We fled the short-sheeted Sheraton for a lovely bed and breakfast in Ouray. The China Clipper's nautical theme was incongruous in the middle of the mountains, and felt more like a small hotel than a B&B, but the bed was high (there was a little wooden stepstool on what was therefore clearly RDC's side), the atmosphere non-corporate, and the view of the canyon wall from the porch an excellent way to rest your eyes over the top of your book. Our room was the Southern Cross (#8 in the virtual tour), and I noticed that in the Sheraton, we usually had CNN on, while at the China Clipper, the television remained blind and mute: corporate v. non-corporate.
But damn, that was a long drive, and we had a leisurely start to the day, so all we did was wander about the town and, get this, shop. Can you call it shopping when you don't buy anything? Or is it shopping if you go in instead of just looking through windows and have not ruled out the possibility of buying? Crested Butte, Ouray, Silverton, and Telluride all were born mining towns in the late 19th century and the architecture shows it. Now, with the mining nearly not happening, they survive on tourism. This time, I'm sorry to say, we fit more into the sightseeing demographic than the active one, but the sightseeing was fine and the shops were mostly shops, not shoppes, and the galleries good.
(Only Ouray's main street, part of U.S. 550, is paved. There are no traffic lights. There is no McDonald's or Wal-Mart in San Juan County. There is Billy Goat Gruff's Biergarten, though.)
On the way to Ouray, we did not stop at Ridgway State Park, whose photographs lie. This our guidebook had proclaimed "the crowning jewel" of Colorado state parks, which bodes poorly for all the rest of them and for the state. It looked just as much like a reservoir as any other and its roped-off swim area, visible from the state route, was the size of Cherry Creek reservoir's, such that even if you ventured in (which I never have, preferring my swim water separate from my sewage water and please don't ask where my drinking water comes from), you could not swim any distance, or away from paddling peeing children, or in water deep enough not to be murky from disturbing the bottom, or out of the roped area without being run down by a foul motor boat or "personal water craft."
We had our best meals yet, service and food combined. In Crested Butte, the Wooden Nickel's service was surly (though the prime rib was good); the Gourmet Noodle's and Bacchinale's marinaras abysmal (RDC dove into the kitchen when we got home to make real sauce) though cheerfully served; and the Idle Spur was depressingly empty though the elk chops were tasty. Our first meal in Ouray, by contrast, was lunch at Le Papillon Bakery, which served po'boys! I regretted not sampling its desserts. At Buen Tiempo for dinner, I had a seafood mixed grill with a wonderful fruit salad. I had never eaten anything called "mixed grill" before (I would have said "mixed seafood grill") and all I could think of was The Corrections--I think the transposed adjectives indicate that "mixed grill" is really its own dish. RDC had something way hotter than I can manage--the one forkful I ventured made me regret my wussy palate. The next night's dinner happened at the Coachlight, a hokey enough name that I could not help thinking of the late Chop House in Flanders, Connecticut, an unfair slight to this not nearly as pathetic place.