Trip Report 9/2000   (from Volume 260 - September)
 It had been 108 degrees on Friday, and Mrs. BartCop wanted 
 She must be made happy.
 I tried to talk her into a Las Vegas trip, which would've been lots cheaper,
 but she checked the Vegas weather and it said Vegas was broiling at 114.
 Sounds like a joke from Blazing Saddles, but it was true.

 We left super-early Saturday morning - headed west.
 Thanks to the Republican Congress, the speed limit on Oklahoma turnpikes is 75,
 seems like Texas was 65 or 70, then New Mexico, who's governor has admitted
 to being a screaming coke monkey like Smirky, was back up to 75 MPH.
 We made it to Santa Fe in no time.

 We were told they were having some arts & crafts bullshit deal in town,
 so we panicked and pulled into the Motel 6 because their sign said, "Vacancy."
 Next time, we'll stay in those $37.50 motels with character - places like:

 The El Ray Inn
 The Thunderbird
 The Cottonwood Courts
 The Desert Chateau
 The Western Scene, which Mrs. BC liked the looks of.
 The King's Best Court, made out of adobe.
 I don't know if it was real adobe or Sears adobe, but it looked real to me.

 So we step out of her touring sedan in Santa Fe and it's 75 degrees and windy.
 I knew I was in for major bonus points with the boss.
 The look of satisfaction on her face was money in the bank.
 You married men know what I'm talking about.
 Father Dan - you'll have to trust me.

 ha ha

 We made a run to Albertson's grocery store for supplies.
 While she shopped, I cruised the Spirits Section - and there it was...

 Albertson's tequila!

 It was, like, $6.95 for a gallon.
 It was packaged in a goddamn Listerine bottle, you know - with a grip -
 and it had a giant orange label that said " T E Q U I L A. "
 I thought I was going to fucking hurl - right there in the store!

 OK, so we're all stocked, nothing to do now but start the party.
 But before we could do that, she wanted to buy some fancy salsa, and to get that,
 we had to go to that super-snooty Coyote Cafe.

 You remember that place, right?
 Yeah - that place.

 They have two - one in Santa Fe and one in Las Vegas.
 When we went to the one in Vegas it was f-ing closed,
 because it was a Monday, and who'd ever want to eat or drink on a Monday?
 Siegfried and Roy were working Monday, but noooooooooooooo!

 This is the same owner who produced the Rape at Red Sage.
 (Hey, I just noticed something.  I wrote that bit in 1998, and this year, Samuel Jackson
 used my closing Red Sage remarks,  almost word-for-word,  in the hit movie "Shaft."
 It was the most memorable line  in the whole movie.   Should I sue them?)

 So, anyway, we go in their snooty store with the snooty prices and she gets
 a few jars of their salsa, which is pretty good, I must admit.
 But while we're there, she asks if I want to eat.

 Sensing it was a mistake, I agreed to look at a menu, nothing more.
 We get upstairs (they are sooo snooty...) and the lady with the $800 dress
 and the $300 hairdo hands me two menus. I open it up and look inside and
 couldn't find any English words so I looked up to tell the lady, "No, thanks,"

 ...and then,

 ...and then I saw ...them.

 Mirrored shelves lined with dozens and dozens of tequila bottles.
 I said to Mrs. BartCop, "Aye Caramba! We're on vacation and I'm thirsty!"
 I told the snootress we were going to the bar.

 Koresh, my heart was beating like I was that coward at
 who worships Rush, but is too afraid to meet me in a friendly debate.
 Cowards and traitors make me sick.

 We sat down at the bar and my eyes must've been bigger than Moesha's.
 I said, "How many kinds of tequila you got?" and Cubby said, "84."
 I'm not sure, but I think I started to get an erection.

 Cubby handed me a tequila list!
 I knew right away there were two tequilas I had to try.
 I ordered a shot of the Lapis Anejo.

 They sell this at my local spirits store, but it's got a $50 price tag,
 and if I can get  Chinaco Anejo  for $32, there's no sense gambling with my $50
 Cubby knew right away he wasn't dealing with Tommy Dimwit.
 No Sirree, Bob!

 Cubby knew right away I was a luxury tequila connisi..., uh... a ....connesou,
 Cubby knew right away he was dealing with someone who really liked fine tequila!

