Colorado Dreaming

I found my dream ranch. If I saved my entire paycheck month after month it would only take about 350 years to put back enough to buy it. I'm going to need a bigger piggy bank.

The Meaning of Community

Since it's taking me so long to finish writing about the Moab trip, I now have to interject with a post on this weekend's trip. It's fresh on my mind and I have thoughts swirling that need to get out.

This weekend was the annual farm tour of my favorite fruit grower, Steve Ela of Ela Family Farms. Steve is a 4th generation fruit grower. He's the only child who, after completing an education in biology and geology, decided to take over the family farm AND make it organic. His fruit is amazing and has filled many a jar in my pantry. I've long wanted to meet him in person.

Saturday morning we woke up early and left Boulder, destined for the Western Slope. We stopped for lunch in Redstone, Colorado and the historic inn. It was suggested on our weekend itinerary which the Ela family provided. Redstone is fairly remote and really isn't on the way to anywhere in particular, so it's a very tiny town with just a little tourism income. While lunching, two guys walked in. I said to Gerard, "Look at those two gay guys. I bet they're from Boulder and they're on their way to the farm tour." They looked about as out of place as we probably did. We finished our lunch and continued on, but not before a short stroll through downtown Redstone, which consisted of two or three shops and some log cabins. The river was gorgeous.

We eventually made our way to the farm and, among the crowd of 30 or so people, were the two gay guys from the Redstone Inn. There wasn't much time for introductions but we all organized quickly and kicked off the weekend with a wine tour. Southwestern Colorado, apparently, is decent grape-growing country. Provided, that is, you've got water rights, know how to deal with the weather extremes, can figure out the red soil thing and can make a three month growing season pay. More than a few people are doing it.

I'd never been on a wine tour and we had three on our list. The first was owned by a couple from California who'd gotten rich in the software industry. They bought some acreage in the mountains, built a cozy, rustic home, and invested in quite a lot of fancy wine making and distilling equipment. They seemed to be doing fine. Their wine was quite good, and they even produced vodka, brandy and a number of other spirits, all of which were organic and made either from their own fruit or the fruit of their neighbors. Seventy stores and restaurants in Colorado now sell their products. After a tour of the vineyard and facilities, we were invited inside where we all sampled the goods and chatted.

The second winery was owned by a Frenchman. His wine was less appealing to my palette, except for his dessert wine which was quite good. He also served food, which included various cheeses and elk and bison pate, all of which he made himself on the farm. Very good stuff. He also had a lot of farm animals which was kind of fun, including a goose with a very bad temper.

The third winery was my favorite. It was absolutely picturesque. It featured a stone cottage, which the family had built themselves with stones from the snowmelt river running through their property, and I don't know how many acres of lush grape vines trailing down the hillside with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. He was an aerospace engineer and she was a marketing something or other and they had previously lived in Boulder. They decided to leave the rat-race and sell everything. They bought the land, packed up the kids, built the cottage, planted the vineyard and threw their whole lives into making a go of the winery. Seems to be working for them too. When asked, they said they wanted a life where the family could live and work closely together, where they could enjoy the outdoors and do something creative. It was very nice, actually and the kids really seem to love it.

We were all pretty much lit after the wine tour so our caravan headed to a bed and breakfast that was once an old farmhouse. It's still a working farm, and the current owners were busily preparing an all-organic, all-local feast for us. At the farmhouse, we cracked open the wine we had purchased on the wine tour and everyone really got a chance to get acquainted. It was a perfect setting: a big farmhouse with an impressive garden, chickens milling about, a playful dog, a couple of farm cats skulking on the margins, a babbling brook, distant mountains, and lots of left-wing earth-mother foodies with way too much wine. Really, who could ask for more?

