After three months of shorter one-day and weekend trips, I’m glad to be out on a ten-day journey. We awoke early on Friday morning, right at sunrise actually, to wander our way down to Sedona, Arizona for Thanksgiving.  With the image of the pink and orange sky gently reflected in our neighborhood lake still fresh in my mind, the road miles began to pass-by with a comforting ease.  It didn’t take long to remember why I love the movement of the road . . .

Snapshot 1: Somewhere in Pueblo, Colorado an elderly couple sits on their porch. Leaning back in old Adirondack chairs, they watch the 80 MPH traffic on I-25.  I imagine they’re happy, and that they have no intention of joining the highway buzz.              Snapshot 2: An abandoned green Mustang, probably from the 70s, has found its resting place beneath two oak trees out in the middle of a forgotten field.  I wonder what stories it could tell, what roads it has seen.

Snapshot 3: The town of Del Norte, somewhat lonely and dusty, welcomes us with a brewery in the back of an insurance agency.  We taste beers fresh from the fermenter, poured with a smile by the owner of 3 Barrel Brewing. He’s rightfully proud that the ingredients for the beer grow right in the San Luis Valley.

Snapshot 4: The voices of Marley and Dylan and Bono blast from the car speakers, offering a soundtrack as we travel by the Spanish Peaks and the Sangre de Christo Mountains and the Great Sand Dunes.  I contemplate the long marriage of the American road and music.

Snapshot 5: We dine in Durango’s Himalayan Kitchen, enjoying cuisine born half way around the world, daydreaming about future adventures to far-away lands, relishing in the adventure right at-hand.

And I laugh with joy as I discover once again that the road line yellow is a rather continuous direction: one mile of it unfolds into the next, bends around the corner, disappears in the horizon, all the while taunting the wanderer to follow it farther and farther and farther.