We roll out of Telluride on a road pretending to be civilized—trees overhead, gentle grades, postcard vibes—until the canyon walls pinch in and the mountains start narrowing their eyes at three used Nissans (two Muranos and a Juke) that somehow woke up thinking they were Jeep Wranglers. A quick stop in Ophir turns into liquid-ice gold panning, “found it!” hysteria, and a suspiciously lucky scoop… because obviously we came to Colorado to become prospectors.
Then the real reason we’re here: Ophir Pass. A scar carved through the mountain, littered with tailings, ledges, loose rock, and enough 35-inch-tire Jeeps to make us feel personally judged. The trail’s rated “badass,” we’re workshopping Nissan windshield mascots like it’s a board meeting, and the only strategy is momentum—because stop-start on a CVT at altitude is how you learn what “burning smell” really means.
Grip disappears, nerves climb, traffic squeezes by on a ledge that barely fits one vehicle… and then the mountain throws its counterpunch: one boulder, one crack, an all-wheel-drive error, and a slow bleed that turns “150 feet from the summit” into a full-stop diagnosis under the rear. Satcom out, photos sent, verdict delivered: differential actuator cracked—tow time—and the whole operation detours to Denver.
It’s a brutal, funny, humbling finish to a trip built to expose weakness—Bonneville’s corrosive white flats, Little Sahara’s sand, Moab’s punishment, and Colorado’s thin-air climbs—and somehow the battered old Nissans still don’t quit. But will we ever get our redemption on Ophir Pass… and what did it cost us to try?
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