 Lapis Anejo Tequila 80 Proof
 Bright gold.
 Moderately full-bodied.
 Flowers, dill, orange marmalade, vanilla.
 Moderately rich texture, soft and delicate with an unctuous palate.
 Nice build up of succulent flavors interspersed with lovely, sweet floral fragrances.
 Well-knit and pretty.

 You can tell I didn't write that.
 I don't use adjectives like unctuous, lovely or pretty to describe fine tequila.
 To have something with which to compare, I ordered a shot of Casa Noble, too.

 Mrs. BartCop wimped out, as usual, and got a margarita, this being a rare chance
 to enjoy her favorite, the Corralejo Reposado.

 The verdict?

 First, I tried the Lapis.
 Of course, I sipped just a few drops.
 Very, very smooth, maybe smoother than the Chinaco Anejo.
 Jesus, it was smooth.

 Then, a few drops of the Casa Noble.
 Oh, Christ, it was smoother than the Lapis, and smoother than the Chinaco.
 (In retro, you can't say that without a side-by-side taste test.)

 I insisted Mrs. BartCop try a sip.
 She said, "No," as always, but I convinced her it was very smooth
 and reminded her she could always chase it with her Corralejo margarita.

 She took a sip of each and said, "That's so smooth, it doesn't taste like alcohol."
 She has that ability.
 I can go on and on about something for 5 minutes, then she'll say,
 "You mean X and Y."
 She can take any subject and distill it into less than ten words.
 And her point was true and well-taken.
 I learned a lesson.

 Tequila may get smoother than Chinaco, but is that a good thing?
 If the tequila is so well-made and filtered that there's no bite at all - is that good?
 Do you want straight liquor to taste like Mountain Dew?

 Bottom line, tests were inconclusive, and would require further research.
 Since they're both available in K-Drag, a follow-up isn't far away.

 I need to move on with the story, cause I could do another 1,000 words
 on that half-hour we spent at the snooty-snooty restaurant.
 As we were leaving, we walked by the "food's up" counter, and I gotta say one thing:
 The food at this place looks like a million damn dollars.

 If this crap had English subtitles, I might try some, but I've read those horror stories from
 France where that "yummy dish" turned out to be smashed and home-fried bird fetus.
 Not me.

 Here we are in goddamn Santa Fe and I can't find "beef enchiladas" on the fancy menu
 made of raw silk and caligraphy at the fancy-pants restaurant?

 Oh - by the way - those goddamn shots were $13 each.
 I asked Cubby if I could buy half-shots so I could try more varieties, like in Vegas,
 which is a reasonable request with 84 different brands of luxury tequila.

 Wait, I'm sorry.
 They had 80 luxury tequilas and 4 kinds of Cuervo.
 (I didn't see any Albertson's tequila.)

 He asked, but his snooty boss gave him a Cheney-like snear and said, "No!"

 So we went next door to the bourgeiose Mexican Restaurant, The Blue Corn.
 We each had a slight buzz.
 Mrs. BC said her Corralejo margarita went right to her head, and my twin shots
 made themselves known, but it's not my first time on the merry-go-round.

 We ordered some normal, familiar food and I asked to see their tequila list.
 Funny, Cubby turns the menu on it's back and there was the tequila - 9 kinds.
 None of them looked too good to me, so I ordered the most expensive shot
 which was the Centinela brand.

 Pardon my French, but it was fucking turpentine.
 How dare they serve that swill in a snooty town like Santa Fe?
 Mrs. BartCop asked how it was, so I devilishly invited her to take a sip.
 She took a tiny sip.

 The look she gave me was probably very similar to the one Hillary gave Bill
 when he explained to her what the meaning of the word "is" was.

 If you ever get a chance to try Centinela tequila, run away from it.
 It says "100 percent agave" on the bottle, but it made me want to blow chunks.

 I have a real  for you.

 I stumbled onto this accidentally, but it worked, and if you think about it,
 it'll work in just about every damn restaurant in America.
 The service we were getting was slow-to-medium.
 After I did the shot of turpentine, I jotted down a few thoughts in my little
 Santa Fe Hemp Shop what's-that-called, wire-rimmed mini-memo notebook.

 We visited Santa Fe last year in October, see  Volume 150 - October
 This sounds funny, but I mentioned the Santa Fe Hemp Shop in Vol 150,
 and a few days or weeks later, the head dude there sent me e-mail saying
 he appreciated the mention. I mean, what are the odds that some small business
 owner in Santa Fe would have ever heard of the BartCop treehouse?

