Navigating Interstate 70 west of Denver is a painful experience for me.  Truthfully, I don’t enjoy driving interstate highways, except maybe in Montana where the speed limit is 80 and the lanes are deserted.   I-70 has changed in the last 40 years.  People now drive too fast on crowded, poorly maintained roadways.  But high-altitude road maintenance is difficult under the best of circumstances.  Weather conditions can be treacherous any time of the year.  Large trucks creep up mountain passes in low gear in the slow lane, while young men with an overabundance of testosterone drive high clearance pickups over the speed limit in the fast lane.  The Eisenhower (west bound) and Johnson (east bound) tunnels are the longest and highest bores of the interstate system, positioned more than 11,000 feet in elevation as they cut through the Continental Divide west of Denver.  It’s the only quick route through central Colorado, but the tunnels are dirty, and there are no shoulders for emergency stops.  I’m always on high alert driving through them.

I avoid I-70 on the weekends, especially during ski season when traffic backups can extend for miles in both direction.  Forget it during heavy snow, the source of my demise three years ago in late May when I headed east across central Colorado.  Late May and early June wet snows are common at higher elevations.  Vail Pass, the high point over the Gore Range 30 miles west of the Continental Divide was clear at 10,000 feet, but I soon encountered darkening clouds and light snow on the approach to the tunnels.  I entered the Johnson bore expecting an uneventful return to Denver, but as I approached the east end, I noticed cars and trucks breaking, then heavy snow.  I slowed to a crawl but plunged into several inches of wet snow, a slushy slippery mess.  Vehicles continued to break on the steep descent.  I applied my breaks but began fishtailing, then downshifted and slowed as I saw parked vehicles a thousand feet ahead and stopped just short of the last car in the left lane.  I had made it, or so I thought.  Snow had been falling for several hours, but plows had not yet cleared the east bound lanes.

I glanced at my rearview mirror.  Cars were approaching in both lanes.  The one in the right lane slowed successfully and made a safe stop, but the car in my lane, a small white Honda SUV was driving too fast, maybe only 20 miles an hour but not slowing fast enough to avoid a collision.  I instantly regretted my lane choice.  I couldn’t change lanes or move to the left.  I prepared for impact from a rear end crash by gripping the wheel, then a sudden jolt, a crashing sound, splintering plastic, a loud alarm, finally other alarms as vehicles behind me were colliding.  I only moved a foot or two forward and avoided hitting the SUV ahead of me.  I’m certain the driver was relieved.  Luckily, my airbag failed to activate. I turned off the ignition, opened my window and heard more crashes farther behind, horns and more alarms, then only sounds of vehicles approaching the Eisenhower tunnel in westbound lanes.  Soon, undamaged cars and trucks ahead of me started inching forward, soon disappearing downhill.  I was at the front end of a chain reaction accident. 

I safely stepped out of my van and appraised the situation.  I looked back toward the tunnel.  People were milling about near a line of stalled and crashed vehicles, all stopped dead in their tracks, and probably many more travelers stuck in the tunnel farther west.  My right rear tire was flat, and I sustained major damage to the passenger side rear end.  The occupants of the Honda appeared stunned and stayed in their vehicle.  They were an older couple, engulfed in their deflated airbags.  Their engine compartment was a mess, the hood was pushed up where it impacted my van, and their radiator had drained onto the roadway.  They had also been hit in the rear by a large SUV.  Their car was totaled.  I walked over and asked them if they were okay.  Yes, they said and immediately assumed responsibility.  They were Kansans on a return trip to Wichita after visiting family in California.  We exchanged insurance information, then I restarted my van and inched off the roadway onto a chain removal area nearby.  Police cars and tow trucks soon had the scene under control.  Within two hours my van was sitting atop a flat-bed truck on its way to Denver.  Tow trucks along the I-70 corridor were busy that day.  I think about my experience whenever I pass that chain removal area. 

Silverthorne is a tourist community six miles west of the tunnels in the Blue River valley where state highway 9 meets I-70 at 9,000 feet elevation.  Whenever I-70 closes due to heavy snow, travelers spend the night in Silverthorne.  I stopped there a week ago because I was returning from one of my summer camping trips, a brief foray into the Gore Range northwest of Kremmling, 30 miles north along highway 9.  Highway 9 was the quickest route back to I-70.  This had been a short trip, an escape from the city to test whether the coolant system in my van was leaking antifreeze.  I had been losing about 12 ounces every 200 miles but couldn’t identify a leak in the radiator, hoses, or overflow tank.  I suspected the pressure cap because it made a subtle hissing and gurgling sound when I shut off the engine.  I was hoping my radiator wasn’t leaking. That can be a costly repair.  A cracked head gasket would be even worse.  A good way to test a coolant system is to drive at high RPM’s, and the high mountain passes are a perfect place to do that.

