Story of Telluride
The drive to the high country was a challenging one. Typically the grass is greener on this side of the peaks, but it seemed to be getting dustier this year. As fires raged across the country, we had a looming suspicion we were driving through a tinderbox. I could see an innocent gust of wind sending flames through the whole state in one fell swoop.
One fire was eerily close to our destination. We passed the smoldering ridgeline, smoke billowing across the sky. Grey was the new blue, its natural state hidden from view. The next mountain pass got us in the clear. Mount Wilson was in plain sight. I couldn’t wait to feel the crisp alpine air. Instead we were met with unbearable sun and toasty glares.
Rain was needed, badly. Creeks that should have been full were dried to the bone or running in dribbles, measured by the drop. We hiked with bandanas to protect from dust. Each step kicking up a beige cloud beneath our toes. Evening apres began with washing off the mountain’s stain, a reminder of the lands strain.
Even amidst this pervasive drought, the land showed us the beat goes on. The gentians still masted and bears roamed free. Wildflowers bloomed and blossomed, purple fleabane daisies littered the range. Herds of elk frolicked through the fields - females with their babies, males with their bros. Morning activity was high. Enough to push for a late start.
Wilson peak was the backdrop of anyone’s dreams. Natives called it the “storm maker.” At this time of year, that meant weather shifted instantly in the wake of each afternoon.
Climbing your way towards the peak was easiest by following the riverbed upstream where big trees lay uprooted, proof of a hard rain. I had my sights on them as the perfect canvas, but they were too close to a bear cave. Every time I passed through, cubs rustled in the neighboring trees. Day after day, I came back to this place. Hoping and searching for my own space. But the bears prevailed, time and again. My message was to respect the animals, be like the natives, who exemplified earth’s give and take.
At the top of Wilson Mesa, a sacred meadow lies. With the best view, it’s surrounded by peaks and skies. The natives, who believed they were related to the bear, held their ceremonies there. They danced, each year, when hibernation ended and bears climbed out of their dens. As a symbol of a new cycle, that spring was in the air. I strung a strand of fleabane daisies like they were clothes to dry and tied them in between the aspen trees. Each set, a perfect window, framing a peak.
I practiced a new dance, this time, with groups of cows. Each one branded with a different name. They stood close by as I worked. Serving as a security blanket for the bears in their keep. Even though we were on a mountain above 10,000 feet, we were still in rancher’s open range. I passed a series of fences, each with a different material and wear. A reminder of cowboys hard at work maintaining the snares. Courage and innovation were steeped in these bones. I gathered fallen deadwood and mirrored a fence on the ground. Continuing the western heritage - freedom of the frontier. A cow came to greet me, just as I wrapped up. I realized, this dance resembled the original, paying homage to a new cycle of honoring what lies at foot.
