It was dreary on Friday morning. The
rain came down steadily, the sky a dull gray and the mountains
clouded in a foggy mist. I had finished my breakfast and was
relishing in the knowledge that I was pretty well disconnected from
the world. No internet. No cell phone service. An old school
landline connected to a cordless phone was my only lifeline, shall we
say. In case of emergencies only.
It was so quiet. Only the gentle
pitter patter of rain on the roof and the quiet whir of the
dehumidifier left running by the retired couple whose house I was
staying in for the next several days. Good family friends of my
parents, I had stayed in their home in October of 2013 when I
completed my yoga teacher training at an ashram only 20 minutes away.
Currently, they were off traveling and had graciously opened up
their home to me and, in exchange, I would water their plants and
feed their friendly black and white cat, Sam. I had come back to the
mountains, just north of Boulder, a year and a half later for some
solitude and rest. A personal retreat of sorts to relax and restore
my body, mind, and soul. It almost seemed as if the Universe had
sent the mist to wrap me up in a cozy embrace while also serving as
my invisibility cloak to hide me temporarily from the outside world.
With intentions to visit the ashram
that morning and take a yoga class, I drove down the potholed dirt
road until I reached Highway 72. Convinced I had the simple route to
the ashram memorized after having driven it every morning and every
night for the 21 days of my yoga training, I didn't bother powering
up my GPS. I turned right.
It didn't take more than fifteen
minutes to realize my mistake. Along with that realization came the
sinking knowledge that I would not be making it to 10:00AM yoga on
time. So instead, I just kept on driving. Surely there must have
been a reason I found myself cruising through a valley on the
opposite side of the mountain.
Initially hoping that the curvy
mountain road would loop around and bring me back towards home
(despite an extended detour), I soon began to worry that it was much
more likely that I was just simply driving farther and farther away.
So, I turned 'round and started back the way I had come.
Within minutes, I passed a dark brown
blob on my right, hardly noticeable through my rain streaked
passenger side window. I slowed and rolled down my window. A moose.
Elegant, powerful, and uninterested, I watched the moose munch away
on a roadside bush, it's brownish black fur dark and wet, as though
it had idly smeared greasy pomade over it's entire body before
heading out for work in it's natural, woodsy office.
I smiled and lifted my gaze to the
overcast sky. So, this was the purpose behind my unexpected detour.
High-five, God. Well played.
Before my moose sighting, I had passed
through the unassuming town of Ward. A small community tucked in the
mountains, a quick blink and I might have easily missed it. But, as
I retraced my route, driving back through the village, I looked a bit
more closely.
The town seemed disheveled and almost
forgotten – a haphazard giant's playground with a child's discarded
toys left to rust and rot in the muddied earth. There were banged up
trucks and numerous junked automobiles parked on the side of the
road, their wheels sinking slowly into the softened ground. Well
intentioned owners surely meaning to fix them up “some day” but
now instead, they sat as permanent fixtures in the town's landscape.
I noticed a bent and scraped sign pointing to the library and post
office. Paint peeled off the sides of the houses and a few windows
were cracked or some smashed straight through entirely. Had it not
been for the “OPEN” sign on the village's general store window
and tendrils of gray smoke coming up through a few roof tops, I would
have assumed the whole town asleep or uninhibited. Or abducted, as
one particularly humorous road sign seemed to indicate.
The bell tinkled as I entered the
store. “No Photo's Please” a door sign stated upon entry. I was
greeted warmly by the older gentleman vacuuming the floor who, at the
same time, furrowed his brow at the sight of my camera. I introduced
myself and smiled, assuring him that I would respect his sign and
take no pictures. He seemed to relax then and his tone reflected his
appreciation. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his skin tough and
leathered from the elements. There was dirt under his tidily trimmed
fingernails and his hair held hints of silver. His name was Frank.
Curious about this village, I started
asking questions. This little town of Ward had only about 150
inhabitants today. “Used to be over 3,000 in the 1930's,” he
told me, before the gold ran out. “Normally, the town is bustling
with cyclists, especially on the weekends. There's usually at least
ten bikes parked outside the store with over 100 coming through on
Saturdays and Sundays. Tourists visit a lot too. My wife Mindy and
I, we've owned this store for eleven years. She make's felt hats.
She's sold over 1,000 since I've known her.” He brought me then,
to the back of the small shop where there were several of her felt
creations on display– hats, purses, scarves. Beautiful works of
art, the colorful fiber had been pounded flat and expertly shaped.
“Do you have a business card?” I
asked. Frank handed me one. “We don't have a phone number. No
email either,” he stated matter-of-factly, but with a hint of
pride. “We don't like the internet or cell phones. It's
especially nice when the electricity goes out at home. It's so
peaceful and quiet. The worst thing about coming to this store is to
hear the sound of the refrigerator. I hate it. Believe it or not,
only a few people here in town have running water toilets. I think
we're up to fifteen total now.”
I was delighted in conversation with
Frank. Soon, his wife Mindy arrived wearing one of her original felt
hat designs. Frank swelled visibly with love and pride when she
entered the store. They had been married for 20 years, she said.
“Picked him up hitch hiking down the mountain one day,” she
grinned. “But, it wasn't until a couple years later that we
reconnected and got together. He showed up with a pile of laundry at
my house one day and just never left!”
They both chuckled, and I felt warmed
by their tenderness towards each other and comfortable ease at which
she teased him. Frank suggested I visit the library before I leave.
An interesting place, he said, that most people don't really know
about as it's hidden in the back room of the old school house turned
post office. It's always open. “And, just across the street
there,” he gestured at an old blue and rusted truck next to a
heaping junk pile with an artistic flair, “is one of the most
photographed places on earth. And old hippy used to run his art
studio out of that truck. He and anyone who chose to stop by would
sit outside in the backyard on old couches and smoke weed,” he
recalled fondly. “The old man died a few years ago. But, no one
has ever cleaned up the spot. The whole town loved him. You know,
some things are just better left unchanged.”
I thanked him and his wife and went on
my way, a light, misting rain greeting me as I exited the store. The
mound of stuff across the street intrigued me. Metal bed frames,
rusted hub caps, mismatched shoes, and several sets of downhill skis
were jumbled and tangled and twisted up into an intentional and yet,
bizarre pile – creativity gone haywire and influenced by
who-knows-what substances. Now it stood, a memorial for a man
well-loved by the town of Ward.
I hiked the short distance up the road
to the old school house with it's bell still housed in the roof top
tower. I wandered to the back of the building and entered a glassed
sunroom, light streaking in through the dirtied windows. There were
books piled on a chair and on the window sills. I pushed open the
next door, and there it was - the Ward Public Library. It was only
one room, with a loft that could be reached by climbing the spiraled,
hand-carved, dark wood staircase. Footprints and paw-prints marked
the dusty floors. Old “Highlights” magazines lay scattered on
the ground and piles of books, old records, and curled maps had been
stacked on tables, desks, chairs, and bookshelves. The room smelled
of must and dust – leather bound books with their yellowed pages
strewn about the room in complete disorder. I couldn't be tempted to
touch or rearrange a thing. It was perfect.
I had felt as if I had been told a
secret. I delighted in this hidden, peaceful place. Yes, a hidden
library in a hidden mountain village, who's inhabitants hid quietly
inside their homes – private and undisturbed. I tiptoed away, not
wishing to unsettle a thing in this mystical and odd little village.
I had thought it was a moose that was
the reason for my mis-turn. How wonderful to discover all the other
hidden treasures the Colorado mountains had in store for me on that
drippy, wet, Friday morning.
