Pronghorn
August 18, 2013

Spotted a herd of pronghorn this morning on our way out of La Veta, which means that home is not far distant.  In fact, we could make it home today if we made it a very long driving day, but “the plan” says we spend a week in Pagosa Springs and that is what we shall do.  Besides, our reservation at Point of Rocks RV park in Prescott is a week away.

All of us are a little sad to leave La Veta, some more than others.  Chris has about decided he wants to live there; he extols the virtues of such an action  at every opportunity - weather, nearby hiking and fishing, small town atmosphere and on and on.

I agree wholeheartedly with all of that and then think of all those same advantages right at home in Prescott, Arizona, with the added benefit of much more variety of topography, climatic zones, and landscape.  Me, I think it’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.

Clearly, La Veta is a charming town situated in the midst of magnificent countryside.  It definitely warrants return visits to enjoy all that is there.  There is an excellent museum that we visited last time we were there and the mountains practically beg to be explored.  In addition, the Circle the Wagons park was very fun to stay at - the kind of place where most people spend their time outside; the camaraderie was so enjoyable.

This formation is called Goemmer's Butte.  The Culebra Range is in the background.

Stormy skies over Groemmer's Butte and Spanish Peaks.

The boy may be in agreement with the señor, though, or possibly it was just the many chances he had to be outside in La Veta as opposed to the often-rain-drenched, mosquito-infested places we have been of late.  At any rate, he has boldly opted to squeeze through the instant the door is opening and to help himself to ample sunspots for some serious cat kickin’ back.

Photo doldrums . . .

I snapped pictures as if there were no tomorrow, but am angst-ridden to discover that they not only do no justice to these stupendous scenes at every turn, but are completely mundane.and unremarkable.  It does not detract from the experience, but I so wanted to share how incredible this all is. 

Oh well, I suppose that anyone who has been in the Rocky Mountains knows it, and anyone who has not will not be able to fathom the grandeur.

High country hiking . . .

While taking it a bit easy on me as I adjusted to the altitude with some queasiness and headachiness, we managed to have some great hikes.  From Cordova Pass, 11,248 feet elevation, we walked off toward the base of West Spanish Peak through boreal forest as only Colorado can do it. 

The trailhead monitor spends the summers there in this mobile shelter he built himself.

There is little underbrush at that altitude, mostly spruce trees, grass and flowers.  I am incredulous at the huge numbers of flower species that are there - every shape and brilliant color imaginable.

I successfully shot my first hand-held self-portrait and discovered why that is done by 20-somethings and should never be attempted by folks in their mid-60s.  This one was done with the help of a tree stump.

An aside . . .

The array of wildflowers put me in mind of cousins Jim Pipkin and Alice Nelson, primarily because of the charming uses Alice makes of flowers she collects and presses and turns into one-of-a-kind jewelry and other creations.  I highly recommend checking out her artistry at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Earwraps-Etcetera/106363299420303?ref=hl or at http://earwrapsetc.com. 

And right after you purchase her creations, I suggest keeping your credit card handy to purchase some mighty fine music from her husband Jim Pipkin, my kinsman and as fine a folk musician as has come down the pike; “sour mash for the soul” he calls his music.  His website is http://www.jimpipkin.com.  I will add them to the blog’s suggested links just as soon as I find the time and remember how to do it.

The West Peak . . .

Through the binoculars, we watched as four tiny ant-sized people made their way down from the peak’s summit.  They were above tree line, allowing us to watch their progress down the steep rubbly slope. 

Chris has a yen to climb it when next we venture here; I will not accompany him.  While sure I could summit, I am equally sure I would have a fit of the terrors when I turned around to descend.

I swore off of very steep rubbly slopes after ascending one very long climb out of the Verde Canyon late in the day.  I have done some scary hikes, but the tension of trying not to fall to my death in an avalanche of rocks was so extreme that I had to sit down halfway to the top to have a good cry.  That over, I was good to go, but determined to find a more circuitous route the next time.

Cuchara . . .

Another little mountain town, Cuchara, is on the way to West Spanish Peak.  It is picturesque as it spreads up the narrow valley, and is anchored by a small touristy “downtown” whose claim to fame seems to be the selling of wild game and buffalo meat at the general store and in the restaurant.

Indian Creek . . .

Another explore was at a slightly lower elevation: out to the Indian Creek trailhead that eventually takes the intrepid hiker to Blue and Bear lakes.  We drove toward it until the road rutted out and then had a good hike farther up the canyon following a trickling stream.

Wild raspberries supplemented our snack of raspberry bars.

This was reminiscent of Arizona.

At this lower altitude, 8,250, there is much more underbrush.  The bear tracks along the road and the steep-sided brushy canyon to each side created a bit of nervousness on my part, but the beauty along the way shifted bear fear to the back of my thoughts.

