We left Grand Junction just after sunrise, the cars rimed with frost that glittered under the first light. The mountain passes still held traces of the weekend’s cold—hard snow packed at the edges, thin ice in the shadows—but the road crews had been thorough.
We made short stops in Montrose (lunch), Ouray, and Silverton.
Michael drove ahead, his small car steady on the curves, a new diploma boxed in the back seat. The highway south of Ouray was clear but tense—edges unguarded, reminders of how easily weather can turn the route into risk. At periodic pull-offs, we checked in, not for necessity but out of habit. The wind across Red Mountain Pass was sharp enough to hum through the mirrors. Beyond that, the descent toward Silverton felt like a slow exhale.
By the time we reached Durango, the sky had turned the color of steel. I unlocked the gallery only long enough to make sure the heat was on and nothing had shifted in the quiet days. Then we each went home, the cars still carrying the dust of the drive. The trip had been short, but the distance between beginning and arrival felt hard-won.