My brother had just moved to the Western Slope of Colorado with his wife Amy, and he was eager to show me his backyard. “It’ll take all day, but it’ll be worth it,” Ben told me, pointing to the south as twilight fell on Mount Sneffels and its rugged cousins. “We’re going to drive the San Juan Skyway and loop through Durango, Dolores and Telluride. You won’t believe it.”
Heading south out of Montrose the next day, the northern ranges of the San Juans sprawled out across the horizon. I was captivated by their incredible disorder. To the east, Uncompahgre Peak looked like a collapsing wedding cake. To the west, Mount Sneffels defined a long ridge of undulating rocks with its craggy summit. The highway shifted for miles, at times pointing to Uncompahgre, at other times aiming us towards Sneffels. At the small hamlet of Ridgway, the road seemed to make up its mind and point us right between the two ranges, into a yawning valley of green ranches.
Our first stop was for coffee in Ouray. Situated at the tip of the valley — where the mountains close in to form a canyon — this former mining town has been dubbed “the Switzerland of America.” On the outskirts, we stopped at the Ouray Ice Park. Here, climbers are free to practice their skills on the collection of icicles that hang from the chasm walls. While my brother kept the engine warm, my sister-in-law and I watched a climber expertly maneuver on the bluish ice. We concurred, thankfully, that both of us had coffee that was piping hot.
To the south of Ouray, Highway 550 switch-backed precariously up towards Red Mountain Pass, clinging to the walls of the Uncompahgre Gorge. We were following the route of the old Million Dollar Highway, an engineering marvel built in 1884 to link the mining camps of Ouray and Silverton. Rumor has it the nickname originated from the amount of low-grade ore used to pave it. Another tale claims that the road initially cost a million dollars to build. We forged to the top of the hairpin curves and saw Red Mountain, its rusty slopes adding a magnificent dash of color to the wintry landscape.
Silverton lies on the southern side of the pass, in a magnificent valley that stretches in between two of Colorado’s biggest wilderness areas: the Uncompahgre and the Weminuche. Born on the hopes of miners, Silverton continues to find payloads to this day, but in powder not silver. The town’s new ski area is a playground for those in pursuit of steep slopes and fluffy snow.
As we drove on to Molas Pass, my thoughts turned to summer and the potential of hiking these mountains. At each turn, a new valley would be revealed offering the promise of summer wildflowers, campsites under the stars and gushing waterfalls. I resolved to return in six months.
Just as our stomachs growled for lunch, we drove into Durango. While this bustling mountain town of nearly 15,000 is a haven for mountain bikers in the summer, it is fueled by a year-round enthusiasm for all things outdoors. As we walked along Main Avenue, Ben asked me if I remembered the time we took the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad as kids. Despite the fact that I was three at the time, I still had a recollection of the fall color and the excitement of riding a real choo-choo. Ben smiled fondly. We added the train ride to the list of “Things to Do When I Return Someday.”
After lunch, we refueled (both on gasoline and coffee) and set off to complete the loop. It was midday, and we’d only completed roughly a third of the circuit. We had a lot of ground to cover, and Ben and Amy claimed the best part was the last stretch. From Durango, the byway heads west over piñon-covered hills, a precursor of the canyon country that stretches into New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. At Mancos, we headed northwest and skirted the edge of the mountains, with the snow-capped La Plata Range looking like distant clouds on the horizon. The route merged with Highway 145 at Dolores and started to lead us back into the peaks, up the braided rivulets of the Dolores River. Tall cottonwoods stood vigil over the icy waters, and we spotted dozens of bald eagles. We pulled over to watch them for a while, and were fortunate enough to witness one swooping down to the current and dragging its talons across the surface. It plucked a trout from the river and drifted back up to a lonely branch. There it spread its wings slightly to protect its meal from any ravens that would dare to steal it.
Beyond the town of Rico, the mountains began to get larger and the road took on more of a steep grade. Emerging from around the bend was the most curious mountain I’d ever seen. Like the thumb of a hitchhiker, Lizard Head Peak jutted up into the deep blue sky. A set of cross-country skiers glided among the open meadows below it, savoring what was left of the afternoon light. Add it to the list: next winter, I’ll rent cross-country skis and come back up here.
Descending from the top we could see distant mining relics partially buried in the snow. Another range of rusty mountains soared above us, their shapes odd and rough around the edges. The highway twisted through glades of aspens and I saw my brother smile like a little boy as he hugged the curves of the road.
We ended up in Telluride, a town known for its skiing, festivals and numerous celebrity sightings. The old town lies in a spectacular valley, hidden from the ski slopes and condos. As we scoped out a place for dinner, I took note of the easy-going pace and down-to-earth sensibility of the town. No wonder so many visitors love it.
With the town’s scenic backdrop turning orange with the sunset, we settled in at a table with a view. My brother sighed and seemed disappointed about something, so I asked him what was bothering him. “You missed one of the best parts,” he said. “You’ll just have to see Dallas Divide and the other side of Mount Sneffels on your next visit.”
Funny thing is, I’d been planning my next visit since 9am that morning.
Scenic & Historic Byways Overview