The check engine light was still on the next morning when I started the car (having managed to shower without any Hershey's Chocolate Syrup encounters*). After a thorough assessment of the situation, I decided to ignore it. (We were in the middle of a cross-country trip, the car had just gotten a check-up and a clean bill of health, and it might've been an automatic response to exceeding 100,000 miles -- a milestone I was rather irritated with myself for having missed witnessing by 15 miles, by the way.)

We proceeded to the Chimney Rock visitor center, outside of which was a cautionary sign, advising us to watch out for rattlesnakes, which are common in the area. I responded, "Oh cool! I've never seen a rattlesnake before!" Patrick was somewhat less gung-ho about the prospect. Unfortunately, my lifelong rattlesnake sighting deprivation still has yet to be remedied. The video presentation and museum displays were very informative; we learned, for example, that the landmark had originally been called "Elk Penis." The museum also included a "Load your own covered wagon" activity, at which one nine-year-old was authoritatively lecturing his younger siblings on the importance of bringing lots of flour.

While photographing the scenery, I figured out how to work the timer on my digital camera. I was especially pleased that I managed to do this while leaning across a corner of prairie (currently undergoing restoration, and therefore not to be stepped on), from the sidewalk to the bench around the corner (on which the camera was resting), at about a 30 degree angle with the ground. (Patrick merely sat and watched the spectacle.) In addition to photography, the landmark also inspired artwork:

Having fully experienced Chimney Rock, we picked up a few postcards from the gift shop on our way out, as well as a package of buffalo jerky. The contents of the latter were gone before I even backed out of our parking space. Fortunately, this meant that it was no problem to run inside and buy four more.

We took US 385 to get back to our scheduled route (we would now be on I-76, having worn out the usefulness of I-80), passing into Colorado on the way. Since the only vehicle in sight as we did so was the tractor in the adjacent cornfield, we could easily stop at the border to take photos. Taking a second look at the Nebraska sign welcoming those traveling in the opposite direction, I was somewhat surprised by the wealth of bullet holes.

"Has someone been shooting the Nebraska sign?" I asked, a bit redundantly.

"You've never lived in the country, have you?" Patrick replied.

At Starbucks...

...photographing sheep.

Once we reached I-76, we continued west until we were reunited with Scott. (Having decided the night before that Chimney Rock was not worthy of his attendance, he'd remained on the interstates.) We lost him again around Denver, though, when he stopped to read some more.

When the purple car became noticably less peppy and even began to struggle on the Mile High City's insidious inclines, I started to get a little bit worried. But since its pep returned on downhills, and since one had to make allowances for it being packed rather densely, I figured this was the fault of Denver, and not the purple car. I did, however, tell my father about the situation when we stopped to get Frappacinos and take pictures of longhorn sheep at a Starbucks a little further west. (I had to call anyway for the obligatory parental update/assurance that I was still alive.) He agreed with my evaluation, and also with my suggestion that we not mention any of this to my mother.

We decided to go as far as Leadville that night, so we could get up early the next morning to visit its Mining Museum and Hall of Fame, which AAA recommends highly. On the way there, we stopped in Frisco to get gas - and, it turned out, barbecued chicken, beef brisket, and various other delectable meats. (A bike fair was just winding down, and the stands which had been set up were selling off the last of their wares at bargain prices.) On the road to Leadville itself (which is about 20 miles off the interstate), our progress was considerably slowed by the threat of deer; we passed two herds by/on the road and a handful of others wandering about on their own. There was also a fox that tried to throw itself under the wheels of the purple car. Nevertheless, we managed to reach our destination without obliging any of the road kill aspirants.

Unfortunately, we couldn't celebrate at the Manhattan Bar, since drinking alcohol is one of those things you don't want to do when trying to adjust to high altitudes, so instead we settled in for the night at the Alps Motel. (Well, some of us settled. Others of us somersaulted from bed to bed until the lack of oxygen at 10,185 feet caused the room to spin interestingly.)

Once Scott joined us there, we discussed our route for the next day. Now, originally, Scott had been very adamant about wanting to visit Aspen, and opined at length about its beauty. As we actually neared the vicinity, however, he had clarified that he didn't so much mean going to Aspen as "driving around the Aspen area." Now he explained that "driving around the Aspen area" meant "going past the exit for Aspen on the interstate."

No matter; after visiting the museum first thing in the morning, we would head back to the highway and be on our way.

*Hint for those unfamiliar with the reference: Recall that Psycho was filmed in black and white.