Road Trip 09

The entire month of June!

Gremlins

Jared, Chelee, and I had been planning a loosely routed, back road tour of the West for nearly a year. This became a reality early June, 2009, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at a Waffle House parking lot. A local stopped by as we were finishing up the repairs on Jared's neurotic tail lights. He got out of his truck and asked us, "Are you those backroadbus guys?" We responded with a surprised, "repeat that?", only to have the question confirmed and a smile put on our faces. I promptly laid out a little graffiti on the back hatch of my flipseat so that there would be no such confusion in the future!

Determined to hit the mountains and get out of the plains, after hours of screwing with the aftermarket tailight housings, we finally managed to scare that stubborn gremlin out of Jared's electrical wiring (for now) and thus began our trip, stomachs full of grease and coffee: ain't nothin' better! West on highway 51, then 60, on in to Texas and over to Lake Meredith Recreation Area for some free, quiet camping outside of a damned lake fed by the Canadian River (sourced out of Southern Colorado). Unless you are in to Wall-Mart lot camping, this is one of only a few decent spots to camp between Tulsa and northern New Mexico. Welcome to the plains and yes, that they are.

We chose a rural route out of Lake Meridtith on Texas county roads. One of us wasn't prepared for such a route and didn't pack any gas in his spare can (hmmm...), so we repeatedly ran out of gas. It was actually quite entertaining, "I'm pulling over... again." At the very least, I was able to add to a growing collection of pictures of me refueling my bus on the side of the road. Feeding each other a gallon or more at a time out of the only can, we somehow managed to both make it to a Logan, New Mexico gas station huffing fumes in low forth gear.

In Tucumcari, we passed by the historic railroad depot and slowly climbed our way up to Las Vegas, New Mexico. Poor reception led to a little phone tag with our friend Greg Mogle. When we reached better cell reception in Las Vegas, we learned he and his son Josef were already at the exit in Pecos waiting for us. For this reason, and the lack of alternative routes, we hurriedly cheated our way to Pecos on I-25, flying down the mountain to catch up with Greg and make our way up to Dalton Canyon for the night. Dalton was a nice spot if you drive past the first handful of easy access camp spots and venture further up into the canyon. A small, but pleasant creek flows through the middle of the valley, bordered by walls of pine, making for a cool, early summer camp spot.

After refilling our supplies and having wrenched on any mechanical issues needing attentions at Greg's house in Albuquerque, we met up with locals from the bus coop in town, JP and Barry. After some time, we headed out of town to camp for a few days in the Magdelena Mountains near Socorro, New Mexico. (It must be noted that JP braved the trip on his rear, 2-wheel drive WW2 side car replica all the way up those bumpy forest roads: badass!) The seven of us camped on the Southwest side of the mountains, placing us well within walking distance to explore two abandoned mine sites, littered with old equipment and structures.

While enjoying a pleasant morning walking the mine sites by foot, word was relayed by Joe via walkie-talkie, that he had spotted buses down the road. We all hopped in my bus and tore down the mountain riding my split bus like a rollercoaster. I was certain I was going break a torsion bar, leaf spring, or bend something, but for some reason I couldn't slow down! It was too fun. The bus took the beating and gave us all a memorable bounce down the mountain. Ultimately, we caught up with Mike Hanson and his friends and reeled them for a rowdy night by the fire filled with amazing true facts about Mr. T and Chuck Norris. Mike had us rolling with laughter as he fired off more facts than the official fact book could dare to counter! I am now of the belief that Mike is related to Chuck Norris. "There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live", and "there is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard, only another fist", and "gravity dosen't exist, Mr. T just pities everything to stay the fuck down (birds and planes are exempt beacuse they are shaped like T's)", and "Mr. T destroyed the periodic table, saying Mr. T. only recognizes the element of surprise", and so went that night by the fire...

The Gila

Greg and Jo accompanied us in the 63 Kombi camper for our next adventure: the Gila. As we entered the Cibola National Forest via road 549, we passed a large group of cross-country BMW motorcyclists coming down out of the mountains, both groups (us and them) showing signs of approval. We topped the 10,115 foot Mt. Withington, enjoyed the expansive view, then continued following the lovely valley cut through the western San Mateo Mountains, eventually leading to the remarkable, vast open spaces found in the Gila National Forest.

