The Deans drove the short distance to the Beaumont to pick up their guest, who was standing outside at the curb waiting for them. Jennifer Radisson had changed to jeans and a sweatshirt advertising Ouray, and carried a day pack slung over her shoulder. She climbed into the back of the Jeep, shooing Cynthia from having to alight to fold down the front seat.
"Hi! I'm Jennifer Radisson, the gold-digging bitch!" She reached over, extending her hand to Cynthia, a wide smile on her face and a little kid look that said she was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of the upcoming trip. This was no longer the intimidating woman of the morning-instead a child day-tripping to the zoo.
"How do you like this?" she asked, puffing out her chest and showing her new shirt. "If I'm a tourist, I might as well dress the part!" She held up a disposable camera. "I even brought this to record the occasion," she said, tucking it into her pack.
They drove south from town and in less than a quarter mile, turned right onto what was locally known as the Camp Bird Mine Road. The roadway was gravel, but well maintained on a year-round basis. After a switchback, they crossed the bridge over a deep gorge, the location of Ouray's now-melted ice climbing park where David Dean had almost lost his life the prior winter. The scenery became more spectacular with each rounded curve.
Jennifer was enthralled. Her entire mood was an-about face from the tentativeness she had expressed that morning. Either Cynthia's presence relaxed her or she'd decided David Dean was not a combatant from the enemy camp.
The two women chatted amicably, as if they'd known one another for a lifetime, with Cynthia pointing out the sights with a running line of commentary. Dean couldn't get a word in edgewise. The conversation drifted to clothing-Cynthia's search for an appropriate wedding dress for the mother of the groom, and Jennifer's west coast dress shop. Dean was content to let them chat and concentrate on his driving. It took concentration to maneuver the ever more rugged roads as they climbed skyward, waving away the dust from the other vehicles. The mountain traffic was at a peak with the massive influx of visitors, especially at the lower elevations.
A sign informed them that they were entering the Canyon Creek Stewardship Project. The road paralleled the river to their right and far below, which was most often hidden by the pine trees that blanketed the slope. In recent years, the government, in an effort to formalize access and camping in the area, had instituted a fee program, creating considerable controversy with a number of locals. While there was a feeling of last-guy-in-turn-off-the-elevator, the Deans reluctantly agreed that some form of management was necessary to maintain order in the face of the ever-increasing numbers who wallowed in nature's wonders. But everything was relative. Even on this holiday, one of the busiest days of the year, traffic remained modest by urban standards.