The village of Ouray lay snuggled at the terminus of a long valley, wrapped in a box canyon by the towering San Juans to the east, west and south. The famous million dollar highway, which climbed three mountain passes before ending seventy-odd miles later in Durango, was spectacular by anyone's definition, more so after a fresh winter snow.
The warm sun had eaten most of the snow from the roadway, leaving a contrasting black ribbon, in places still snow-patched from last night's covering. As the couple climbed to higher elevations, more caution was necessary as icy patches became more frequent. Winter mountain driving was not for the reckless or faint of heart, but the Deans were neither. They shared a respect for the high-country conditions, prudent advice at any time, but even more appropriate on these winding roads, unprotected by guardrails, and bordered by sheer drop-offs that caused sweaty palms and racing heartbeats for many a first time driver. The stone cliffs that walled the road on the opposite side wept icicles from every crevice, covering the surface in massive clusters of crystal spikes that sparkled in the dazzling sunlight. The Deans agreed it was never prettier in Ouray County than after a fresh snow. The sky was a deeper blue, the green of the spruce and pine even darker than usual against the incredible white blanket that reflected the sun so brightly one was forced to squint or wear sunglasses. As they proceeded upward, snow evaporating from the roadbed like steam rose in smoke-like puffs, wispy tendrils of ground haze that scrambled away as the jeep sailed by.
The road tunneled through a snow shed, a reminder of the frequent and hazardous avalanches that plagued the area. The highway department would periodically close the road and, using explosive devices, create slides in a controlled condition, lessening the chance for a surprising and perhaps deadly run loosed by nature on the unsuspecting below.
Eight miles from Ouray, but still four miles from the summit of Red Mountain Pass, the road leveled out. Here was nestled the town site of Ironton, a bustling community in the last-century days when silver and gold ruled the area. Now it stood empty but for a few derelict buildings. But thanks to the active involvement of a volunteer group called The Nordic Council, free cross-country ski trails were laid out and maintained. The Deans had utilized the site a half dozen times, including, in December, the council-sponsored full moon nighttime outing, followed by a dip in the town's hot spring pool. While back-country skiing was also popular, the ever constant danger of killing snow slides made marked trails a safer method of enjoying this vigorous sport. The Deans, still novices, had more than enough to handle on these well-marked and relatively level trails.