Over the mountains and across the valleys, smashing cow patties and scattering elk, pronghorn, rabbit, lizards, and many a sluggish cattle, we directed our simple vehicles through one of the few remaining primitive examples of the "American West". Never before have I crested so many mountain ranges only to come upon another uninhabited valley. This was a truly invigorating experience and a rare treat!

We wound our way up into the heart of the Gila and took a road marked by a sign that stated, "PRIMITIVE ROAD, NOT MAINTAINED, UNSAFE FOR PUBLIC USE"; translation, "excellent backroad route, bouncy fun, no bothersome neighbor campers or electrical hookups." A couple miles in, we reached a notably rocky section. Following a brief exchange over the citizen's band, we decided to continue on, knowing full well that the best campspots would be just beyond these rocks. After navigating several miles of road, up and down the slow, winding, rocky-as-hell trail, Jared threw our hearts off beat as he turned his bus around on a sketchy spot that nearly laid it on its side. With a sigh of relief as it stabilized and drove off, we found our campsite for the night not much farther down the trail, in a small valley enclosed by rock bluffs. Teepee, Jared and Chelee's blue heeler, herded off the ghosts and cattle that evening to usher in a peaceful night by the campfire, and bring another successful day of scenic adventure to a close.

Harley Paul, a ranch hand in charge of over 3,000 cattle, stopped by the following afternoon shortly after we arrived at Floating Pattie Lake, officially known as Snow Lake, for a pit stop. His job was to remove the cattle that were wading in the other side of the lake, but he figured he'd do so after he found out whether or not we might have an ice cold beer in one of them buses. He joined us for some conversation as he killed off one of my last PBRs and entertained us as with his genuine nature. Harley poured over our maps, provided suggestions, and made such comments as he did about Greg's camper, "well, you have a regular ranch in here."

The Mogollon Rim

We spent one last night in the Gila in a stunning valley. The following day Jared and Greg split on a different route from me and the pugs with plans to meet tomorrow in NW Arizona. They spent that night in a Mexican wolf introduction area at over 10K feet in Northeast Arizona, while I spent most of that day and part of the night driving down the famous Mogollon Rim road, beginning in the White Mountains outside of Show Low on Indian land, and ending where the road crosses highway 260.

I am sorry to report the vast majority of the Mogollon Plateau that I viewed was a huge disappointment, littered with clear cuts and no sign of any attempt to replant the species that once flourished there. I spent many hours exploring the area that evening and the following morning, each road leading to pure destruction. This was one the largest, seemingly mismanaged areas of forest I had observed on the trip thus far and would end up viewing throughout the remainder of the trip.

To the credit of the Forest Service, it should be noted that bark beetle infestations are a serious issue in this area of the White Mountains, certainly contributing in some way to the devastation. Also worth noting, is that a huge fire had ripped through this area of the Rim a few years ago, although it could have been the effect of years of vigilant fire suppression by the Forest Service in the past, a tactic that is slowly changing with increased knowledge of its long-term negative effects.

The first 5 or so miles of the Rim road were laid with extremely sharp pumice that ate my tires for lunch and the remainder of the road was a constant negotiation around deep ruts. Coupled with the hideous view, I decided I needed a little entertainment to distract me from the depressing surroundings, so I turned the drive into a game to see how fast I could race down this long section of dirt logging road and out of the area entirely. As I streaked by in the evening, my eyes caught glimpses of deer that seemed like lost souls wandering their territory, wondering what happened? Where did it all go? Creeped out, I wanted out!

Precicely at the dividing line between Indian land and white man land, I entered the "western" section of the road, and found it remarkable that the forest promptly changes from clear cuts to huge, beautiful pine trees with campgrounds scattered intermittently: coincidence?

Northern Arizona

In complete contrast with the previous day, I drove a beautiful section of Forest road 291, south of highway 260 and the Rim, and then headed for supplies. The others were still a few hours from town, which left me the opportunity to explore some roads in and around the Mazatzal Mountains. Miles down a forest road, near a crystal clear spring fed creek, I found a killer spot (Mazatzal Mountains).

The group reconnected with the addition of Mike Wood from Phoenix. I led the way to the one and only camp spot above the creek that I had found. We enjoyed a couple days of camping, swimming, hiking, and climbing. It proved to be, by group consensus, one of our most favorite spots on the trip.

