seven hours to the nearest metro - #7
A list of just how far everything is.
It’s silent in the cabin save for the kitten’s heavy breathing and the crackle of the fire. The rain and hail have ceased, and the mountain peaks dusted with snow are lost in the clouds. We are about to begin the next bevy of house projects. But for now, I, an adult woman, have an ear infection.
I called the medical center earlier this week to make an appointment. If there are other private practices here, I don’t know about them. But the center kindly offered me an appointment a week later. She said, “but you could always go to the emergency room.” Ah yes, just what an ear infection calls for, the ER. There’s always urgent care. But where is the urgent care? It is a deeply non-urgent 72 miles away.
But that’s kind of the charm of living here. If you wanna live somewhere that’s hard to get to, that usually means it’s hard to get to anything else, too. So here’s how far everything is:
An International Airport: 360 miles, pending road closures
The closest major airport is 6 or so hours away. You have your pick between nearly equidistant Salt Lake City, Denver, or Albuquerque. There are closer airports, Montrose and Telluride, but the Telluride airport is for wealthy people (and skyrockets you off a literal cliff) and the Montrose airport… Well, I’ve already spent one day of my life at the Montrose airport. I’m not wildly tempted to do it again. Then again, I also spent two days in the Denver airport and that was worse. Anyway, we’re not traveling.
Our bank: 207 miles.
Obviously we need to change banks. You can actually find a Sephora closer than a Chase Bank at just 134 miles away (but it’s inside a JCPenny, so, do with that what you will.) There’s an REI 133 miles away, one mile closer than Pennies, grabbing all their potential flannel shoppers. They’re both in Grand Junction, a town I don’t know enough about to insult, but was tempted. Thankfully if I’m craving a Frosty, we’re down to 71 miles.
A hospital: 72 miles.
(Can grab a Frosty on the way!) The closest actual hospital is in Montrose. The closest good hospital is 136 miles. The closest great hospital is in Denver, 300+ miles from here.
Basic medical care, good restaurants, groceries, ACE Hardware, roasters, laundromat, bars, a good masseuse, a great library, even a skate park: 13 miles.
Alright, now we’re getting to the good stuff. Town! Y’all town has what we need. And it’s only 13 miles away. I could run there if I needed to — even if I’m busy petitioning Google to add our god damned address to the internet. (If you type our address in, you go to the wrong house. That’s what we did the first time we came here. We were outside this really nice, modern house, saying, “this is only 750? I guess we’ll take it?” The Zestimate on that house is $1.3million. Joke’s on them. We’ve got better views.) (The joke is on all of us—houses shouldn’t cost this much.)
Aside from having to wait a week to get antibiotics for my ear and inevitably cancel my appointment the day before because I just got better through rest and water, most things are arguably easier here. I know for some people the idea of driving 13 miles to get groceries seems a little much, but the drive from our Treehouse in Topanga to Whole Foods was 10 miles. With LA traffic. Which means it was eternity miles. And there just isn’t traffic here. Sometimes you slow down for elk or porcupines. The closest Whole Foods is 188 miles away. Traitor Joe’s is 313 miles.
Thankfully, what we moved here for is zero miles away.
NATURE: out the door.
I can’t even begin to explain how life-altering the access to nature here is. The trail network is so expansive that even for short walk-the-dog-before-work loops, there are some 20 variations. Challenging mountain bike singletrack, endless trail running, hiking right into backcountry. The benefits of an old mining town, I suppose. The hunt for claims led to the establishment of trails, searching and crossing and looping back down.
The town sits in two segments of the valley, separated by the avalanche field. The western and older part of town sits about 200 feet lower. This is where the boom-time days took place. The eastern half, where we live, was established in the early 1990s. In fact, the man who built our house was the lawyer who helped the town draw the plan and lots. In exchange, they offered him the chance to choose a lot of his own for ten dollars. That lot, the one I’m on right now, was a big part of why we bought this house.
Across the avalanche field connecting the two parts of town there are trails criss-crossing each other through the brush and wildflowers and the occasional piece of 1800s rusted scrap metal. But it’s the trails that wrap around the town that bewitch you. Abandoned forest service trails, trails that end in waterfalls, trails that summit and descend into alternate reality valleys, trails through aspens, through pines, across tailings, switchbacking through talus and scree, trails by beaver bonds, trails through washes, trails in swamps, trails along cliffs.
It’s a lot of trails. And when the snow comes and the trails are tucked in for their long winter’s nap, all of a sudden everything is a trail. When we first toured this house, we walked around the town a little. It was 9am and there were people in ski gear on their deck having coffee. Some women were nordic skiing the streets. Every car driving had skis or a board on the rack. (Fuck. We need ski racks.)
What we’re learning now is how to read the mountain — the wind, the clouds, the snow. What are the conditions, what’s safe and what’s plausible and what’s worthwhile. At its very autumn-worst, it’s windy and rainy with a sky full of lightning. But when the lightning passes, and the wind and rain remain, our most simple walk is to the “beaver pond.” It’s down the pass road, maybe a quarter of a mile from our house. It’s up a little embankment off the dirt road, the water hoisted in place by the beavers’ handiwork. From the pond you can look up toward the pass, with a view into Swamp Canyon. We did this walk today, Cooper and I, in the hail and rain. I put on his little raincoat and my little raincoat and off we went to do the most basic of walks. To a beaver pond. Overlooking peaks scraping the sky at 13,000 feet. Watching the snow fall in the high elevations. While the aspens shimmered in gold, they’re leaves like butterflies in the breeze.
We trotted home, our paws and ponytails wet and cold, only two months removed from the sand and the sun of LA, knowing home is exactly what this place is.
Notes Regarding This Week
What I Bought That Was Worth It: Fjallraven Keb Trousers - Women's - Curved Fit. Holy thighs are these incredible. Vents! Massive pockets! Slide panels! And the fit! If you're like me and have more gush in your tush, these are the camp pants. I've been trying to find pants like this for as long as I've been camping.
What I Read: I'm knee deep in Braiding Sweetgrass as well as Tomboy Bride. The first to reacquaint myself with nature as essentially religion, the second to learn about the mining history here. Thus far, Tomboy Bride and I sound like the same woman.
Nerding Out: Because we moved from 800 feet to 9800 feet, I've been watching my body like hawk, seeing how it responds to and adapts to the altitude. (I could write an entire newsletter on Whoop.) Here's a comprehensive breakdown of our bodies at altitude.