You can't get lost here (San Luis Valley edition)

There aren't enough places in this world where you can feel as though no turn is wrong. I happened back to mine on the start of a recent trip.

In a distant farm field , dust whirls caught the sunlight breaking through the patchy clouds. Above the tiny funnels, I spied a sundog high above the valley. 

The visual mirage of ice crystals that makes it look as if a second sun sprouted astride the real deal. They are brief but magical. I had not seen one in years, but that afternoon across the San Luis Valley, nature seemed playful. 

You have to try to get lost on the numbered farm roads, among the myriad homesteads and fields anxious for spring. Tendrils of storm clouds reached down to the valley floor. 

The golden hour sun turned snow-capped Blanca Peak into a beacon visible across the broad valley. The prominent 14’er seems ever more commanding with its wintry cap. The unusual brightness was hypnotic, daring me to take my eyes off the mountain in its winter form.

The occasional flock of visiting sandhill cranes flapped along. They clucked and chortled during the brief valley stop, just a few weeks in March before migrating north again. Sandhill cranes are a comforting bird, their migrations signaling the nearness of spring. 

As I turned down dirt road after dirt road, a Calexico instrumental came on the radio, The Book and the Canal. A song of minimal piano and cello, the sound turned grand when played to the backdrop of the valley. It runs two minutes, and I lost track of how many times I hit Repeat. 

Local drivers passed me as I watched cows, horses, sheep and goats graze through the end of the day. More cranes passed by. 

Every car seemed headed for The Colorado Farm Brewery, a hop and grain farm to support its beers. Locals swarmed here on a Friday night, their little gathering spot among the cottonwoods. I abandoned plans to stay as I saw the swelling crowd, grabbed some to-go beer, and resumed wandering as sunset slid into twilight. 

When the sun fell beyond the San Juan Mountains, the mostly full moon took over, brightening every patch of ice and snowy peak. The dark grew comforting on the silent roads. The valley’s altitude caused temperatures to plummet at night, and 25 degrees at 5:30 felt almost balmy.

 Barely a peep of life arose through the business districts of Alamosa, Monte Vista, Del North and South Fork. Only an electric cross above Del Norte challenged the moonglow. Nothing stirred - for almost 50 miles I rarelt encountered another car. 

I would be beyond Wolf Creek Pass and its intimidating switchback curve before the sun broke into morning . Yet I knew another aimless spin across the SLV would come, and I would cue up the Calexico again.