Unfortunately we had to say goodbye for now to Greg and Jo, as Greg had to head back to ABQ and attend to business. I, along with Mike, and JB&C headed to Flag via Strawberry and Happy Jack. We spent the night at the Flagstaff KOA (I know, I know…) that our friends Jason and Janyel run. Sometimes you gotta wash, do laundry, and drink a few beers in the company of good friends amidst the buzz of the city. After a day in the bustling mountain town, Jared and Chelee headed North on their own quest including Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado. The rest of us headed out to the Oak Creek Canyon area Southwest of Flag to camp and enjoy exploring the rim of the canyon overlooking Sedona. I jumped a dangerous chasm, and Matt scaled a giant wall of rock; it was a day of adventure for all! (Yes, sarcasm.)

In the morning, Mike was swallowed back up by the sprawling metropolis of Pheonix, with its planes buzzing like flies over a foul green haze of smog. I lingered around for another day and a half, most notably going on a nice hike up the backside of the San Francisco Peaks to around nine-thousand feet with Matt, Mary Jane and friends, and the accompaniment of an assortment of athletic hiking dogs, while the pugs slept in the bus.

North Rim, Grand Canyon

It was time to pry myself from Flagstaff (why is it always so difficult!?) and continue on to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, along the western edge of the Navajo Nation, and past Vermillion Cliffs. After carefully studying my gazetteer, I thought I might have found the only way to the rim without being fed through and spat out the other side of the pay station like everyone else. I am proud to say, that after approximately 70 miles of gravel, dirt two-track, and some confusion, I had made it to the rim, only to have a downed tree block the last 50 feet to a camp spot on the edge: confounded!

The view was hard to believe - seemingly unreal in its impressive massiveness. I loitered on the spot for a few hours, but the day was waning and I was feeling unwelcome surrounded by signs stating a permit is required to camp on the point, a permit to have a fire, a permit to walk down the trail into the canyon, and possibly a permit to urinate on the signs stating such: pug Charles! Knowing full well that I was not permitted to enjoy myself here tonight on our public land, I figured it was time to move on, but only after I took a look at the cause of the vibration coming from my engine.

This noise had become somewhat worrisome in my mind, considering I was at least 20 miles from the main road and the nearest point people would certainly be: the pay station. I imagined explaining to the ranger what the hell and how the hell I found my way to where my bus was located... oh, I think not. It was time to take a look at the problem.

My first thought was the fan was vibrating lose, which checked out O.K. after I re-torqued the nut. So, I reached my hand around the fan blades and found a quarter-sized chunk of gravel lodged in one of the blades. What the hell? How it got there, I can't imagine, but I was happy to be rid of it and on my way back to camp in the Kiabab National forest amongst the luscious green of aspen, pines, spruce, and grass.

Grand Staircase/Escalante National Monument

In Kanab I picked up a Utah gazateer, a necessity if I wanted to make the best use of my time. I decided to head east through their Vermillion Cliffs and up Cottonwood Canyon, a road I had attempted to pass down on a very wet day in the Kombi, back in 2004. This time I was able to travel the entire length of the road, with which evolved in to a love/hate sorta thing. On one hand, it was strikingly colorful even on a cloudy day; from pinks, to greens, purple, red, orange, and everything in between: it had it. This is classic Southern Utah at its finest. On the other hand, I could not overlook those damn power lines! It was a chore to take pictures or to simply enjoy the canyon without the lines obstructing your view every which way you turned. Mind you, this road is goes through the middle of Grand Staircase, Escalante N.M., so I figure they probably have some sort of rules to keep the power lines out of the open spaces and have them follow the roads (which are ugly in their own way), but why not have them stick next to the concrete highways which border the monument and follow those who demand electricity? There was no need for electricity in the middle of this "protected" nowhere. As I crawled out of the canyon towards Kadachrome Basin State Park, the first marked side road caught my attention (road 420), resulting in an immediate 90 degree turning brake slide. I directed the bus east for many miles down a trail to a nice camp spot at the end - far from the buzz of electricity.

Mountains of Central Utah

Onward and upward! North, through the Dixie National Forest roads, past the rednecks with glares of disapproval, and chased by a strong rain storm that eventually caught me at lunch in the aspen around 8,000 ft.; a perfect spot for a PBR and some hippie food: twigs and berries, right? No! Delicious tofu beer brats, babaganoush, pita, and an organic carrot, of course.

