A drive to Crested Butte, Colorado around Thanksgiving illustrated the familiar adage that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
In the change column, a roadside barbecue joint -- landmark in its own right -- had ceased operation since our last time through. The Hog Heaven sign now read, disappointingly, "Salon."
In the unchanged column, the top of Monarch Pass remains treacherous. I remember on a previous trip the fast flashing headlights of an oncoming car going down the pass while we headed up. We slowed in response, rounding a sharp corner to see a car flipped over, the victim seemingly of excess speed meeting black ice. The car's passengers had extricated themselves and appeared okay as they shakily waved other traffic past the flares hissing in the highway. Fast forward to this Sunday at the identical spot, another car now flashing its déjà-vu brights. (In fairness to the Fates, we were now driving east rather than west.) Turns out that same shaded curve had claimed another casualty, this time the car, tires still touching pavement, had spun around a different axis and into a snow bank.
So the journey is marked in memories, increments, and sometimes constants.