We met the gay couple we saw in Redstone (turns out they're from Denver, not Boulder), a really fun straight couple and a few other individuals who we'll definitely be socializing with again in the near future. There were over 40 people packed into that farmhouse. There was much laughter and celebrating and we carried on into the night. It was a truly wonderful experience. It felt like a community. It was cool outside, but the house was so warm and inviting and was filled with the aromas of good home cooking and lots of joy. Really I was amazed at how well the crowd just clicked. It was like we were all old friends. Someone would mention a book and everyone had read it. Someone would make a GW Bush joke and everyone would laugh. Several times I paused and thought it felt just like a big perfect family where everyone loved and accepted each other, had parallel interests, and times were good. There were parental figures and grandparental figures and niece and nephew and cousin and grandkid figures. If you didn't know, you wouldn't know. This b&b, in fact, has regular community dinners and brunches and is quite attuned to this sort of thing. Right before the meal was served, our wonderful hostess, Dava, announced what we'd be dining on and where every item came from: the greens were from the garden outside, the chicken from her neighbors Dave and Sue, the goat cheese from Crescent Farm, and so on. She thanked all of us for supporting the farmers that sell at the market, she thanked her neighbors, some of whom were dining with us, and she was thankful for the community we had all come together to create. It was really quite beautiful. Then Steve Ela stood up to say a few words, thanked all of us for our support of his farm and of his neighbors' farms, and again express his gratitude for the sense of community and celebration we had all come together to create. There we were in very rural Colorado, gay, straight, old, young, rich, poor, farmers and office professionals, business owners and interns, retirees and children, husbands, wives, boyfriends and girlfriends all coming together to celebrate not just food, but living. It was a very beautiful thing. I can't say I've ever experienced anything quite like it. It surpassed all my expectations. It literally felt and looked like a family, and for a few hours the world was absolutely perfect.

After the evening wound down and people began to drift away, Gerard and I retired to our room. We rented the "King Cottonwood" suite at the farmhouse, which featured a spacious room, a king sized bed, a private bath and a beautiful view of the farmstead. We slept with the windows open. I don't think I even twitched.

The next morning I awoke with the sun and the rooster, but I think it was the aroma of coffee that drew Gerard out of bed. We lolled around the farm grounds before the other guests stirred and eventually we all sat down to a leisurely and of course local breakfast. I think I could have spent two weeks, easily, relaxing on that farm. Bookshelves were stocked with titles on self-sufficiency, organic farming, yoga, and, of course, whitewater rafting, hiking, horseback riding, winery tours and all the other things to do and see in the area. And under Dava's kind and attentive gaze, we never wanted for anything. But we had to say goodbye, which we did with hugs, and finally moved on to the main event: the tour of the Ela farm. Steve, who had been with us throughout the weekend, was there with his wife, kids and his mother and father, who were just the quintessential country grandparents. Steve told us more about running an orchard, caring for the trees and using organic methods than we could adequately digest in a single sitting. He also talked at length about the importance of supporting local agriculture and illustrated one example after another of how our combined actions were making positive impacts on our community and our environment. As a fourth generation fruit grower who only in the last ten years switched to organic methods and started selling directly through farmer's markets instead of to the corporate ag market, Steve knows his stuff. And as always, he lavished us with genuine, heartfelt gratitude for our support.

We concluded the orchard tour with applause and a catered lunch in the orchard from a local restaurant. Phone numbers, hugs and handshakes were exchanged, thank-yous and smiles were traded, and people began to drift away. Gerard and I were among the last to leave. It turned out that I myself was a bit of a local celebrity and I didn't even know it. People were coming to me left and right saying, "So you're the ultimate locavore" or "I hear you're a locavore legend" and other silly things. Apparently my reputation for canning, butter and cheese making and general homesteading type activities preceded me with this crowd. I admit I enjoyed the attention, though it was entirely unexpected.

With much sadness we finally had to begin the journey back to our "real" lives. I'd say we took the scenic route home, but in Colorado every route is scenic. We did take roads less travelled, and I used the quiet and the scenery to reflect on the weekend. For all the irritating, mean, and downright despicable things humans are capable of, we can also be pretty darn wonderful. And to experience that in such a landscape as the Rockies, well, I think I'm pretty darn lucky. But I have to say this has only whetted my appetite for wandering the west and for homesteading, but I'll save that for another day.