At 10K ft., while driving along the high meadows of Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land, squinting into the sun during a heavy rain, I lost control and slid sideways on the half gravel, half mud slop. Instinctively, I turned into the slide and straightened the bus out before I dove into the ditch. Had I been sideways as I hit the ditch, I can only imagine the worst, but since the bus was back under my control, I dove down and out, heart thumping in my chest as I whispered promises to keep it in second gear until the weather cleared.

I continued North through the most beautiful ranch country (can it be?) surrounding Loa and Fremont, past 2 junk split buses, and North on 72, where I ran smack into I-70. I wanted to make my way on to BLM land to spend the night, so I chose the east frontage road and promptly hung the first right on a dirt access road that wound back up into BLM land and ultimately to an excellent spot near Rock Canyon, North of Last Chance loop.

The sun rose to another morning of strong cowboy coffee to get the blood a twitchin' and the bus driver up and a goin'. I was off again, following the old frontage road West through Salina Canyon, composed of a hodge-podge of forest roads and state roads. I blissfully negotiated mud, water, and pot holes as I chuckled, safaris open, observing the others battle each other for the perfect spot in line on I-70, while I bounced, slipped and slid over a wonderful alternative route unnoticed by the rat race. I weaved under the interstate, through bridges packed with bats that scattered around my bus as I slipped through their home. I passed through holes cut in the side of the mountain perhaps more than a century ago, which may have originally served as train routes no longer needed.

From there I took the not-so-thrilling alternate routes up 89 with the destination being Salt Lake City. I intended on reaching Kris Balfe and friends, whom I had only "met" online through a thesamba.com forum topic, "taking your split bus off the beaten path". Kris and I discovered pretty quickly that we were both equally abnormal. I felt it would be worth the attempt to meet up, so I paid them a weekend visit in SLC, followed by a short camping trip to Skull Valley, west of the city, at White Rocks.

Let's just say Saturday started out with afternoon car-bombs and ended in a wild drunken haze. I only had one bomb, but there were others who cannot vouch the same or possibly even remember what happened. Folks from the land of Zion certainly know how to party. Good times!

Sunday involved the slaying of a manikin with a handful of different firearms. I will candidly admit, this was my first experience shooting a gun, but it was highly enjoyable, and what a repertoire at hand! The .22 from early last century was the easiest to shoot, but the original WW2 Mauser was by far the most exciting. Redneck hippies!

Moab

I said my goodbyes and headed over the Onaqui Mountains, through Rush Valley, the East Tintic Mountains, the West Manti-La Sal National Forest, down Highway 6 through Green River and Crescent Junction, to spend the night on BLM land outside of Moab and away from most of the tourists. This is world famous 4x4 slickrock country, done in classic VW rear wheel, 2WD. That night I slept on sandstone after watching a wonderful desert sunset, which at one point, briefly formed a brilliant sort of explosion of clouds atop a rock to the east. I woke the next morning and spent hours exploring the rocks that surrounded me. I climbed anywhere I thought I could keep hold, and backed down several areas so sketchy, I felt lucky to be on solid ground again- extremities still attached and functioning. I found myself obsessed with the different striations in the rock, the hardy flora, and an attempt to track down a bird making an interesting call, whom I never did find. There is something striking about the desert that slaps a reminder that its so good to be alive!

And then my camera died, even though I was so careful with this one! Its always grit in the aperture. "Oh well", I thought, "probably for the best." The remainder of my trip went visually undocumented, but it left me more time to focus on the experience through my own eyes, rather than through a lens. Although I love taking pictures, half of me feels as though I should throw the thing aside and forget about it. My fear is that I am losing out on the now in favor of a watered down version I can hold on to later. What happened the next few days were, as I recall, the visual highlights of the trip. I am not sure if it was chance or if there is some truth to the above statement, but since that camera died, I've spent less time taking pictures and more of it in the experience, and probably for the better.

I hopped in the bus and headed further down Spring Canyon Road, in hopes of reaching the Green River via 4x4 trails. I paused at the top of the Canyon, prior to entering the trail and walked over to the edge to see what I was getting myself into. On a ledge above a thousand foot drop lay a flattened early 70's Ford pickup truck. Sheesh! Yet, the trail appeared do-able.