 Anyway, as we walked in front of his shop this year, I thought about going inside
 and saying hello, but I didn't want to come off like some bullshit celebrity.
 I didn't remember the owner's name because my harddrive crashed with all
 my old e-mail. so I would've had to walk in and say, "Hi, I'm BartCop,"
 and if the counter dude had looked up and me and said, "So, who gives a fuck?"
 I'd be more crushed than old Smirky's gonna be on November 8th.

 Anyway, the waitress sees me writing in my lil' hemp notebook,
 and she figured maybe I was some kind of restaurant critic!

 ha ha

 All of a sudden it was, "Can I get you some more chips?"
 And, "You need another shot of turpentine, Sir?"

 ha ha

 Trust me - do that.

 Next time you go to a fancy restaurant, stop at the Kum-and-Go
 (Swear to Koresh, that's a convenience store in Leadville, Colorado)
 and get a lil' spiral notebook, and when you see Cubby coming your way,
 whip it out and and scribble something mean about him in the lil' book.
 I've never seen anything this cheap work so well!

 Whoops - I did it again.
 I'll be 2,000 words into this story and still be on the first hour of our trip,
 so I'd better move on.

 Oh, this means nothing, but Santa Fe is chock-full of SUVs.
 I'm not talking about Blazers and Broncos, either.
 I'm talking those massive Toyota Landcruiser monsters, and those massive Navigators
 and Mitsubishi whatevers.  Koresh, these things are mobile fucking homes.
 And somehow, they snootiest cars had alllllllll the good parking places.

 Good thing the Leninist/Stalinist/Socialist parking lot was open.
 Koresh, they only wanted two bucks for parking.
 I would've paid ten or twelve, like when you're going to see U2 or the Cardinals,
 but all they wanted was two measely bucks.
 I guess that's why the Berlin wall fell.

 Went back to the Motel 6 and watched Random Hearts on HBO.
 How in the world did Harrison Ford get rooked into this donkey?
 I mean, you take away Kristin Scott Thomas's fantastic visual
 and you've got nothing.


 You know I have this thing about smart women.
 Not only was she smart, she was proper.
 Well, except for the times she was tearing can't-act's clothes off.
 If it hadn't been for her, that channel would've been more switched
 than Richard Pryor's kid's ass after he broke the lamp.

 Look, I don't want to get a mountain of hate mail, because I already have stalkers,
 and I don't need any more enemies, but Harrison Ford can't act.
 He can't act at all.

 I like him - Indiana Jones, Air Force One, Star Wars - but he can't act.
 He can't even act a two on the scale.
 He acts so bad, Tom Cruise can out-act him.

 He was particularly unbelieveable in Random Hearts.
 He's got the worst smirk in all of Hollywood.
 Someone says something nice about him and his face goes blank
 and he does this goofy smirk like a kid who just mowed your lawn.
 Maybe that's his charm, that he acts so clumsily, that you assume it's intentional
 and he's playing a guy who clumsily smirks a lot.

 It was a stupid movie, with an ever more stupid ending.
 Koresh, must be tens of millions more better writers than me,
 but why aren't some of them in Hollywood writing Harrison Ford movies?

 Who are these Joe Esterhaus bullshit artists who get hired to write shit?
 Are they all the nephews of studio execs?

 On the other hand, Harrison Ford is a helicopter pilot and recently plucked
 a sick lady off of the Teton Mountain Range where he lives - seriously.
 Since he flies his own chopper, he signed up with the Teton Rescue dudes
 and if they ever need a chopper and he's sober, they call him and he flies the
 damn thing and last month he pulled a sick lady and a friend off the mountain.

 I read several accounts of the story.
 The lady was sick or it suddenly turned freezing or something and this lady thinks
 she may be about to die and here comes Hans Solo in his private helicopter.
 The lady said she threw up on his shoes, or something, and felt bad that this
 famous movie icon came to her rescue and she hurled chunks on his shoes.

 ...but it was a really stupid movie.

 Don't get me started, but we also rented It's the Rage and The Florentino.
 It's the Rage starred Gary Sinise, one of the best actors in Hollywood history,
 and 5 or 6 other real actors, and it was worse than Random Hearts.

 The Florentino starred Michael Masden and Chris Penn, both from Reservior Dogs,
 plus Rocky's brother Burt Young and Luke Perry and Mary Stewart Masterson,
 who looks f-ing awesome with red hair, but the movie totally blew donkey!
 And I was 30 minutes at the video store searching for something good!

