We got word that hiking pal Suzanne was in Durango and taking the early train to Silverton (there is no midnight train to Silverton). So we weighed the pros and cons of driving twenty six miles in order to let someone buy our lunch and beer… and showed up. How gracious are we?
Suzanne only had a two hour stopover and got caught up in the crush of a bunch of old Red Hat Society ladies, all trying to mass exit the train in unison. They were all gussied up in fancy red hats and wearing loud purple dresses decorated with rhinestones and sequin do-dads. Had I not known better, I'd of swore there was a Glen Campbell concert in town.
It can be treacherous pushing through a perfumed pack of purple people eaters—hair sprayed solid as fins on a '59 Caddy. I got the impression that there was only one thing on their collective mindset. Lunch. "Where we gonna eat?" You could see hunger in their eyes, like a pack of wolves working a newborn fawn. Kinda reminded me of my mom when she'd get an attack of low blood sugar.
The problem with having lunch in Silverton is that it's like Easter Sunday at high noon every time a steam train chugs into town. People disgorge onto streets like starving prisoners of war, fanning out in search of food and beverage and ice cream. One guy called in a bomb threat just to clear his favorite eatery.
|A posse of gals asking for directions to "food and drink"|
Warning to tall "bleeder" type dudes in ball caps: Judging from the scar on my forehead, I'd say the restaurant's sign hangs over the entry at right about about 6 feet 1 inch, well hidden by the bill on my ball cap. It laid me out cold, coming and going.
|Beware of the low hanging "Avalanche" sign over the short dude's head…|
|Suzanne in her 1st Class Glass Carriage, preparing to depart. "All aboard."|