The Gore Range is relatively remote by Colorado standards, a fine area to boondock, that is, camping in an open area, usually on government land away from humanity.  I avoid congested campgrounds and popular parks and monuments.  I found the perfect camping spot a few miles north of state highway 134, near Gore Pass, just off a rough graveled road in Routt National Forest.  It was an idyllic, deserted mountain hideaway.  I parked in an open area surrounded by a mixed forest of aspen, pine and fir.  Others had camped here before me.  There was a fire pit, some stacked wood, and a pleasing panorama of the Front Range.  I decided to stay. This was moose and bear country.  My daily walks were on abandoned logging roads and underused trails.  I spotted fresh bear scat nearby and later watched as an adolescent moose cautiously walked past my van just a few tens of feet away.  I usually don’t camp in one place for four nights, but I liked it at Moose Flat, especially the serenity, just natural sounds, the wind and some birds, only an occasional jetliner above me crossing the country high in the sky. 

I had two potential routes for my return to Denver.  I could take the slow route east from Kremmling, trudging over Berthoud Pass, a steep winding two-lane highway over the Front Range well north of I-70.  Or, I could return easily via Silverthorne and I-70.  I chose the quick route.  It was about 9:00 AM and my van coolant level was in the normal range.  I was in no hurry to leave, and planned for a three-hour (130 mile) return drive.  The weather was fair but storms were predicted for the afternoon.

It’s a 35-mile run from Kremmling to Silverthorne along the Blue River, a picturesque route separating the Front and Gore Ranges.  Traffic was light until I reached the north end of Silverthorne. Suddenly, stalled traffic, a long motionless line of vehicles in front of me.  The only movement involved drivers turning around and returning to wherever they came from.  After 15 minutes, I suspected more than just routine highway construction and consulted my MapQuest I-phone app to identify the problem.  Black color marking the route, means the highway is closed.  I was staring at a mile of black!  I managed to turn off Colorado 9 and snaked my way three blocks to a shady parking lot next to the Silverthorne Public Library, a perfect place to weather the traffic storm.

The librarian had access to local on-line news and said there was a police standoff with a convicted felon, an armed and dangerous male wanted for domestic abuse and other serious charges.  The I-70 interchange was closed, and nearby streets were blocked.  He was presumably in a white truck camper parked near some outlet stores close to the freeway.  Great!  But I was in a library, so I made myself comfortable, pondered the stacks, bought some used books, and later walked to the street to see if traffic was still stalled.  I couldn’t hear gunshots but an ambulance passed me with sirens blaring.  That was a bad omen.  Then, nothing more, just stalled vehicles.  Thirty minutes later, the traffic slowly started to move.  I returned to the library for a bathroom break, and the staff explained that the police rushed the truck, but the fugitive had disappeared.  No felon, no gun play, no violence.  Just forced practice.  I suppose the ambulance driver had a siren blaring just to get other vehicles out of the way.

 I jumped into my van, slowly wound my way through town, finally entered I-70, and prepared for the long uphill grind to the tunnels.  There are three eastbound lanes up the six-mile grade until just before the tunnel entrance.  I usually follow the right lane if there are only a few big rigs, just to avoid the hurried rush, occasionally moving into the middle lane to pass.  I was driving at the posted speed limit (65 mph), but I was still one of the slowest vehicles on the roadway.  The asphalt surface seemed especially rough, potholes and cracks everywhere, overly worn, barely visible striping, not a fun experience.  But at least the road surface was dry.  I managed the first five miles without incident, changing lanes when needed, the ultimate coolant test at high rpms.  But a mile before the tunnels, at milepost 213, a shrill dashboard scream pierced the air as my temperature gauge suddenly shot up.  Luckily, I was abreast a wide shoulder, a parking area where large vehicles often waited to cool down.  I was off the road in a spit second, as far away from traffic as one can get along an interstate highway.  I immediately turned off the engine.  At least I was safe.  Steam started flowing up from the grill.  I exited, walked around the van, and lifted the hood to assess the damage. A coolant concoction had sprayed everywhere. In short, a mess.  The road noise was excessive.  I guessed about 50 vehicles per minute were whizzing by as they headed uphill to the tunnels.  The biggest trucks, slow moving low gear diesels, were the most ear splitting.  

I pondered my situation.  I thought about waiting for the engine to cool, then adding water to the radiator and driving through the tunnel.  That might work, but a stalled, overheated vehicle in a 1.7-mile-long claustrophobic shaft at 11,000 feet under the Continental Divide, with no way to pull out of traffic didn’t seem like fun.  I called AAA.  They were prompt.  Within an hour I was yet again on the back of a flatbed tow truck.  During the 50-mile drive to Denver, I considered my experience.  I managed to stay safe and painlessly snagged a tow truck.  State Farm would ultimately reimburse me for my out-of-pocket charges.  Sooner or later, I would have my van problem properly diagnosed and fixed.  And most importantly, I had attained peace with the tunnels by getting towed from both sides of the Continental Divide in just three years! I had reached closure, a form of geographic symmetry and an accomplishment of great proportions.