 When I went to rent the movie, Cubby asked, "Is your card on file with us?"
 Like most things in life, I said, "It depends on the meaning of the word 'is.'"
 I told him I rented movies from there years ago, but I forget when.

 He switched to the "old" computer and brought up "BartCop."
 He said I rented some movies on Sept 10, 1997.
 I remember that - do you?

 It was Volume 103 - Please, Please, Get Up Off Your Knees

 That was the issue where Rush kept making Mrs. BartCop sick by talking about
 the yellow ooze that seeped from his goddamn infected toes, and he asked listeners
 to call in with their infected toe stories. Remember that?

 The next morning, we headed north towards Rancho de Chimayo.
 On the road, we saw this.


 Well, we had to stop for some chilies!
 I think they look cool - we hang them in the Withdrawing Room at BartCop Manor.
 I like the way the sun lights them thru the stained glass windows, plus,
 it seems to work like catnip for the kitties.
 Ain't nothin' the kitties like better than making the chilies swing.

 What's that sign say?


 What the hell, four ears of Colorado sweet corn for a buck?
 Why not?

 I threw the chilies and the corn in the back seat and we proceeded to Rancho de Chimayo.
 It's a Bed & Breakfast/Restaurant.
 Timing-wise, we couldn't stay, but we thought we'd do lunch.
 I checked their cantina and saw Herradura tequila and a coupla others,
 so we decided to punish them and continue our journey without spending any money.

 So we headed North to southern Colorado.
 If you look very hard, you can see Mt. Lindsey.

 By the way, my new toy worked great.
 I mentioned this before, I bought a Walkman-type player that plays CDR  MP3s.
 For weeks, I've been downloading old music and comedy stuff like Bill Hicks
 and Sam Kinison and even Dennis Miller has his "I Rant, Therefore I Am" on audio,
 so we had dozens of hours of fun to listen to while we did the scenery.

 Before I forget it, let me say this:
 If you consider me a comic, I'm the cleanest damn comic this side of Bill Cosby.
 Every comedy bit we heard was loaded with much darker words than you read on
 I should be attacked by First-Amendment enthusiasts for working too clean.

 After a while, we came upon the Great Sand Dunes Natrional Monument.
 Have you heard about this place?
 Near Alamosa, Colorado, they have miles of sand dunes.

 So we continued driving north until the sun started going down.
 We found ourselves in Buena Vista. Colorado.
 Uh-Oh, the town was lousy with No Vacancy signs.
 Luckily, we got a room at a rat-hole called "Mountain View Motel."

 Yeah, it had a view of the mountains, all right.
 In Central Colorado, the goddamn prison inmates have a mountain view, OK?
 This place was a hole, and they charged me $55.
 (Usually you can get a rat-hole out west for $35)

 Mrs. BartCop started to voice an objection to the rat-hole, but I reminded her that
 I wanted to put her in the fabulous Rio Suites Resort and Casino for the week,
 so that just proves that defense will always beat a good offense.
 Next time we're here, we'll stay at the Win-Mar cabins, 20 miles north.

 Next morning, driving north, we hit Colorado 82, and hang a left.
 Suddenly, we're in Twin Lakes, Colorado.
 Check this out.

 The water is bluer than the burn mark on Smirk's ass from the Yale branding.
 Y'know, this'd make a great place to burn a thin fattie.
 Yeah, that would be reeeeal nice.
 Staring at the lake, watching the clouds, the 70-degree wind howling...

 ...but that would be wrong!!!

 I was so close to Heaven, I thought I saw Betty Bowers.
 But I had to keep my head, because we were heading for Independence Pass.

 In 1978, when I was just a kid, my crazy, crazy boss from India, Mukesh, took us to
 Colorado for the very first time. We'd never been on any real vacation before,
 St. Louis and Dallas and stuff, but not out west. But he was a world-traveler
 and adventurer, and semi-wealthy, so he suggested the three of us run to Colorado
 for Christmas, 1978, and we did.

 We drove thru Kansas to Colorado Springs, then on towards Aspen.
 (Use your head - you have the clues.
 It's Christmas, December 25th, and we're driving towards Independence Pass.
 Sure, we saw the signs that said, "Road Closed for winter," but I was even more
 stupid then than I am now, and since I'd been driving for ten hours, Crazy Mu
 was at the wheel of Mrs. BartCop's touring sedan.