I proceeded to carefully bounce my way down the rocky route, thankful for my disc brakes and hopeful it didn't get any worse than I could manage, for there was nowhere to turn around. I stopped many times along the way, in complete awe of the magnificence that surrounded me: huge slabs of colorful reds, browns, and yellows smeared all over the rock that formed the face of the cliffs.

When I reached bottom, I was in a green valley surrounded by tall trees that fed off the wide, healthy river. The trail "T'd" when I reached the east side of the river, one route headed south, the other north. I followed the northern route for a few miles around the bend. There were old remains of civilization scattered along the trial and what appeared to be a mine shaft on the west side of the river, even though my atlas showed no such thing. I was very curious what lay on the other side, but given the width and flow of the river - and the fact that I was alone, I decided to continue to stick to the trial by foot and hike for a while before turning around.

On the return route of my hike I crossed paths with a big, burly, modern 4x4 jeep, with tinted windows and AC on (what's with that?). I waved and smiled, but received nothing but blank stares out of two pairs of sunken black marbles housed in flaccid bodies. Maybe they were scared of the delighted, shirtless hippy? After they passed, I couldn't help but wonder if such a pair could survive long out here if their fancy new machine happened to take a shit... Oh I know, thats mean.

I returned to my bus, watered the pugs, and did a 10 point turn to take the trail south to the "T". To reach the southern part of the trail you had to choose one of several poor routes to cross the wash to continue on. When I hit the deep, sandy, steep bank on the south side my bus slowed and began kicking sand near the very top - not good. I am well aware that sand and river rock are two of the worst enemies to the old 2WD Volkswagen bus. Before I got stuck, I backed down into the wash and chose another route, this time blasting up it in second gear and making it to the top without a problem. I found myself atop a little island surrounded by two washes and a giant river. I took a couple swigs of Bulliet to compliment the rush I was feeling in such a locale. I stayed on the island amongst the giant trees for a couple hours, taking it all in.

Driving south, after crossing the second, shallower wash, I found myself following a deer running down the same trail. Its pace quickened when it realized it was being followed, and I matched it, screaming across the sand and over rock, switching from first, to second, third, and back. Soon we came upon another wash (probably sourced from Deadman Spring) that I chose not to cross, due to the steep, body crunching approach.

I experienced five minutes of splendor, free of charge, as I raced along that 4x4 trail, one eye on the deer, another on the trail. I was satisfied. It was still early in the day and I had more exploring to do, so I headed back up the canyon, passed what appeared to be the remains of 40's American steel, at last reaching the top of the canyon near where the flattened Ford lay. As I headed out of Spring Canyon, I passed another gnarly jeep and a couple nods of approval mixed with disbelief. Sometimes I wonder what folks are thinking; is it, "I haven't seen one of those in years", or "what is a 2WD van doing coming out of there", etc.?

I gassed and stocked up in Moab, chatted with a local who had lots of questions about the bus, grabbed a Colorado map from a local outdoor shop, and happily headed up in to the Manti-La Sal National Forest east of town and away from the tourist bustle.

I camped that night somewhere in the middle of the Manti, over the 11K ft. Geyser Pass, on the west side of Dark Canyon Lake Rd (FR 129). I found a steep, rock-strewn (big rocks), forgotten forest road that headed back up the mountain. A couple miles up the road a downed tree blocked my path, so I turned around to call it a day at an old camp spot with an overgrown fire ring I had seen a little further back on the right. It was that afternoon I became certain I wasn't imagining the stutter.

The stutter began in New Mexico the day I split from the group to meet up outside Pason, Arizona. I checked everything: distributor advance, gas tank pressure, spark, carbs, tuning vs. elevation, etc. My bus is tuned for 1,000 ft. above sea level, where I live. When you get up and above 10,000 ft. (the other extreme in elevation), a slight, intermittent stutter can be difficult to diagnose. It just wasn't running quite right. Earlier, I had concluded it was a throttle shaft leak during a pit stop somewhere up near the wolf re-introduction area where JB&C, and G&J camped after we split. In the end, this was probably only a slight issue or one that I had simply made up while trying too hard to pinpoint the problem. I spent a good part of that afternoon replacing the throttle base on one of my Kadrons, and took off late that afternoon feeling better about the stutter. The stutter would continue to appear and disappear, but was subtle enough that it was confusing and frustrating at the same time. What I didn't know was that it was to come on strong and drag through Colorado and beyond. Had I only known at the time what the issue was, I probably wouldn't have chosen the route I did, which was particularly rural and mountainous. I was to spend a few quality days exploring the mountains of East Utah and the Southwest quadrant of Colorado, alone. This is a remote, high elevation area of Colorado: bear country.

