2000-07-18 - 20:30 MDT

July 18, 2000

Ludicrously Lyrical

The little squalling, sprawling mountain towns West of Denver now have outlet malls as well as many more domiciles - - - and better ones too - - - beaucoup people and cars and trucks bumper to bumper, with resorts everywhere.

Town is now in the mountains, the only difference is in the pricing - - - the higher the altitude, the higher the prices. Don't ask, you know the answer already.

But the air is cool, clear and like a cold shower to my soul. Even with the mad masses up here in the mountains it is good, peple are happy, laid back and seem to be enjoying what they are doing. Troubling others does not seem to be in their vocabularies.

Just don't do much shopping up here for items which can be bought in town - - - too high. The Outlet Malls are where the bargains can be found. Cheaper for them up here to do business and lower taxes too.

In most areas the old buildings have been restored and the new have been built to be suitable to be seen in the mountains. Not like it was a while back, big, fancy ostentatious, white painted structures stuck on the hillsides like toys on a sandpile. Browns, earth tones, grays, forest greens and touches of sky blue all blend into the scenery well. The highest buildings I have seen in the mountain towns are at the most six stories - - and do blend in quite well. Every where there is a great deal of rockwork, sandstone slabs, stream worn stone and some sharp edged stones which seem to have been ripped out of the earth by magical force.

There are many streams in the mountains, some natural lakes, some lakes resulting from waterflow being dammed. A few lakes up here are large enough to hold regattas.

The weather pattern in this part of the country is usually from West to East and the fluffy clouds drift overhead in a sky truly blue, some times the clouds scud across the sky as if pursued by bad news. They seem at those times to move much more rapidly than in town.

On the way up, besides road work narrowing the highway it rained hard enough so that all traffic was creeping, which is not the normal movement in the mountains. Then an inexplicable hold up of traffic continued as far as the eye could see, we were at a dead stop for about an hour. The town bound traffic going the other way, just zipping along at a maddening pace. Every little movement of westboud, jerkily from time to time would show us another stretch of jammed automotive machinery, until the next curve blocked the view. Finally we reached the point of the blockage, we saw two cars, horribly torn up, one crushed into a metal pancake and the other torn up, mangled with nothing at all above the bottom of the windows in the process of being loaded up on wrecking trucks It seemed to me as we passed by that no one could have survived that horrible thing. As we were stuck in traffic we had seen a helicopter headed west above us, and arriving at the scene of the wreck I guessed that the helicopter arrived too late. There was no 18 wheeler or large truck involved but it seemed to me that those wrecked toys had suffered the consequences of drivers overestimating the capabilities of themselves and their machinery.

Tonight July 17 we will eat at the same, nice Mexican Restaurant that we did last year. It is in the condo building where we are staying on the ground level. We expect the cuisine and service to be as perfect as it was last year.

But it is all very different than the mountains I knew as a child. There were more mountains, valleys and trees than people there then. Mountains were forested all the way and not marred scarred with ground cover only ski runs, looking like dogs with the mange.

During my childhood cars ran at a much slower speed, roads were not improved - - - gravel roads in the mountains were first class yet. The little towns were further apart. Slow speed, rough roads, tiny towns gave us a sense of great adventure.

Arriving and stopping at a high spot up there one could survey a whole world of mountains - - - near and far, knowing that from you to the farthest point you could see there were few roads and less people. Almost pristine, almost! The early trappers and traders probably felt cramped though.

But though attractive and nicely cared for as the enviornment and infrastructure are. . . . . I too feel crowded. In my not too far back memories are places such as one place going West on I-70 from Grand Junction where there is no food, water, fuel or service for 110 miles

Over barren, rocky terrain, canyon lands or green mountains I seemed to be in a place made for "just Me."

I am sitting here writing at a table on the condo's balcony, two levels up - - - over looking a muttering, mumbling and sometimes cascading noisily mountain stream, listening to the music that is made by nature alone. Wrapped in my blue, knit, hooded snuggler because it is cool this late in the afternoon. Tonight as we stroll, if there is a breeze, this old sissy will probably have the hood up too. It has been quite hot in Denver for a protracted period, our blood is thin and we chill easily.

We will go to sleep tonight, lulled by Water Music, and awake tomorrow morning hearing a variation on that theme.

July 18, We slept last night under a light blanket as we had the door open guarded by only a screen, to let the cool, pure, winey air in for a last revel - - we drifted off to slumber and pleasant dreams listening to the stream chuckling in the dark.

Breakfast, a leisurely stroll, a look around. Then comes the miserable trek back to the lowlands, back to town, leaving Paradise for a necessary, but less likeable destination. As we lose altitude, the temperature and humidity rise, finally our ears pop and hearing comes back to normal.

The last few miles will be drudgery, tired, strung out and irritable we will bite out tongues, unpack, put away stuff and grouse our way to bed. So we will sleep in our air conditioned apartment, listening to traffic and the occasional siren to rise Wednesday morning to the old humdrum existence.

Evening July 18 - - - - and so it happened. Mama, I want our old moutains back - - - hush child.

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