Vail, CO

This morning we find ourselves atop Independence Pass, a place of great geographical significance. I am standing on the Great Divide, you see. Not the Great Divide in a Scott Stapp sense, but a continental divide that physically splits North America between east and west. If I were to stand on this spot and urinate (hypothetically speaking of course), in a westerly direction, it would filter down into the headwaters of the Colorado River and eventually make its way into the Gulf of California and on into the Pacific Ocean.

Now, if I were to execute a 180-degree turn - taking care not to get any on my shoes - and send my precious cargo in an easterly direction, it would join a tributary of the mighty Mississippi and eventually exit into the Gulf of Mexico, to join the Atlantic. Who knows to what extent that spur-of-the-moment decision might eventually come to change the course of history. A hawk circles overhead apprehensively, fully aware of the power I wield in my right hand.

At the lookout, the Aspen Road winds down the mountain far below us. A couple of maniacs on bikes are making the slow ascent towards us, but there is little in the way of vehicle traffic. This road is in fact closed due to bad weather for almost two-thirds of the year. A nearby roadsign is a reminder of this, saying "Icy Conditions May Exist". Interesting. Perhaps the Icy Conditions belong to the same bookclub as the Gusty Winds on the Arizona/New Mexico Border and they're currently reading the works of Sartre and Camus.

For the first time on my journey I am aware of the cold: the temperature gauge in the car shows 14 degrees. But then we are 12,095 feet above sea level, enough to make a man not only shiver but struggle noticeably for breath. By way of comparison, the summit of Mt Cook is 12,316 feet, merely 70m higher than where I'm standing now. I get back into the car, satisfied that I'll never need to climb Mt Cook now, and we set off for Vail.

A couple of hours later, we arrive and pull into a hotel on the edge of Vail Village. I know from previous conversations with people that Vail is to Aspen what Wanaka is to Queenstown: a mellower, less glamourous but more family-oriented ski destination for the not-so-rich-and-famous; and a pleasant, outdoorsy place for a getaway in the summer months.

Turns out Vail is nothing like Wanaka at all - nor is it at all like anywhere else. Walking around the village, I'm reminded of Disneyland crossed with The Truman Show. All the people, buildings and shopfronts are real, but in a completely fake way. I suppose it is little wonder that the town seems artificial, given that it's been built from scratch over the past 45 years, but these concrete parking lots and high rises just seem so shockingly out of place here in the Rockies, surrounded by pristine wilderness and undoubtedly lots of bears.

Vail is modelled on a alpine European village, and to some extent it succeeds. The high rise buildings feature pointed roofs and numerous stepbacks in the European style, as do the chalets stretching up the sides of the valley. Trouble is, most European villages don't have busy transcontinental freeways laden with 18-wheel trucks scything through them, nor do they tend to have massive 200-foot construction cranes spoiling the view. These unmistakably American footprints on the town are rather jarring. Likewise, where you might expect to see Heidi prancing about in a meadow, you see American tourists with the usual t-shirt-and-shorts configuration standing around outside burger joints and scratching their heads. Actually, the hefty Americans are about the less contrived thing about the town.

With a tinge of sadness, I report that Vail represents the ending point for the first leg of my Insipid Journeys. The journey has taken us through five Western states and more than 1500 miles of highway over seventeen days. It has been incident-packed, occasionally entertaining and usually fattening. I have met some real characters on the way, mainly of the human variety. People that could only have come from this special part of the world, with its wide open spaces, interminable sunshine and the veritable melting pot of cultural influences that make the South-West so unique. Truth be told, it has been anything but insipid.

Tomorrow, we drop off the trusty old Mercury Grand at Denver Airport and board a plane for the East Coast. There, lurking in the sweltering midsummer twilight, waits the mother of all cities. The Big Apple, Metropolis, The Big Smoke, The City That Never Sleeps.

New York Fuckin' City.