So . . . the bad news is I never saw a bear in La Veta and the good news is I never saw a bear while hiking.

These bear tracks were right in the RV park.

La Veta business . . .

We enjoyed a nice chat with Karen, the sole proprietor for 20 years of a nice shop on Main Street, Casa de Pajaros, which she translates appropriately enough as “bird house”; in addition to Guatemalan imports and more, it is home to two parrots.  The fascination of watching the antics of one colorful, very athletic bird kept me in one spot for quite a spell. 

Obviously a woman of exemplary taste, she purchased one of Chris’ CDs for herself and agreed to offer them for sale in her store.  I reciprocated by buying a reasonably priced string of camel bells and beads which are now hanging out on the awning.  If a bear comes to visit, he will surely ring the doorbell.

Karen recommended the local bakery, an endeavor by two women who’ve been at it for 23 years in the same location, and who prepare everything from scratch.  We took her at her word and were not disappointed.  They serve meals, too, but we bought only bread and the most incredible raspberry bars in the universe.  Thank goodness I do not live there - I could easily convince myself of the healthful benefits of said bars and thus grown to gargantuan size as a result.

Connections . . .

Much to my delight, past and recent blog posts have ferreted out additional connections with readers.  I have discovered that a good friend’s father-in-law summers in La Veta and owns a business there.  From other posts, I learned that a cousin attended Cottey College, the Nevada, Missouri, institution I wrote about previously, and another family connection in Garden City, Kansas.  That is the best part of doing this blog - discovering the commonalities in attitudes, likes & dislikes, and places: things in common that very possibly would never come to light otherwise.

Home tour . . .

A home tour was in the offing during our La Veta sojourn, so we hopped on that bandwagon.  Our tickets bought us access to six homes, houses that we assumed would be in La Veta; however, as it turns out, only one was in town - the remainder were either east or west of the wall. 

Things out of town here are one of those two designations that refers to the miles-long volcanic dike extruding from Spanish Peaks.  There is no passage through the wall; one must backtrack to get around it.

If they were choosing the tour stops for their ecleticity(!), they reached their goal well.  The in-town house was lovely, but nothing to write home about.  Another was a modest mountain cabin of a big-game hunter, tastefully decorated with his trophies exotic animal statuary.  Despite it being filled with dead animals, I was quite taken with this gentleman’s design sensibilities.

One house situated out in a meadow with wonderful wall and peak views seemed a bit overfurnished for its size, although it had some very nice touches, like the three-sided beehive fireplace.

Undoubtedly the most unique was a restored homestead house.  It had been transformed from four roofless stone walls with a tree growing in the center into a rustic home by using the original cabin as the living room and adding on a section with a kitchen and two bedrooms, etc.  They carried the rustic motif throughout beautifully, utilizing old cabin doors, cast iron pots for sinks and even a chandelier sporting a passel of dangling branding irons.

The highlight was saved for last.  Sited on its own 94 forested acres, it is gargantuan in size - the garage holds 18 cars and has a 2,100 sq. foot guest quarters above it.  Despite being completely overblown, the 7,000+ sq. ft. interior is quite comfortable while being luxurious at the same time.  The owner is a commercial builder and obviously employed his knowledge to good advantage.

We all wandered throughout gaping open-mouthed at once at the scope and the attention to the smallest detail.  From the master suite that would be adequate as a house if a kitchen were included to the wine cellar to the kitchen/sitting/dining amenities, it was a masterpiece of workmanship.

The door to the wine cellar.

The place just happens to be for sale, so if one of my blog readers opts to make it his own for $3.5 million, I fully expect to receive a hefty finder's fee.

It was a little jarring to return to our little 25-foot travel trailer after experiencing those showplaces; however, I dare them to compare maintenance costs and taxes.

Stone . . .

Perhaps because of the predominant rock dikes marking the countryside, La Veta seems to be inordinately proud of their historic stone buildings.  The lovely old wooden residential structures get short shrift, but the visitors’ guide proclaims the addresses and ages of those of stone.  We photographed some of them, mostly from the turn of the century, and I don’t mean Y2000.

Okay, I threw in some not of stone material; I like them better.

A rude awakening . . .

I have just become aware that my writing has deteriorated into a drone-like recitation of events without any of the flair that I think previously snuck itself in at times.  Now one has to wonder just why that should be? 

Is there Mid-oil-land dust still clogging my brain cells?  Is stress lurking undercover resulting from having one’s home of 37 years sold and the only place to call home a 25-foot-long piece of wheeled tin with a decal on the side?  Is our recent pace so frenetic that the fingers cannot linger on the keyboard?  Whatever the seeming distraction, I have determined to continue daily writing when we return to Prescott, not as a blog to publish, but as a release and exercise for expression and introspection. 

The only way to have a garden in La Veta is to build a high fence around it, and there are some wonderful gardens there.