The journey to Steamboat Springs was real uneventful. Miles of highway, followed by miles of b-roads.

The Nordic Motel looked, shall we say, more like a KGB detention centre, than a place to relax on a weekend away.

This suspicion was confirmed, when I met the owner, who bore a striking rememblence to Rosa Klebb (KGB henchwoman in James Bond films). It turned out she was Polish, and so her accent furthered my suspicion that if I didn't behave, she'd click her heels together to release the deadly knife blade in the front of her shoe.

Her daughter, far too friendly to be in the employ of a secret underworld organisation bent on world domination, showed us to our accommodation. It was basic, but functional, kinda like the former Eastern Bloc. Still what is one to expect for a mere $100 a night in Steamboat. Clearly this little cow town has prices above its station.

The dogs were happy enough with the room, however, and Miles in particular seemed very excited. He particularly liked the air-conditioning.

Just as the air-conditioning was getting going, Rosa appeared, like a Spectre* at the window, barking orders that indicated that we were fools, and capitalist scum, for not shutting the window fully, when we had the A/C on.

After lunch in town, we all piled into my truck and headed up higher (10,400ft just isn't enough if you're going to hike in the heat! Far too much oxygen around!).

The journey, as is the way in Colorado, involved a lot of driving on unpaved roads, mud, rock, and so on, All justifying my choice of vehicle, as I shot past regular cars, struggling up the steep and rocky inclines.

After following the directions in the Canine Colorado book, it turned out they were somewhat bogus, My suspicion is that they were written by a Poodle with a grudge.**

So, I stopped and asked for directions. Having shattered that anti-Male cliché, I then had to head back down the rocks and dirt, to the paved road, and then back up a similar hill, with similar tough terrain.

Eventually, we found the trail we wanted, and set off. It was especially chosen, because it's one of a rare number of off-leash trails in Colorado.

It was all very well on the first half of the hike, as it was mostly downhill. There were beautiful Aspen trees, and may ferns that had turned golden red and yellow in the sun. I shot a few snippets of film, but nothing too exciting.

As we went along, there was a steady stream of Mountain bikers, quietly sneaking up on us from behind. So much so, that I ended up at the back of the party, occasionally looking across the ferns, for more incoming bikers. With the vegetation around me, it was starting to feel like I was looking out for the Viet-Kong.

Steamboat Springs, is very much, small-town America. However, unlike most small-town America towns, it has pretensions that it's something special. Well, Steamboat, here's the shock news... you're not. Maybe the fact that you're in 'ski country' means that every year, thousands of clueless skiing-obsessed poseurs*** descend upon you, happy to pay your over-inflated accommodation prices, but you're still one horse short of being a two-horse town.

The evening meal at a 'pub' was nice, and just to help it down, I consumed a steady stream of Guinness. In fact, the most admirable thing about our waitress, apart from the fact that she accidentally didn't charge us for one of the entrées, was the fact that she continually pre-empted my final sip of each Guinness, with a fresh pint.

PS. I'll try and follow up with some pictures.

Footnotes
*Excuse the Bond-related pun, I just couldn't help myself.
**Is there any other sort?
***You know the sort, constantly bleating on and on about how good skiing is. The same sort of tossers who have those "No Fear" stickers on their cars, and who frequent sports bars rather than decent pubs. These tedious, soulless fuckers, who just because they have an awareness of their own mortality similar to that of a three year-old, think that throwing themselves down mountains with planks on their feet, makes them somehow cool and interesting. Whereas the only way they'd ever actually be interesting would involve jumper-cables and a bucket of water.

It's that whole jock mentality. The whole, my suntan's better than yours, my truck's bigger than yours, my fuck-boring beige shoebox-on-steroids house in Highlands Reich is bigger than yours thing. These are the same people who by their brain-washed consumer choices allow the continued success of such mindless soul-destroying pits of Hell, like Z-Tejas Grill. Hmmm... It appears, I may have strayed from the point.