It’s supposed to be monsoon season, but so far, there’s only been one rainstorm. I wake up to the wet, fresh air and pack. The tent’s fly is wet, so it sits at the back of my car, fanning, as I drive with my windows open. It’s early, so the drive is a dream, cruising up and down curvy mountain roads heading to Colorado’s southwest corner.
Tulleride, as it turns out, is busy. I arrive in the midst of a youth baseball tournament and tourist season, even though it isn’t winter – the time when this is a wonderland for snow enthusiasts. The town’s campsite is full, so I pull into the free car park at the south edge of town, and spend 4 hours meandering around town, stopping in for a delicious sandwich at The Butcher and Baker, and a lovely coffee at, Between the Covers, a bookstore where I see several titles I’d like to purchase but refrain: the boot of my car already has a devoted library of books waiting to be read.
When I walk along the river, 2 joggers pass me by. Their hair is shiny, straightened, and rhythmically bounces along to their graceful jog. They are tanned, wearing beautifully fitted and stylish tennis outfits; their have makeup on; one of the joggers has a leather back-up on.
On the main street I walk into a boutique that sells Needle and Thread dresses.
Suddenly, I’m relieved that the campground is full. After days of camping, I am much too dirty for this crisp, clean and civilized place.
It turns out for the best, because I decide to visit Ouray, and fall in love. The lady at the tourist office does warn me: “Ouray is habit forming. I came here 10 years ago from Texas. I never left.”
The town is quaint. Small. Livable and lovable. Unlike Tulleride where the locals in hip yoga outfits walk their beautifully trimmed dogs, Ouray feels like a place for real folk. People look like they go to work. They wear denim. The skin on their faces is weathered. They smile, beautiful, genuine smiles. They look you in the eye and greet you. You don’t feel like a stranger.
In Tulleride I felt dirty. Ok, I am dirty. It’s been some days since l stood under a hot stream of water, though I have been keeping clean, bar my hair which is plaited into two French braids, weaved together and pinned into a bun at nape of my neck: I find a tight French braid keeps for days, survives sleep, and still looks decent when little wisps of hair start to escape. In Ouray, I’m comfortable, and before even properly exploring the town, I begin to plot my return.
Ouray is nestled in a valley in the San Juan Mountains. The Amphitheatre Campground where I find a spot to pitch my home is a short drive uphill.
In the morning, it’s easy to get up knowing that only a zip lies between me and the view.
I start exploring Ouray with a tour of the Bachelor Syracuse Mine. As I purchase my ticket, I get the usual slew of questions: “Where are you from?” and “You’re travelling alone?!”
There are only 3 of us on the first tour of the day. We don our hard hats and walk inside Gold Mountain, a nickname it received when three bachelors found a massive vein of silver, with some specks of gold. Needles to say, they didn’t remain bachelors for long (I asked to confirm this fact.) I love mines, especially when the lights are turned off and the dark feels heavy, comforting and warm.
Ouray is for hikers. I settle on the 6 mile Perimeter Trail and add in the side trails to Cascade Falls and Box Canyon. The trail bears above Ouray, clinging to the cliff sides, and into and out of the forests that line the sloping mountains. Box Canyon is incredible. The sound of the spewing water is astounding.
I intend to finally have a proper shower and soak in Ouray’s hot springs, but a thunderstorm sits just on the other side of the mountain, and as I head over to the register, I hear the call of whistles asking patrons to get out of the pool. Another ‘cowboy shower’ awaits me back at camp, I guess.
The afternoon is lazy as I walk up and down Ouray’s roads. Main Street is paved, and the others are gravel. The town is littered with Jeeps of all colours and accessories, and ATVs dot people’s driveways. I didn’t think I was a person who would ever crave for a car, but with all the Jeep and happy people behind the wheels, I want one too, so that I can sit high off the ground, a top large wheels, and play in the mountains.
I have a beer at Mr. Grumpy Pants micro-brewery, and a portobello mushroom burger at Maggie’s Kitchen, and then chocolate truffles and tea at the Mouse Cafe, where calamity finds me…because up to now the trip has been calamity free. I pick up my tea, the plastic top pops off, and the scalding water overflows onto my hand. Of course, the first thing I do is find paper towel and start cleaning the cafe floor, so I don’t notice that my hand is burning until I get outside and start walking towards my car. Suddenly, the pain is sharp, the fat under my skin still burning. Standing behind the car with the boot open, I seek medical supplies: paper towel and water. I soak the paper towel in water and wrap it around my hand. Two residents who are sitting on their front porch drinking beer, watch, wondering. I can see that they sit up straighter to watch me. I speed back to camp and plonk my hand into a bucket of water. The pain is sharp.
A lady wanders into my site; this takes effort as my site is up several stairs, beautifully secluded making me feel like I’m the only one in the Uncompahgre Forest.
“Hello? Hello? Oh hey. Just wondering if you’d like a grilled cheese sandwich?” Wow. People who camp are amazing. Sadly, I refuse because my hand does not want to leave its cold bath. It continues to burns so badly that I sleep with a bucket next to my sleeping bag, keeping my hand in the cold water to numb the burning.
By morning the skin is stiff and looks like I have red rivers running from my wrist and around my fingers. A few days later I am sporting a number of very large blisters: very large and incredibly gross. Children that see my hand widen their eyes. Monster! they think. It really is unsightly, but a pharmacist who looks at the burn tells me it’s not infected, though it is bad and I should monitor the skin and look for signs of this and that.
“Apply this aloe gel. It will also numb the pain a little.”
There’s one good thing about the burn: it will likely leave a scar. When I look down at my hand and see the scar, it will remind me Ouray.
Lewes, I love you, but Ouray, you’ve now got a piece of my heart, too.