Moab: Part II

Why do men like to pee outside?

We've got an IT guy at work whose originally from a small town in Texas. He's handsome in that rugged, educated Texas redneck sort of way. I was surprised when I learned he was in IT, and even more so when I learned he specialized in Macs. We hit it off right away.

Today he was in my office installing some software and, as usual, he wanted to talk trucks. I've got a big one, and he likes that. We also talked a little about growing up, and our similar desires for expansive property with room for horses, views of mountains, and plenty of peace and quiet. He was telling me with a twinkle in his eye about the cabin he's renting up in the mountains and the eight acres it sits on, when he says, "Man I've never peed outside so much in my life, not even in Texas!"

Yeah, that was my reaction too. Except then I remembered that I always prefer the outdoors to plumbing myself. Why is that? Come to think of it, I've known a lot of guys who seem to lean that way as well, though I can't say I've ever had a specific conversation about it. Well, maybe once or twice.

At any rate, this is a perfect lead into another Moab topic I wanted to touch on. Not peeing outdoors, but living for a time almost completely disconnected from the modern world. I long for this. I need this even if I can only get it in the form of short camping trips throughout the year. Moab was such a trip. And even though it rained every single night, it was perfect. Even Gerard, who is prone to frequent insomnia, slept like a baby every night we camped. There's something about being in the unspoiled wilderness, disconnected from city lights, pollution, the noise of traffic and people.

The first night we camped near Canyonlands National Park. We set up camp on a flat rocky surface just a few hundred yards from thousand-foot precipice. The view was spectacular, but I can't describe how good it felt to get naked under the wide open sky and splash the day's dust off with some cool water. Or the joy of sitting around a flickering camp fire eating a hot meal. Or the soothing sensation of being in a warm, dry sleeping bag while rain patters on the tent throughout the night. Or waking up to the smell of bacon drifting in the damp morning air and then watching the sun come up on an endless landscape. It was heaven.

Several times while hiking we came across ruins left behind from the Anasazi. Some were dwellings, and some were granaries, small stone storage rooms built along rocky overhangs for storing seeds and food. Some still contained long dried squashes and seeds which these farmers/hunters/gatherers put away for leaner times. All were at least 800 years old. We'd look at them, then sit by them in silence looking out across the canyons. What were these people like? I tried to imagine the hands that put those stones in place almost a millennium ago. I tried to imagine what they talked about, what their lives were like, how they scratched a living out of this beautiful but merciless environment.

Experts say there is more food in a desert like this than there is in an alpine forest like we have in the higher elevations here in Colorado. You just have to know where to look. I pondered the fact that I could tell you how to use a computer to figure out the best place to put a wind turbine, but I had no idea how to find food and water though it was all around me. It bugged me. Technology can be brought down by a single terrorist act or natural "disaster" but we still have to eat. It bugs me to be so dependent on "the system" for my most basic needs, though I must say I think I'm doing better than most.

I'm not trying to say that a stone age life is necessarily superior. I realize the problems they must have faced. I don't live with the reality that any day my food stores for the year could be plundered by a passing nomadic tribe of spear wielding hostiles, and that there's no Whole Foods from which to restock. Civilization has its benefits. But I can't help yearning for some of the simpler aspects of a life uncomplicated by all the stuff and all the people we have today.

Moab: Part I

I have been to Moab. It is good.

I came home early last Thursday undecided about going to Moab for a four day weekend because the forecast called for rain. Every single day. In the desert. But Gerard insisted we go anyway, and I'm glad he did. I'm going to break the trip up into multiple blog posts, partly because I have a lot to say, partly because each leg of the trip had its own feel, and partly because I just now have enough time to start writing about the trip.

