If you recall, that’s how I started Dave on the Rocks in the Rockies: Part I. After we arrived at our friends’ house, “What the hell was that?!” quickly turned into “So that’s what the hell it was.”

Once we unloaded our luggage from our rented Mazda CX-5, I happened to glance at the front passenger door. ¡Ay, Dios mio! A door-length piece of decorative trim was gone. Vanished. Into thin air. (9,600 feet above sea level, remember?)

Somehow it detached from the door while we were driving, and I must have run it over, producing the “Clunk! Smack!” we’d heard. Scooby-Doo mystery solved. Still, I was none too pleased with the discovery. Enterprise Rent-A-Car was going to blow a gasket. I could see the dollar bills flying out of my wallet. 

“But it wasn’t my fault!” 

“Tell it to the judge, kid.”

So, was I going to let this rental car snafu put a dent in my weeklong vacation? 

A little bit. 

Happy Birth-Dave

The following morning I woke up still irked about the car, but other than that I was in a particularly sunny mood. Why? Because I just completed another lap around ol’ Sol. My birthday. 

I had no idea how the day was going to unfold, but I was in the Rockies, breathing fresh mountain air, surrounded by new critters and old friends. Life, despite occasionally kicking you in the huevos, was looking pretty rosy.

I walked downstairs into the kitchen and spotted a small “Happy Birthday” balloon near my seat at the table. Nice touch. Don and Angie then made a breakfast fit for a king. King David. Scrambled eggs, at least three tons of crispy bacon, potatoes with all sorts of goodness, toast made with Dave’s Killer Bread (yes, that’s really what the brand is called — I had nothing to do with it), and an arugula salad sprinkled with shredded Parmesan. 

The food. The friendship. The laughs. I couldn’t imagine the day getting any better. But it did.

Go Ahead, Call It Frisco

People from the Bay Area hate hate HATE when outsiders truncate their beloved San Francisco to ‘Frisco. Fingernails on a chalkboard. But in Colorado, it’s okay, because that’s the actual name. Frisco. A small town about 10 miles south of Breckenridge with a chill, laid-back vibe. It was the starting point for our first bike ride. 

Don and Angie had their own bikes, Dave and I rented ours from a place called Rebel Sports. (Thanks for the bday gift, Dave.) We got a quick tutorial on how to use the “e” part of our e-bikes, and we were off.

The bike path we took is officially called “Tenmile Canyon Rec Path.” The locals wisely dispense with the formalities and just call it “Frisco to Copper.” (Copper being Copper Mountain ski resort.) The path runs parallel to Tenmile Creek through a narrow, alpine canyon lined with pine forests, boulder fields and 360-degree views of the surrounding peaks. Stunning.

On a previous ride, Angie had spotted mountain goats clinging to the steep terrain. No such luck today. But with the living, breathing postcard scenery around us, I wasn’t complaining.

It was a steady uphill climb, from about 9,000 feet in downtown Frisco to nearly 10,000 feet at Copper Mountain. And, boy howdy, was I glad I had some electric assistance up that steep grade.

Downhill, I let gravity do its thing. 

Scenery whizzed by. My eyes were watering, even with sunglasses on. And my new Patagonia hiking pants were slap-slap-slapping in the wind like sails on a clipper ship. (No spandex cycling shorts this day. Sorry, ladies.) I’m guessing we hit 30-plus mph. It took considerably less time going back. Roundtrip? A little shy of 19 miles. 

Taking a lap around the Colorado Rockies by bike. 

Not a bad way to celebrate another lap around the sun. 

“Elk? I’m game.”

For my birthday dinner, Don and Angie took us to a historic restaurant in downtown Breckenridge called Briar Rose Chophouse & Saloon. The place was cozy and inviting, with décor that can best be described as rustic-chic. Think mining-era charm, but upscale. Deadwood meets Succession. 

When I travel, I try to eat, drink, and act like a local. When in Rome. So when the waitress asked if I wanted to start with a cocktail, I chose a bourbon from a local distillery called, aptly enough, Breckenridge Distillery. I believe it was the Rum Cask Finish. I believe it was also damn tasty.

For my entrée, I was on the hunt for game meat. No beef, chicken or fish for this newly minted mountain man. The Wild Game Sausage Trio sounded interesting, but it was only a starter. I had wild boar sausage in Yellowstone many moons ago. If you’ve never had it, do yourself a flavor.

My eyes darted around the menu, skipping over the Cowboy Ribeye, Double-Cut Pork Chop, and Prime Rib and landing on the perfect choice: Elk Medallions in a Wild Mushroom Demi-glace. Oh, Mother Mary. 

“And how would you like your elk prepared?” 

“Still bugling, please.” 

The medallions arrived, silk-tender, flavorful but not gamey. I paired them with a big, chewy California cabernet (they don’t grow wine grapes in Breckenridge) and I was in culinary heaven.

Happy birthday to me.

Bye-Bye Breckenridge, Hello Boulder

Dave and I spent two more days in Breckenridge, four days in all. I could write about our lunch at Breckenridge Distillery where I had one of the best smashburgers I’ve ever eaten. 

I could write about our second bike ride around Dillon Reservoir with scenery so beautiful it seduces your eyes. (My retinas wanted a cigarette afterwards.)

Or I could write about hiking to one of Thomas Dambo’s world-famous troll sculptures. (See photo above.) But I won’t. I want to leave a bit of mystery so you, dear reader, will say, “Honey, pack your bags, we’re going to Breckenridge.” 

Looking back, it seems like I left a little piece of my heart in that charming mountain town.

And, unfortunately, a bigger piece of my rental car outside of Denver.

Next on Dave on the Rocks in the Rockies: Final Stop – Red Rocks Amphitheatre, the historic Hotel Boulderado, and the Estes Park hotel that was the inspiration for Stephen King’s “The Shining.”