVs and the ever present eighteen wheelers. Again, we set our cruise speed sufficiently high to stay ahead of the trucks. Although it was only thirty-three miles to Vail, Mel had suggested we stop there for a coffee break. So, we decelerated, took the off-ramp to Vail and parked in a customer parking facility that had been constructed on the roof of a supermarket and general goods store.

Vail is the name of a mountain pass, a ski resort and a town. The mountain pass was named for Charles Vail; a civil engineer who was instrumental in routing US Highway 6 through the Eagle Valley in 1940. US Highway 6 subsequently became Interstate 70. Pete Seibert and a local rancher by the name of Earl Eaton established the ski field in December, 1962. Later, a resort developed to service the ski area. Vail itself, was incorporated in 1966.

Creating a resort

Seibert, a native of New England, had served in the US Army’s 10th Mountain Division during World War II. He had undertaken specialised training as a ski trooper at Camp Hale, fourteen miles south of Vail, and bivouacked at Vail Mountain which he considered an ideal ski site. Seibert served in Italy and suffered wounds at the Battle of Riva Ridge. In spite of his injury, he went on to become a professional skier after the war.

Then in the early 1960s, Seibert got together a group of Colorado investors; purchased a ranch at the base of the mountain; and, eventually incorporated the group as Vale Associates. Later still, the group purchased another ranch and established an additional ski field at Beaver Creek.

In December 1962, Vail officially opened for its first season. A village was built at the base of the mountain for local residents and this also offered lodging for visitors. The village quickly spread out along the valley and within the first year a ski shop, ski boutique, hotel and restaurant were established. By 1969 Vail was the most popular ski resort in the state. In 1988 Vail opened China Bowl, making Vail the third largest ski area in North America.

A downhill run

Mel was absolutely right about stopping in Vail. We found a little French restaurant that made brilliant coffee. I guess in an internationally renowned ski resort, there would be significant demand for high quality coffee. We took some time out to look around the commercial area; mainly restaurants, bars, hotels, designer ski and apre-ski wear, mountain bike hire and hiking equipment shops. It was high summer but the town was doing brisk business with mountain bikers and hikers.

Once back on the freeway, we followed Gore Creek towards and then over Vail Pass. Construction of the highway over Vail Pass is yet another example of the extraordinary engineering feats that appear to have been part and parcel of I-70’s traverse of the Rocky Mountains. One major challenge was the management of the wildlife. To resolve this challenge, the approach to the pass features large sections of fencing to prevent wildlife from crossing, and to direct them to one of several underpasses. 

Eisenhower’s tunnel

From Vail Pass, the highway descends to the Dillon Reservoir near the town of Frisco. The vistas that assault your senses as you progress are nothing short of breathtaking in summer; in winter they must have been absolutely spectacular. Once past Frisco, I-70 East begins one final climb to the Eisenhower Tunnel, where the freeway crosses the Continental Divide at 11,158 feet [3,401 m]. This tunnel is both the longest mountain tunnel and the highest point on the Interstate Highway System.

The heavy thump of our big V-Twins was amplified into rolling thunder by the enclosure of the tunnel structure. And, as we powered through, I wondered what would happen if we broke down.

Well, the answer to that question was that there is a Command Centre staffed by fifty-two employees; equipped with closed-circuit TV surveillance and a fleet of safety and rescue vehicles. I’m told that when travelling west, the exit from the Tunnel confronts the rider with a jaw-dropping vista of the Rocky Mountains. Of course, we didn’t get to see that because we were travelling east and neither of us wanted to stop; the speed and volume of traffic made this proposition just too dangerous.

From the Eisenhower Tunnel, the freeway follows Clear Creek down the eastern side of the Rockies and passes through the Veterans Memorial Tunnels near Idaho Springs. As we continued east, we crested a mountain near Genesee Park before descending into the Mount Vernon Canyon where we finally left the Rocky Mountains. 

A gathering storm

Clouds had been building over the mountains as we’d been riding throughout the morning. They didn’t look threatening but, as we exited the Eisenhower Tunnel and headed down the fairly steep gradient, we rode into a shower that became increasingly heavy. There was still little indication that we were riding away from Eagle to a High Plains super storm. But, we pulled off the freeway into the entrance of a weigh station to don our wet weather gear.

Now, there is a fairly standard rule about wet weather gear, to whit: once you have gone to all the trouble of getting your wet weather gear on, you’ll discover you no longer need it; and that is pretty much what happened. We left our gear on anyway, because we were planning to take a break in Denver; less than an hour away.

As the freeway leaves the Rocky Mountains, it heads across the Great Plains towards Denver through an urban area called the Front Range Urban Corridor. Just after crossing this corridor we took the exit for Downtown Denver and left I-70 via the off-ramp. Although we had made a point of avoiding cities, Mel wanted to purchase merchandise for his son: Denver.

Denver

We worked our way through the city’s lunchtime traffic until we were as near as we could get to Broadway. We found an available parking space and shut our bikes down. Mel took off on foot to get his merchandise and I found some shade in the lee of a warehouse. I lit a cigarette and then began to survey the area. The air was hot and there was a restless wind gusting from the south west. Above the theatre building on the corner, I could see blue-black storm clouds building in the distance.