So Thursday night we packed up and Friday morning we set out early. We had four full days ahead of us and no real agenda aside from making it to Moab at some point. One of the great things about road trips, especially unhurried ones, are the things you stumble across along the way. Around lunchtime on Thursday we found ourselves in the city of Glenwood Springs, Colorado. It was a cool, drippy day and we were in search of a bathroom, lunch and some hot coffee. The Summit Coffee Shop served us very well. It was as funky a coffee shop as you might find in Austin, but with that particularly mountain feel that only coffee shops above 5,000 feet seem to have. Maybe it was the wall of books and maps on whitewater rafting, hiking and Rocky Mountain field guides and everyone dressed in flannel, I don't know. I do know the coffee and muffins were fantastic, the service was friendly, and the atmosphere cozy enough to entice us to stay awhile. A few blocks away were the famous hot springs, believed by both Native Americans and present day citizens to be a source of healing. Of course these days it looks pretty much like a swimming pool you'd find in any suburban community center, only much bigger. We walked around town a bit and stayed just long enough to get a sense of the place, but it wasn't until we started to leave that I found a real treat. I saw a small sign that said, "Doc Holliday's Grave" and an arrow pointing into a quaint neighborhood.

"THE Doc Holliday!?" I gasped aloud.

"What's that?" Gerard asked. I explained as I made a hasty u-turn. A few minutes later we were at an unassuming and completely unremarkable trailhead at the back of the neighborhood at the base of a mountain. We climbed.

The trail was rocky and not maintained and it wound its way around the mountain, up and up, until we reached a small cemetery overgrown with weeds and juniper. We wandered through reading badly weathered tombstones dated as far back as the 1880's. Some were completely illegible and others had been toppled, but by weather or vandals I couldn't discern. And there, way in the back nestled between a large juniper and the edge of a precipice, stood a tall marble column bearing that old gunslinging dentist's name.

"Well I'll be damned," I said. A small plaque next to the marker explained that this was, in fact, not Holliday's exact resting place. Rather it was a memorial, since his exact resting place isn't known. It turns out he is indeed buried in the cemetery but in the early 20th century the cemetery records were lost and anyone buried prior to that time whose grave marker hadn't adequately withstood the test of time was now lost somewhere six feet beneath the juniper.

You may remember from high school history, or perhaps from the movie Tombstone, that Doc was involved in the legendary "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral," arguably the most famous gunfight of the American West. It all went down in Tombstone, Arizona where Doc, Wyatt Earp and others had their famous shootout with some of "The Cowboys," a band of outlaws. In fact, Earp later said of Holliday, "he was the most skillful gambler, and the nerviest, speediest, deadliest man with a gun I ever knew."

Doc suffered from tuberculosis, and five years later ended up in Glenwood Springs hoping the waters would ease his suffering. He died quietly in a hotel near there in 1887 at the age of 35. The hotel is now gone.

I stood up there on that mountain a long while, listening to the wind blow and looking out over that sleepy town. Somewhere just below my feet lay a true Legend of the American West. Doc Holliday. Wow. He was my age when he died. How times have changed.

It seemed so strange to me that such a legendary figure would not only be buried in an all but forgotten, neglected cemetery, but that even his grave site would be lost. In fact the only reason the memorial is there, as the plaque pointed out, was that the city thought they could make some tourism dollars by promoting his final resting place. But after thinking on it, I suppose it's a fitting end. He was a loner in life. He lived fast and hard and died a young legend. And now he's finally getting his long rest up there on that lonely mountain.

Summery Thoughts

Another birthday has come and gone. I wasn't planning to do anything at all until Friday morning when I suddenly decided I wanted to take off for Moab for a few days of hiking and camping before the hordes of child-toting families kick of the summer vacation season. The truck was half packed with gear when I learned that Scott was flying up from Austin that evening to surprise me. So Moab wasn't in the cards last weekend, but we had a good time. I got a few friends together for dinner, we saw The Flatlanders at the Boulder Theater, and we spent an entire day hiking Roxborough State Park and touring the ancient Anasazi ruins in Manitou Springs. We couldn't have asked for more beautiful weather, and all-in-all it was a good way to celebrate the passing of 35 years.

