We stumbled on perhaps the most beautiful drive in Colorado by accident on Saturday.

“Do you want to take the highway?” I asked my wife and our son after a day of fruitless fly fishing in the famous Dream Stream. It had been a beautiful day of hiking along the South Platte River that connects Spinney Reservoir and Eleven Mile. The wind perfectly touched our cheeks, and the stream reflected the clear blue sky. Alas, we couldn’t find a single fish.

“Or, do you want to try this route to Tarryall Reservoir?”

We had left the Charlie Meyers State Wildlife Area — the Dream Stream, one of Colorado’s most popular and technical fly fishing spots — just a few minutes before. Now a fork in the road was upon us. To our left was Highway 24, the fastest route back to Denver. Ahead of us was San Juan Street and to an unknown adventure.

“Tarryall,” my wife and son replied.

Maybe it was because the white clouds floated daintily above us, with not a hint of rain. Maybe it was because the day was bright but cool. Maybe it was because the sky was so close you can almost hug it. Maybe it was because we went up and down rolling green hills, as the expanse to our left and right reminded us that Colorado’s peaks kiss the heavens.

Maybe it was the anticipation of what’s to come, of not knowing where the road led.

Whatever it was, we found the drive mesmerizing.

“Those are aspen trees,” my wife noted. “Can you imagine what that looks like in the fall?”

“Beautiful,” I said.

“Yes, beautiful.”

The drive from the Dream Stream to Tarryall Reservoir took about an hour, through 24 miles of Colorado wonder via Country Road 23-A. We saw a few campers along the side of the dirt road — and its natural dwellers, including deer, hares and birds. We saw two wells, which we suspected were for the livestock.

We saw prairies and thin vegetation. And green fields. And brown boulders.

And for miles we saw no one else.

Maybe that was it. That feeling of peace and quiet. It was just us, the dirt road, the hum of our car’s engine, the rustling of leaves.

“I know that sign!” my wife exclaimed as the outline of Tarryall Reservoir suddenly came into view. “Now I know where this road leads!”

She had run this hill last time we visited Tarryall and she had wondered where she’d end up if she kept going. Now she knows — she’d hit the Dream Stream if she ran for 24 miles.

“Shall we cast our lines, dad?” our son asked, looking at the waterfall by the dam. We had caught several brown and rainbow trout here before.

“You read my mind,” I replied.