Colorado

On Highway 90, I entered SW Colorado and turned Southeast on 145 towards Telluride. I passed through the Uncompahgre National Forest, over the ten-thousand foot Lizard Head Pass, and rolled down in to the San Juan National Forest where I'd be spending the night. I chose Forest Road 535 and immediately climbed up a mean set of switchbacks which dumped me next to Coal Creek. Three colossal, bald, snow-capped mountains lay to the North, two of which are over 14,000 ft, and a handful of lesser mountains lay to South, all reaching a little over 12,000 ft. I hung right up FR 611 and approximately 10 miles up the road it "Y'd" up another set of wicked switchbacks and over an eleven-thousand ft. pass bordered with snow. The road wound down through golden aspen, slowly opening up to a wide, colorful meadow full of green grass, yellow, white, and purple flowers. I picked a nice spot in the middle, right next to upper Beaver Creek and all those animal prints in the soft soil, one of which was most certainly bear (I suppose it could have been sasquatch). So yeah, I decided to camp at their water source: brilliant? Possibly not, but exciting, nonetheless! I was within two miles of the Lizard Head Wilderness Area. The panorama was pristine.

I spent some time collecting wood that night to build comfort through a good old fashioned fire. There is nothing that gets the primitive fear boiling with excitement more than the knowledge that you for once, could be prey.

That morning it took more coffee to get going than usual. So much so I decided to have my coffee join me for a hike in the open meadows, secretly hoping to spot a bear. I had virtually no protection from a bear attack, save hurling a hot cup of coffee. It would have been wise to carry bear mace, but I simply kept my ears pricked and eyes peeled as I enjoyed my walk.

Admittedly a little disappointed at not getting to see my bear in the wild, I packed camp and headed back the way I came. As I crested the ridge near that first set of nasty switchbacks, to my surprise rode a man on a large road grader. He was there to fix the rocky problem, but for the time being, had made it much worse. He looked as surprised to see me as I him but I also sensed a slight annoyance in his expression as he approached my little red bus, pushing jagged rocks out of the soil and depositing them smack dab in the middle of the trail. What was once merely a sharp protrusion from the soil was now a large rock on top. I didn't understand the annoyance in his expression until I decided to pass him. Guess he probably figured he'd have a stuck vehicle in the middle of his project as I crossed his 2 foot high pile of rocks and mud. I only felt brief hesitation as I climbed atop the pile, but it passed as my bus hopped on and rode it all the way down the switchbacks! "Yeeehaw!"

Breakdown

I hoped to make it to Greg's in Albuquerque to properly diagnose and fix the mystery issue, but as I was stu-stu-stuttering upon accelerating out of the tiny town of Chama, New Mexico I smelt something roasting; not that good BBQ smell, but more like something died. As soon as my nose picked up strong whiff of rank electrical roast, the bus completely lost power. I coasted to the side, rounded the back, and popped the lid. There, no doubt, had been the recurring issue: a dying - now dead - electric fuel pump.

Lucky for me it was early afternoon and I had plenty of time to swap it out with the spare, move on and make camp elsewhere before dark, right? Wrong. After hitching a ride to town to buy the proper brass fuel fittings for the spare, I noted the shrinking afternoon. When I finally had the backup pump installed, I cranked her up, drove across the parking lot to wash up, and it died again before I even made it to the parking spot by the restroom. I'll spare the gory details, but a full day later, after several hitched rides to town and spending a chunk of the shrinking gas funds on a new pump and camping fees, I was finally off to Albuquerque.

Returning Home

Jared and Chelee returned to Albuquerque from the Northern Midwest for the last leg of the trip, but only before we headed out to the mountains for a couple nights in the Jemez with Greg. Fortunately, there's always time for one more trip to the mountains. Cheers!(Jemez video).

Road Trip 09 - Kevin's pics
Road Trip 09 - Greg's pics
Road Trip 09 - JB&C's pics

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