I'm still pushing for Moab. Hopefully this weekend, though the forecast is showing more than a slight chance of thundershowers out there. If Moab still isn't in the cards we'll have to rough it in Boulder. I say "rough it" because this weekend is hands-down the craziest time of the year in Boulder. Memorial Day weekend is three days of Boulder Creek Festival stuffed with a farmer's market, and capped with the Bolder Boulder. The Creek Fest stretches a good six blocks or more and it's one of the biggest (if not THE biggest) event in Boulder County. Food, crafts, carnival games, rubber duck races down the creek - everything you'd expect from such an event. The Bolder Boulder, a 10k race which takes place on Memorial Day, is the largest timed race in the United States and is the 5th largest road race in the world. This year the one millionth participant registered for the race which brings in about $10 million annually. All told, the weekends events are expected to bring well over 50,000 people to our fair city of less than 100,000. All this will be taking place literally outside my back door. It really is a nice way to kickoff the summer. Boulder Creek is swollen with spring snowmelt, the sun is up by 5:45AM, and this weekend officially marks the end of frost season.

Summer, you are most welcome.

Arlington National Cemetery

So I arrived in DC just after lunch, got my rental car, and headed immediately to Arlington National Cemetery. What a perfectly gorgeous spring day. Bright and sunny, and all the trees and flowers are in full bloom. I spent the entire afternoon at the Arlington National Cemetery, walking the grounds and taking it all in. I saw the tombs of the unknown soldiers and the changing of the guard, JFK's grave, Lee's house, the Iwo Jima Memorial, and more. I learned the history of the property and all sorts of neat bits of trivia.

I can't tell you how much pleasure I get from days like this. Traveling someplace new, then just strolling around. No real agenda, no pressing deadline, and no one either holding me back or rushing me through. I absolutely need this every so often.

The DC area is a particularly perfect place for this as it turns out, for whatever reason. I spent some time today pondering that among much else. I just feel very comfortable here. I also feel tremendous reverence for this place.

As I mentioned, I witnessed the changing of the guard at the tombs of the unknowns. There was a decent group of tourists gathered. Many were fat, wearing flip flops and beer t-shirts. Typical American tourists. They were sprawled across the steps waiting with cameras in hand. I stood. Way in the back at the top of the stairs. All the monuments and various places in DC have a sense about them that commands respect. For those who can't sense it or choose to ignore it, there are literal signs everywhere telling you do not smoke, do not eat, turn off your cell phone, speak softly or stay silent, and conduct yourself in a dignified and respectful manner. Each time I visit these places I speak not a word, turn off my cell phone, and always dress well. It seems the natural thing to do. But some don't get it until it bites them on the ass. Today I saw it bite them on the ass.

When the Marines came to change the guard, one of them turned and marched right up to the tourists lounging on the steps like beached whales and yelled, in an incredibly intimidating Marine voice, "VISITORS WILL STAND AND REMAIN SILENT!" That's all he had to say. You could FEEL his words. You've never seen tourists stand at attention so quickly.

The changing went off without a hitch and with nary a peep from the crowd. Afterward two of the Marines left and only the new guard remained. A large group of school kids started clowning around and the parents and teachers suddenly took on the demeanor of a group on a stroll at the zoo. The Marine on guard immediately whipped around and yelled with a thunderous roar, "VISITORS! YOU WILL MAINTAIN AN ATMOSPHERE OF SILENCE AND RESPECT!"

Dead silence. Children and adults alike froze in their tracks. It was amazing. The Marine whipped back around and continued his silent vigil. The entire group vaporized in less than a minute. I stood there on the steps, just me, silent and unmoving. The birds were chirping. Flower blossoms and the scents of spring were floating on the breeze. And below me were the tombs and the vigilant Marine whose presence was overwhelming. I stayed for a long while just watching and thinking. I felt a stirring deep inside.

