As we head east, followed by the small red hybrid, we could see many of our mountains still topped with snow. Much of it laid in the past week.

Even as we turned south, we could see high country in our neighboring state that still bore a white mantle.

Here I took dozens of shots, apologizing to youngest son, sitting behind me, for the steady breeze blowing into his face from my window at 65 mph. But as I said, the mountains mean more when you've climbed to the top of at least two:

The season's snow highlighted the features of the ridge connecting those two peaks:

...the Mummy. His head resting in his headdress, arms folded on his chest, wrapped in shrouds of white. Downstream from his bier we enjoyed lunch at Avogadro's Number.

Where youngest son discovered, to his dismay, that a "Tempeh" burger is a soybean burger.

And not a very good one, at that. And all of a sudden half of my French dip disappeared. (Heelers liked the tempeh, though.)

We had our first peek at war protesters.

A rare, if even existent, sight in our conservative red state.

Farther south, the snow on the high peaks had melted away. Summer struck this country weeks ago, with its high temperatures and dry winds.

But there were those along our path who I'm sure did not care about the summer heat.

Just as marriages have a beginning, so too they must end. Which brought us to the final stop of our southern journey.