I’m still what people call a
newcomer, but it seems to me that most people who live in the
mountains fall into one of three categories: Second home owner,
transplant from somewhere else — usually a city, like me
— or native, though I meet very few natives who are older
than 10.
I’ve lived along a Colorado stretch of the
Continental Divide for two years now, so I’m ready to share all
kinds of observations, some of them familiar if you’re a Westerner
with several years under your belt. Many of my tips involve ways to
deal with crowds during high summer and winter tourist seasons,
such as: Stay away from the grocery store around 4 p.m. and the
coffee shop around 8 a.m. And if it’s tourist-free peace and quiet
you want, pick a small town that lacks amenities like a ski resort
or golf course.
Mountain weather affects everything. In
winter, icy roads or a sudden snowstorm can kill you. But then
there are the mundane realizations, such as the fact that it’s
nearly impossible to grow mold — something that greatly
extends the life of shower curtains. Birthday cakes are best left
to the high-altitude baking experts. Liquids in sealed containers
can be unpredictable and potentially messy if you drive over a pass
or climb to a peak. Fleece comes in different weights and is
something you wear not only in January but sometimes also in July.
My favorite, an observation from a visiting friend: “There are no
fat people here.”
That I have lived here two years
recently dawned on me. Time takes on a different dimension in the
mountains. I routinely hear comments that reflect this, such as “I
came here eight years ago to work as a ski instructor and have been
here ever since.” Or, “We came here every year for vacation, until
one year we decided we didn’t want to leave.”
This led me
to wonder: At what point does one become a local? I have a Colorado
driver’s license and my vehicle has Colorado plates. I’m a
registered voter and pay taxes here. I have a ski pass, and I
patronize local businesses. Yet I don’t presume to consider myself
a local. All my work is done on a computer, thanks to the Internet,
and none of it involves a local business, though I recently began
working with somebody who lives in a nearby town. Still, we are
unlikely to have any local clients, and you won’t find me in the
phone book. I’ve had the good fortune to live in my sister’s
townhouse, so I don’t have a mortgage or even a lease.
I’ve come to believe that one of the indicators of local status is
how passionately one participates in the “holy trinity” of mountain
activities on publicly owned land: Hike, bike, ski. Yes, I know
there are many other mountain activities, but it seems to me that
until I ski, bike or hike with unwavering commitment, I may never
come close to being considered a local. I’ve been doing all three,
though when it comes to participation with others, I seem either to
excel or lag pitifully, depending on who I am with.
When
friends visit from sea level, they look suspiciously at difficult
ski runs and can’t hike for more than 30 minutes or 300 feet,
whichever comes first. So I hold back. Then with locals, for whom
it’s not a hike unless it’s a fourteener, and who look scornfully
upon skiing that’s not off the beaten path or at least black
diamond, I push myself to keep up while keeping lungs and limbs
intact.
Recently, while traveling on business throughout
Europe, I found myself answering the question about where I lived
by saying that right now I was living in Colorado, as if it were
temporary. Yet when I told clients in cities like London or Paris
that I lived in the mountains of the American West, many expressed
what I could only describe as a kind of awe and envy.
There is a mystique to mountain living, and it holds its own
against any great place to live: The silhouette of jagged peaks
against a sun-washed sky at dusk. Clouds that sometimes touch the
earth. The fresh pine scent and calm of a morning hike. Waking to a
fresh coat of powdery snow and figuring out how I can arrange work
to hit the slope for a few hours. All of this leads me to say that
while I’ve come to realize it might take a lifetime, I’d like to
become a local.
Cathy Houdek is a contributor
to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org). A former Chicago resident, she now lives
in Dillon, Colorado.
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