What was it that moved me? What was I thinking about, really? Liberals tend to scoff at things like patriotism and the military, and conservatives tend to idolize them. It's one of the big points of contention between the two groups. I fall somewhere in the middle. I don't believe in blind patriotism, but I do have strong emotions when it comes to having national pride and great respect for our military personnel and traditions.

I really have a lot of thoughts on the matter but this is one topic I have a great deal of trouble putting into words. Maybe some things are best left unsaid. I'm also exhausted from getting up at 4:40AM to catch my flight so I think I'll just call it a night.

Oh, one more thing. I did swing by Mount Vernon but the grounds were closed by the time I got there. What I did see was absolutely gorgeous. So I settled for dinner at The Mount Vernon Inn Restaurant. The building was really neat. The food was okay, but that was made up for by my really cute server, all dressed up in colonial era tights.

Tomorrow is another day.

Fly Away

I'm at the Denver airport, headed for DC again. It's snowing right now, and when I get off the plane it's supposed to be 90 degrees with blue skies. I can't wait.

I'm not actually staying in DC this time. I'll be on a military base outside of DC. The Department of Defense has developed a renewable resource analysis tool and they wanted someone from the lab to come check it out. That'd be me.

I'm going have a car and some extra time so I'm planning on a whirlwind tour of a few hotspots: Arlington National Cemetery, Mount Vernon, etc.

I'm also excited because I've mapped the areas around DC many times, some in detail. It'll be neat to see what the look like on the ground.

Lazy Saturday

I don't think I could ever live in the Pacific Northwest. When the weather is cold and wet I'm useless. The trend the last few weeks has tended toward gorgeous sunny weekdays followed invariably by cold wet weekends. Today is no exception. I've got just enough motivation to curl up on the sofa and take a nap. Don't get me wrong, I love days like this. We get precious few here on the Front Range. But I think if we had them all the time I'd spend most of my life sleeping.

What I really need is a good dose of hot, humid weather. I need one of those scorching August days in Texas when the sun is blinding and the heat takes your breath away. And just when I think I can't stand it any longer, to jump into Barton Springs or the San Marcos River.

Or maybe what I need is a stretch of white sandy beach, azure water and a warm salty breeze.

I've been yearning to travel lately. Someplace warm. I'm always like this in the spring. Even in Texas the weather often couldn't get warm fast enough for me in the spring. But the temperature isn't the only reason I long to roam. Spring in general makes me restless. Sometimes I just get the urge to strike out for a change of scenery and a little adventure.

I don't have any major vacation or travel plans (yet) for the summer but there are a few things on the schedule. I'm going to DC again for work this week, and I've got short recreational trips or work travel scheduled for Houston, Austin and San Diego in the next few months. I'm also going on our annual week-long backpacking trip in Colorado later in the summer. What I don't have on the list is a serious vacation. In my mind at this moment, that means two weeks lying on a tropical beach somewhere drinking pina coladas.

In other news, I'm going back to grad school this fall to finish up my MS in GIS. I've been in Colorado two and a half years and I feel like it's time to finish what I started. I'm excited about the program here. Right now I'm enrolled in a certificate program in Digital Design, which the lab is paying for. I've got so much cartography work these days I felt it would help me create higher quality, professional maps and other visuals to showcase my team's analytical work. It's also giving me a taste of being back in school while working and helping me ramp up for the workload coming this fall.

Maybe I need to treat myself to that tropical vacation this summer before things get crazy in the fall. Flights to Hawaii are pretty cheap right now.

Yet Another Snow Day

Another massing spring storm closed the lab and area businesses today as it dumped several feet of wet snow along the Front Range. I only left home once for a short hike to get some pictures. Above is the view from Red Rocks looking across Boulder Canyon during a brief lull.

You know, back when I worked for the DOT in Texas we got a lot of crazy holidays, like Confederate Heroes Day (known as Confederate Memorial Day in every other state except Tennessee which calls it Confederate Decoration Day.) These days I just get the standard holidays, but it's made up for in snow days. I like the snow days better. Since they're unplanned it's like receiving an unexpected gift in the mail. Plus "snow day" just has a nicer connotation.

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