Well, this isn't what was expected... but expect the unexpected, right?
Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park was supposed to be our first real adventure since March and a rekindling of the adventurous spirit. But unfortunately, this trip was cursed.
Let me explain: this is not the first time we have attempted to go to Black Canyon. We have tried to go to Black Canyon every single year since we've lived in Colorado. It's the only CO National Park we haven't gone to - and it's not even the furthest (that honor goes to Mesa Verde). We've been haunted by other adventurers - some who have taken similar paths to ours - making it there when we couldn't. But for some reason, something always goes wrong on this trip and we always have to cancel or come back.
Fast forward to Friday. All the laundry has been washed and I folded for hours and hours after hours and hours of work. At first, I wanted Joe to get out early so we could leave at 3. He called me around then and told me that one of the people he supervises had a family emergency and he might have to go into work this weekend. I not-so-politely told him that we were going anyway and they could find someone else. This isn't unusual and we've had similar situations pop up before, but when you only get one in three weekends (yay! one pr two weekends a month, even though having weekends available was literally part of the reason he took this job and he sacrificed weekends for literally an entire year with no thanks, no big deal, we just gave up all of our family time and our only hobby, whatever /rant over) it's a little more important that we spend that time together.
We didn't end up leaving until 6:40. When it became obvious that we wouldn't leave until after 5, we made dinner and ate at home. Oz is potty training, so it's better if we leave close to bedtime anyway because we'll only have to stop one time for a potty break and we'll make great time. That and traffic wasn't bad.
The drive to Black Canyon is easy for the first 150 miles - we drive one road pretty much the entire time. As soon as we left the city, things started to become ominous. JR had motion sickness. Normal, nothing to worry about. We've been handling this for years. Oz was sleepy. Unusual for the time because he usually stays awake until 8, but not the end of the world. Then Joe starts getting motion sickness, which never happens. I'm not that bad of a driver, geez.
But we take OTC anti-nausea magic pills and carry on; minor non-infectious illness will not deter us (and we'll all feel better in the morning anyway, right?) Then, two hours down the road, we get a notification from our car that we have low tire pressure. It's 8:30 and everyone is napping, even Joe, so I decide to ignore it. One of our tires has a slow leak that we've been living with for a few months now, so I wasn't concerned. But upon hearing the DING Joe sprung into life like a zombie rising from the grave and very loudly stated CHECK IT.
The car revealed that the tire pressure read 125 psi (it's supposed to be 245), and in horror as it dramatically dropped to 90, then 85. We were in the middle of nowhere - about halfway between Buena Vista and Fairplay on 285 - and had a flat for sure. There was a pull off in view, so we put on caution lights and kind of just limped over.
Now, a flat tire alone is not enough to deter us from an adventure. We've had flat tires before, both of us (independently) know how to change a tire, and have a donut. Heck, I've even posted IG stories about us getting a flat and how to determine how bad it is because when you drive enough, it kind of just happens. If you can find a shop first thing in the morning, you can get a patch on the tire and keep going - you'll just be delayed by about half a day. Not a huge deal.
However, we have an unusual tire size that's not commonly carried at tire shops and we don't have a regular spare. So when I opened the door to check how bad it was and could hear a loud, audible hissssssssss, I knew this would not be a simple patch job. We elected to use what was left of the daylight to swap our tire for the donut, and Joe got to work on setting up the jack while I moved stuff around to get to the donut.
Fortunately, I had enough of a signal (even though it was roaming) to check the close towns for a tire shop. Nothing nearby would be open until Monday. And even then, as Joe started to take off the tire, we saw exactly how bad it was: it was completely shredded on the inside edge. This was not patchable; we would need a whole new tire.
Around the time he started taking of the tire, we heard the distinctive thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap of a flat tire making its way down the hill. Sure enough, someone pulled up in front of us with a flat on their trailer. Fortunately, they weren't hauling anything and after some discussion (we offered to help take off the tire so they didn't bend the rim) they decided just to limp the rest of the way to their destination about an hour away.
We were about 100 miles from home. You're not supposed to travel on a donut very far - it's to get you to safety and that's about it. I called our roadside assistance to see if they had any better advice. Their only available options were to either send someone out to change our tire for us (the tire was already changed at this point) or get us a tow.
They also advised driving to Silverthorne, where the closest dealership was, which is hilarious because we'd have to take route 9 over Hoosier Pass, which would take us like two hours. We could be home in three.
So we decided: we'd just drive home on the donut. There weren't many options; there's no way we could get a new tire before the end of the weekend. Once again, we wouldn't make it to Black Canyon.
We got home safely around 12:30, went to bed, and everyone woke up with a cold. Because this trip was cursed. Oh, and Joe went in to work on Sunday after all.