Home Away From Home

On our way home from a Colorado weekend trip years ago, I suggested to Dave that we stop in Salida, a town I had visited once and enjoyed. At first he didn’t like it. But with each visit, the place started to grow on him. The first time we stayed in Salida was the year we were married. Dave was hooked. Our trips there have since become an annual ritual, a home base for touring south central and southwestern Colorado. This year the plan was to take a leisurely drive to Salida on Friday, then spend the next day on a visit to Tincup, a ghost town south of Taylor Park.

At mid morning on Saturday we reached the summit of Cottonwood Pass, elevation 12,126. We began what was to be a brief hike on the Continental Divide Trail when we noticed three people returning from the summit of a nearby mountain. I bet you can get amazing views of Taylor Park from up there, I told Dave. Off we went.

At that altitude it’s pretty slow going. Tonka seemed unfazed as he dragged Dave up the trail ahead of me. Being the weakest link, I typically bring up the rear. I used my frequent “oxygen breaks” to ponder the views and take a snapshot here or there, admiring the resilient alpine tundra flowers, even trying to follow a ptarmigan Tonka had discovered hidden among the rocks. When we reached the summit, a fierce west wind smacked us right in the face. Despite that, the views were stunning. We returned to the car tired but pleased.

We had no idea that Taylor Park is a sort of Mecca for ATV enthusiasts. The road to Tincup was packed with them. We were clearly outnumbered by dozens of ATVs and dirt bikes. Their loud engine noise filled the air. In Tincup, I took a quick photo of the town hall as several ATVs zoomed past. We piled back into the car and left without exploring a thing. On the south side of Cumberland Pass we spied a few decrepit log cabins near an abandoned mine and decided to have our picnic lunch there. I wondered aloud, what must it have been like to live here in the 1800s? Just then two ATVs went screaming by. Dave gave his usual calm, stoic response, “It was probably a lot quieter.”

The drive back to our home away from home was peaceful. I enjoyed looking out the window at the lovely farms and ranches along the way. That lush, fertile river bottom land feeds numerous beaver ponds but also provides sustenance for generations of the same families. Everywhere you looked, farmers were mowing and bundling hay, preparing for the winter to come.

Each afternoon in Salida we brought Tonka to the Arkansas River to play in the water, then took advantage of the makeshift doggy “hitching post” at Bongo Billy’s so we could sip a couple of beers on the deck. Saturday night we ordered our favorite Moonlight Pizza and returned to our room at the Aspen Leaf Lodge, a funky flat-roof motel on Highway 50, doors painted a pretty pink. The owners are friendly people, plus they always give us the room on the end, quiet and private.

The first morning I took Tonka for a long walk in the Little River valley. Along the way we surprised a nervous mule deer doe with her twin fawns. In a second pasture we encountered two curious young bucks. The morning light on Mount Shavano was beautiful. Why didn’t I bring my camera? I hurriedly returned to the motel, grabbed the camera, and drove back. But the moment was lost, the light too bright, the deer long gone.

The second morning I woke before dawn and took Tonka outside. Such stars in the sky! Starlight has all but disappeared in the city, so it almost felt as if I were seeing it again for the first time. I opened the windows and crawled back into bed. Dave was stirring awake. “You should go outside and look at the stars,” I suggested, followed by, “Do you hear that?” “Hear what?” was Dave’s reply. “Nothing… absolutely nothing.” The silence was nearly as beautiful as the stars.

Salida figures prominently into our more optimistic retirement dreams. Now each time we leave Salida, it is with a tinge of sadness. We take one last cruise down Main Street, another look at the golf course, then we drive slowly through the neighborhoods, assessing the homes and lots for sale, collecting brochures. Everywhere you pass, the people wave. It’s like they already know us, already recognize us. It’s not our home, yet we feel so much at home.

Maybe next year.

Maybe someday.