Once again the
road yawned before us. Down through
mountain passes and south towards the four corners area. The San Juan Mountains stood regal, like the
knighted teeth of a shark, lightly dusted with the first snow to kiss their
peaks since winter. Tall and jagged
their stance brooked no excuse, and I could only smile with the deepest respect
as I watched them shrink in my side view mirrors. We are leaving the high mountain country and
descending into the land of mesas stacked like grand altars to (mostly)
forgotten gods.
As we sat in
the trailer plotting our next moves (Arizona?
Utah? Canyonlands? Grand Canyon?) a storm strolled in from the
south. Thunder, real thunder, shake the
ground and say a prayer thunder, crashed raucously above and all around
us. Thick erratic stripes of lightening
tore up the sky and touched the earth, rain fell like it had been holding its
breath and could finally let go. Our son
smiled and pointed to the sky with every crash of thunder, his eyes wide.
We decided to
back track 15 minutes and head to Mesa Verde.
Here we are. Monsoon season in
the desert, coupled with an unusual storm that is bringing snow to mountaintops
and an icy wind to boot. I have the
kettle going now to heat the trailer, Bay is sleeping wrapped in wool blankets
and Wayland is enjoying a hot shower.
Every town we
spend time in, each area we tap into, we are interviewing.
So far in the
interview process we have had a couple noticeable mentions, but today was the
first real contender we have had. When
we began this adventure, I thought for sure that Southern Oregon would be my
choice of where to move to. I have been
surprised by what has moved me and where I can now imagine living.
A town in
southern Colorado has grabbed us both and we are heavily considering what it
would be like to live there. I have
lived on the ocean or within 35 minutes of the sea my entire life. The ocean is my church. I am accustomed to a rather Mediterranean
climate, where the elements are fairly gentle.
I am thoroughly aware of the seasonal transitions, the changing of
leaves, the absence of birdsong in winter that erupts into a wild cacophony in
spring, the way fog rolls in and when, all these things and so many more tell
the story of changing seasons.
Being in Colorado, I was on a walk with my girlfriend who freaked out seeing two yellow aspen leaves on the ground. Seasonal change here is a big fucking deal. Snow. Ice. Frozen soil and pipes. Below zero temperatures. I am not intimate with any of these details. I am a California girl born and raised. Winters that send people into wild exclamations upon seeing two fallen yellow aspen leaves are foreign to me.
Being in Colorado, I was on a walk with my girlfriend who freaked out seeing two yellow aspen leaves on the ground. Seasonal change here is a big fucking deal. Snow. Ice. Frozen soil and pipes. Below zero temperatures. I am not intimate with any of these details. I am a California girl born and raised. Winters that send people into wild exclamations upon seeing two fallen yellow aspen leaves are foreign to me.
The people
we’ve spent time with in this area are ranchers, extreme runners, extreme
mountain bikers, deeply dedicated outdoors people who use each season to its
fullest extent. Hearty people. One man who does 100 mile races for fun. Snow shoeing into the backcountry, just
because. This is not a landscape for the
soft, it is a landscape that will demand the most from you, require it of you
to live.
This intrigues
me. I love a good challenge. I enjoy pulling on my depths and breaking
through the floor, discovering what more I possess in me.
Is this the
next step for our family?
After this
journey, I feel like (if we make it) we can do anything. Even live in the back country snow shoeing
our asses off.