You've come to the part of the road your car can't handle. Perhaps you should have brought something with 4-wheel drive, not some gargantuan beast of a Volkswagen with as many people in it as you can fit. But that wouldn't be nearly as much fun.
If you want to go farther you have to hitch a ride through Scoffield Pass. You're worried about hitching, of course, even out here where the people are nice. Most assholes don't make it past the unpaved road. Perhaps later in the week you'll catch a ride, after you've worked up the nerve. For now you park your ungainly car and set up camp in the shadow of Gothic, an ornate mountain that fits its name, that looks like some gigantic hand ripped the spine out of some animal and cast it in rock. Perhaps there is some snow on the peaks even though it is summer.
The sunrise on Gothic is incredible, all pinks and reds staining the rock from top to bottom, leaking color onto the bare rock above the treeline. There's no one else around. The people you came with are still asleep, will still be asleep until it is fully light. Even the forest isn't quite awake. So you just stand, unselfconscious, struck, and watch.
Later there is no way you will be able to explain.
I. II. III. IV.