 Have you ever ridden in a car with a driver from India?
 It's all true, every - fucking - word.
 I'd rather ride with Henri Paul in a Mercedes owned by Dodi Fayed
 than spend another minute in a car driven by a native of India.
 If that makes me a racist, then I'm racist. But you ride in a car with Mukesh
 or one of his brothers and see if you don't become a racist, too.

 We came around a curve and saw about 30 feet of snow piled up on the highway.
 Crazy Mu knows he has to turn around - so he pulls off the road - in the snow.
 The car sunk a foot right away. We were stuck, and the more we tried to escape,
 the deeper we went and we were sliding even farther away from the road.

 Here we were, stuck in the snow in the middle of Koresh-knows-where
 and we have to abandon the now-useless touring sedan.
 Maybe there is a God, because we walked less than a mile and saw this:

 We knocked on the door and said, "We're stuck, is there anything you can do?"
 The dude says, "No problem, I have a winch on by Jeep."

 He pulled the car onto the highway in minutes.
 We asked him if he'd accept money, and he said no, so we gave him a case of beer.
 This time, I thought about knocking on the door to say thanks again, but that was
 22 years ago, and it just didn't seem like a good idea.

 Looking up as we drove past, we saw this sign on the property:

 Kinda spooky, eh?
 Mrs. BartCop is a big Twin Peak's fan.
 She knows when the owls are watching...

 More miles of climbing in altitude.
 Pretty soon, the road a mile behind us looked like this:

 Denver is the Mile High City, and we were waaaaay higher than that.
 And the road turned wimpy on us, too.

 That drop-off to the left?
 It's a mile to the valley below.
 If you see guard rails on this road, you're probably voting for Smirk,

 Higher and higher we go.
 You know, at this altitude, if someone was to, ...Oh, ...I dunno, ...let's say
 snort a little cocaine back in the 80's, I'll bet your nose would bleed,
 but that's a hypothetical - so we'll move ahead.

 Higher and higher we got, until the trees started to diappear.

 One thing that was cool, tho...
 These little chipmunks - I don't have a good picture - they're about
 six inches plus the tail, and they have these black and white racing stripes.
 They're so cute!
 They were running in front of us, scampering across the road in front of us,
 but you'll never see one as roadkill - they're just too damn fast.

 As we got closer to the continental divide, trees could no longer exist.

 Coming down, the trees returned, but they were different:

 Aspens - nothing but - for miles and miles.
 The aspen trees hadn't turned yet, but there were patches of bursts of
 bright-yellow aspen quakers. That's something you should see before you die.
 One aspen tree can have 10,000 quaking leaves.

 There were so many aspen trees, I'm surprised they don't name a town after 'em.

 Well, look here!
 It's a town called "Aspen."
 Geez, and I thought they were snooty in Santa Fe.

 I asked Tour Boy where I could check my e-mail, and he said
 "Go to Aspen Drugstore," so I did.

 I went in and asked to use the computer.
 They said I had to talk to the pharmacist.
 OK - I can do that.

 I walk back to the pharmacist and ask if I can log on and she says to me,
 "Sir, you'd need five dollars for a half hour."


 This always happens to me - wherever I go.
 This lady took one look at me and warned me that a whopping $5 charge
 was heading straight for me, and I'd better watch out, or it might hit me!
 I told the snooty pharmacist I could, indeed, afford the five dollars,
 and I paid her with hundred just to prove my point.


 After I surfed a bit, (talked to Brainsmasher who was surfing the BC guestbook)
 we went searching for a restroom. You see, in Aspen, the beautiful people don't
 use bathrooms, but us dumb Okies don't have much choice.

 Every shop had a sign that said, "No Public Restrooms - Asshole!"
 We thought about getting a hotel, just to use a restroom.
 We went back to the tourist kiosk and I talked to Cubby.
 He said he could get us a room at the "Jerome" for only $125,
 and a snappy-ass room for only $145.

 He showed me their website.

 Christ, look at that golf course.

 Oh, my heart!

 Look at these goddamn prices!
 $2200 for the fancy room?

 ha ha

 Their prices are so goddamn high, they call them, "tariffs."
 That sounds like a Democratic trick, doesn't it?

 For $2200 dollars a night you should get a room and oral sex from Demi Moore.
 (Her prices are dropping as she gets older...)

 We almost agreed to pay the $125 to use the restroom, then I saw it!
 The Aspen Hard Rock Cafe!