Mel was away long enough for me to have another cigarette, check my cell for messages, and browse Facebook posts. By the time he returned, a hot gusting wind was blowing litter and dust in gusts along the street; and, the storm in the south west moved considerably closer. We’d ridden from the cool clear morning in Eagle to the High Plains but there was still no real indication of the super storm we’d encounter. We did agree, however, that it would probably be advisable to get out of the city and away from the storm before breaking for lunch.

North to Cheyenne . . . that’s the plan

We fired up the bikes and headed along Broadway until we reached the intersection with Spear Boulevard. Here we took a right and pressed straight ahead until we saw a sign indicating the on-ramp for US 6; we knew that this would merge with I-25 North.

As we headed north the gusting wind morphed into a stiff headwind. It was almost as if the storm that had been building behind us was now sucking all the air off the plain and using it to generate momentum. Riding into a strong headwind is difficult enough but compounding our discomfort was the heat from afternoon sun; heat radiated from the road; and, heat from our V-Twins. I was definitely going to lose the riding jacket at the next stop.

As we approached Longmont, Mel signalled for us to take the exit. We turned left, crossed the I-25 overpass, and pushed on towards Longmont until we noticed a McDonalds on the left and pulled into the customer car park. Although still well ahead of the storm to the south, the heat and the headwind together were making progress difficult. We shut the motorcycles down so we could talk.

Checking the weather

‘Thought we’d stop for something to eat and check the weather forecast,’ Mel said.

‘Yep, good plan.’

As I kicked the stand down a young, twenty something guy climbed into a GMC Crew Cab, cranked it over, and pulled up next to us.

‘You guys heading north?’ he asked.

‘Yep, that’s the plan,’ I replied.

‘Well, don’t! There are going to be tornados later.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Absolutely! No weather to be out and about on a motorcycle, my friend. Best go back towards Denver and check into a motel.’

‘OK . . . Thanks, Mate. Reckon we’ll do that.’

I turned to relay the information to Mel.

‘I heard,’ he said. Do you reckon he’s right?’

‘He’s a local, Mate, and if he thinks there’s going to be a tornado, I’m more than happy to believe him.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ Mel said, and nodded to emphasise his concurrence.

We left the bikes in the car park and went in for a burger and something to drink. While I was ordering, Mel checked the weather on his cell. The wind was blowing even stronger and clouds were rapidly extending cover across the sky and dimming the mid-afternoon sun.

When I got back to the table with the burgers and drinks, Mel showed me the forecast; severe weather warning for northern Colorado with the possibility of tornadoes. So, there it was. Our ride had brought us down from Eagle to the edge of a High Plains super storm; but, as yet, we had no idea exactly what that meant.

Finding shelter

We finished our food, fired up our motorcycles and headed back towards Denver; and, towards but not yet into the encroaching storm. It was a welcome break to no longer be battling a headwind. And, just before the exit for Bloomfield we noted a sign advertising La Quinta accommodation. We took the exit to 120th Avenue, turned right and accelerated on towards the La Quinta sign in the distance.

The motel was perfect; solid brick in three stories with wide verandas under which we could park our Harleys. A room was readily available and so we checked in, unloaded our motorcycles and then pushed them both in under the shelter of the veranda. The room, though fairly generic, was spacious, neat, and clean, with two queen-sized beds. Perfect!

Now, I have a routine that I fairly religiously follow whenever I get into a motel room; I drop my bag, kick off my boots and stretch out on the bed. Mel, on the other hand, usually unpacks; toiletries go into the bathroom, clothes into the drawers, and electronics and chargers on the desk or bench. But, not this time; he did pretty much what I did. 

An enormous crash of thunder rattled the windows and interrupted our impromptu nap. It was just after five in the afternoon and the storm had finally caught up with us. But, ensconced in a motel room with motorcycles under cover, we could care less – the storm could all it wanted.

Mother of all storms

We took a couple of chairs out to the veranda to watch. Blue-black mammatus clouds seemed to writhe and boil as far as the eye could see; and, an uneasy darkness crept in from the east. Lightning bolts forked to the ground in a random, ongoing sequence and thunder rolled and crashed everywhere. Then the rain arrived in driven, almost horizontal sheets of solid water.

The car park filled because the camber of the surface could not deal with the volume of water. Gutters filled, and roads flooded. Water lapped over the sidewalk and bubbled up through storm water drain grates like giant underground springs. Our road trip had certainly taken us from Eagle to a High Plains super storm; but we’d managed to avoid the worst of it.

I brewed us a coffee and we just sat mesmerised and awed by the infinite and immutable power of nature. We blessed the young man in the GMC Crew Cab who’d advised us to turn back and take shelter. Had we continued, we would have been on the open plains about two thirds of the way to Cheyenne. Perhaps the good Lord was letting us know that He didn’t approve of our traveling on the Sabbath Day.

By 8.30pm the rain had eased enough for us to slip next door to Denny’s. Among other things I like about this chain, is the fact that they are open twenty-four hours; their restaurants feel familiar because the layout is pretty much the same no matter where in the US you are; the menu is predictable; and, while not fine dining by any means, it’s good food at a reasonable price. They also have great apple pie and ice cream with enough sugar to kill your average diabetic.

Just a thought . . .

Riding you own road on your own terms is fine – even admirable

but, sometimes, heeding a word of experienced counsel 

can save you a world of pain.

Click to continue reading: US 10 Across Wyoming on the High Plains