Seen here through the rain-splattered windscreen of a rare 2WD on US285, Colorado's own Coney Island alights like a beacon of promise that hot dogs and luridly colored condiments are not beyond the reach of the average commuter in the Rocky Mountains. The experience of a board walk is recreated at the giant hot dog-shaped kiosk (pictured), minus the population of vagrants and any other allusions to olde time charme such as rides, a beach, or attempts by locals to fleece you while inside the "fun house." On our way out of Denver last Friday, we were disappointed by the inability of the hot dog to service regular grade fuel - novel or no, we only stop at landmarks that simultaneously inspire and dredge the earth of waning fossil fuels.
Anyhow, we weathered the tempest, arriving in Gunnison by 9 o'clock; just in time to nab a tent site and catch the campground hosts on their forth or fifth "sundowner" in deck chairs in the dark grounds of the "Tall Texan." Everyone in the campground appeared to know each other, moving in the same nomadic circle of that new class of American whose RV is so big, it now tows the SUV behind it. Regardless of class, we all united as one on the picnic tables for the $2.07 breakfast of "Mike's Muffins" and free coffee the following morning. Mike's Muffins turned out to be those low cholesterol English muffin substitutes jazzed up with modest, equally flat sausage patties, with slices of cantaloupe on the side - the undefeated champion of the weak-tasting fruit genre. The entire meal could have been mailed through the "13oz and under" USPS slot at my work building with no difficulties, but was no doubt a nod to healthy new frontiers for the aging keepers of campgrounds.
Here is a self portrait by Josh of waking up in minimalist fashion. Beside us, throttling RVs cranked their generators and flushed their sewage at 6 in the morning, reminding us surreptitiously of the beauties of the simple life, and the nirvana to be found in traveling just your bare bones and a 10,000 pound rig; of the serenity in sitting gratis in a Wal*Mart carpark.We were wilderness-bound by 10 a.m., marching up Mill Creek in the West Elk Wilderness optimistically, seven to eight miles of tramping ahead of us. Miles always sound so pleasant, being, as they are, a full-fat English muffin relic of the 19th century long ago left behind by most of the world. We tracked our progress on the map, reaching what I deemed to be some important-looking squiggles in the trail after an hour and a half. On walking an additional couple of miles, we then reached the actual squiggles designated by the map - far more overt switchbacks and pocketing of altitude - leaving us to wrestle with the disappointment of being far slower than you imagined, and the mile far longer than fathomed. It is true I have difficulty judging a mile, while I am quite reliable about logging kilometres as they pass. A mile is, like the tent poles of yore, too wieldy and long to well comprehend. It is always a bit further than you can imagine a trail stretching; too big a reach for your arms and legs straddled across an unassembled tent, and therily an inappropriate metric for walking.
So it was that we impatiently pitched the tent a mile or so from Storm Pass, and hoofed it on ahead with greater speed, hoping to reach the blasted high point and then retire to eat curry cous cous and sachets of tuna. Pictured below, we have fought boggy run-off and a lack of topographic consistency to mount the wrong pass. Hiking south-west instead of north is indeed a feat of error for clear weather navigating, and required us to pass by the unambiguous cairns (above) oblivious to their silent cry for us to turn right. Having passed this crossroads, we were left with no option a further half-mile up the sodden valley but to summit the nearest thing with a goat track; in this case, North Baldy Mountain. Little-known North Baldy Mountain is less of an attraction than Storm Pass, as evidenced by its name-sharing with nearby Middle Baldy Mountain and South Baldy Mountain - together they form a ridgeline of middling impressiveness. I am quite sure that the "summit or no" mentality has steered many a mountaineer astray, and while I do not suggest that Hillary would ever have been idiotic enough to accidentally climb Everest's neighbor, I am sure there is a hiker every day bags a summit he didn't mean to in wilderness somewhere out of spite for steps gone wrong. 
Here we are atop "North Baldy Mountain," also known as the hill at the end of the valley. Pictured in the rear of the shot are the famed "Castles" we were aiming for, noticeable only as minute black spikes over the ridge. 
The pasting of flowers across this high alpine valley isn't apparent on film, and would normally be of little interest to the tired hiker who has summited the wrong mountain after 3000 feet of slog, but Josh nevertheless pocketed a thistle-ish red flower that caught his eye on the way down.
Coogee adjusted to his wild surrounds the longer we hiked and camped in the wilderness, eventually liquifying into a mythological spirit of the high country.
Upon returning from the hike the following day, we drove to Telluride, through land as impressive as I have seen in Colorado - Coney Island inclusive. Apparently the ingenious townsfolk of Telluride stipulated that for the resort to expand accommodations into a mountain village and provide gondola access, the gondola must operate year round, and be free to all. As a result, locals enjoy free downhill mountain biking all summer, and no one needs to drive the long way around to "Mountain Village" after a few too many brews in town. Also, the majority of douchy rich people who visit are cordoned off in the upper mountain hamlet - they get a view and pointy Intrawest-style accomodation, the locals get gingerbread houses and dreadlocks in old town on the floor of the valley. Further testament to the anti-development bent of the town is the occupation of large swathes of the valley floor by a prairie dog metropolis. Evidently townies would rather have Meerkat Manor squat on the land than risk overpopulation and more Tom Cruises. Town was pleasantly crunchy, and featured the pilot "free box" just off Main Street - a serving suggestion for Moses in a basket is indicated below.
Coogee proved himself conclusively illiquid on the three gondola rides it took to get to town from our campground on the far side of Mountain Village, cowering beneath the approaching cars, content to be made into a rug for a mountaintop chalet.We made it into town in time for the Fourth of July fireworks show. After waiting patiently in the drizzle for a couple of hours, God materialized to signal the curtain. Shortly afterward, several wheelbarrows worth of solid firework action was tipped upon the town - a fine show, in a fine town.
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