 We walked in like Marc Perkel at the Susan McDougal fund-raiser.
 I didn't want to eat there, but we had to buy something or they'd figure we were
 illegal gutterbums just escaped from the goddamn chain gang, ....and then I saw it!!

 At the Hard Rock bar, they had Corralejo.
 The bottle's easy to spot in a bar - it's two feet tall!

 "A shot for me and a margarita for the Mrs, and where's the restroom?"

 ha ha

 On a roll!
 But the best was yet to come.
 The heavily-tattooed bartendress asked me if I wanted my shot of Corralejo
 in a take-home Hard Rock Cafe shotglass.

 I asked what that would run me, and she said,
 "Well, the Corralejo is $3.50, but the shotglass is free."


 Corralejo is only $3.50 a shot?

 The tattooed lady didn't know what she was pouring.

 I'll bet tap water on ice costs $3.50 at the Aspen Hard Rock Cafe!
 I wished we could've taken advantage of her stupidity, but I had to negotiate
 Independence Pass again, and that's not something you want to do after making
 a bar pay for pricing their luxury tequila like it was 1939.

 Like idiots, we decided to eat there.
 She got a leather-like French Dip sandwich, and I got the "hand-torn" pig sandwich.

 The only other thing we had to do before leaving town was to check out the Maroon Bells.

 Ain't that something?
 They say God was sober the day He made the Bells.
 This little valley is smaller than Meteor Crater.
 It's a tiny bowl with a crystal-clear lake.
 It's gorgeous.

 There's a horror story about the Maroon Bells.
 In 1987, I found out the drummer for the best band that ever played at the Hard Rock Island
 was 18, and that would put Ol' BartCop in the K-Drag pokey if a cop came in, so my staff
 suggested I leave town to avoid prosecution, so me & Mrs BartCop went to Aspen.
 We went to the Bells ...and ...I was ...drinking ...Wild Turkey 101.

 One thing led to another, and the wind blew my lucky swordfish hat into the stream,
 and when I dove for it - I fell in.  Let me guarantee you in all seriousness, Swear to Koresh,
 nothing but liquid helium is colder than fast-moving liquid melted snow.
 I think the only other time I used those particular words was on March 10th, 2000
 when I kicked the goddamn chair and broke my little toe.
 That bastard still hurts, and it's been 6 months.

 (Moment of silence for the pain)

 Yeah, there are two horror stories to be told about Wild Turkey 101.
 The other one was Part II of my 1998 visit to the White House that never got written.

 I've heard the claim that the Maroon Bells  are the most photographed peaks in America
 but you know Britney Spears' breasts are really using up more film.

 Then I had another great idea:
 I wonder how well the liquor stores are stocked in Snoot Central?
 We drove over to Grape and Grain Liquors.
 Good name, isn't it?

 We went in and saw they had a small selection of fine tequila.
 The usual suspects, Herradura, Wabo Cabo, and, to their credit, the Corralejo,
 but nothing I needed to spend money on since I had a two-pack of God's Nectar
 in the back seat of the touring sedan.

 As we were leaving the attendent wisely asked, "Find everything OK?"
 I told him I was searching for luxury tequila, so he motioned me back.
 He reached behind the counter and pulled this out.

 It was called Tequila Romance.
 I know you can't see it clearly, but there are two kinds of tequila in this one bottle.
 The Romance Reposado was on the "outside," and the Romance Anejo is in those
 little round darker balls you may or may not be able to see.

 This bottle was $127.80.

 But BartCop!
 But BartCop!

 If there are two kinds of $127 fine luxury tequila in that bottle, how do you pour it?

 Two spouts, of course.
 The rich will always find a way to spend more money.

 So we gave Aspen a final wave goodbye.

 Let me try an experiment:
 The road we were on was so high, check this reverse-zoom out:

 We were higher than Tommy Lee on his birthday.

 Eventually, we got far enough north to hit I-70.
 I-70 is known for it's tunnels.

 Yeah, there's no reason to be nervous about being helpless and trapped
 under 45,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 tons of Rocky Mountain.

 We come out, and see a damn steam train, chugging thru the douglas firs.

 Check out the whistle on this bad boy!

 Click  Here to listen to the Real Audio File.

 It was windier than a mother-effer.

 End of  New Mex/Colo Trip Report 2000
 Part 1 of 3

 Click  Here  to read Part 2 of 3

 If you thought that writing was ugly,
 wait till you see how it looks when you get politics involved.

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