The Outdoors Clique

The Outdoors Clique. That’s how I think of them. There are many sub-cliques within the outdoors world, but in Durango, Colorado, I enjoyed mixing with three of them.

I’ll never be a real outdoorsman — I’m too lazy — but I’m attracted to them any time I’m around them — it’s the cliché of the moth attracted to flame: I’m the moth and the outdoorsmen are the flame. When I’m around them I talk to them, and then I listen to them.

Ranchers and Farmers Clique

The first outdoors sub-group I encountered included ranchers and farmers in Southwest Colorado. My landlady, Holly, (featured in my previous blog, Number 9) is one. I didn’t see her much while I was there. She was too busy working, but I encourage you to check out that blog for my impressions. Another, Denny, was the neighboring rancher. Holly told us about him when we first walked through the property. “The neighbor over there,” Holly said, pointing to his house, barn and corrals, “is Denny. He’s an old guy. No one has the nerve to ask him how old he is. He was in some movies a long time ago; he’s just a rancher now. He won’t mind if you hike up his private road.” But, she added, “Make sure you shut the gates.”

Denny

I met him the first morning at the farm when I took Lucy, our schnauzer, for a run through the back 40 acres to watch the sun rise over the mountains. I was standing in the middle of a large overgrown cow field when he walked out of his barn with a stout white and brown working dog at his side. He walked with a cowboy’s off-balance gait, dressed in old jeans and boots and an old straw cowboy hat over a face decorated with a bushy gray mustache hanging down over his jaws.

He went into the field next to where my dog and I stood, a field flush with green hay, and two large draft horses who were grazing there ran to him like puppies. When the horses reached him, they and the dog maneuvered for his attention. I gathered my dog on her leash — she’d been running free through the field — and we hiked over to introduce ourselves.

Spying us, his dog jumped through the fence and ran menacingly towards us. We jerked to a stop. His dog pulled up, smelled me, smelled Lucy, but, at a yell from Denny, quickly lost interest and ran back to stand at Denny’s side. I walked up to the fence, said hello, said who I was, and said that he had some beautiful horses. Denny growled like he didn’t have time for me, but he was polite, said thank you, and that he had to get the horses in the trailer. “I have a parade at the church.”

I saw Denny several more times, but I never got a chance to talk to him again — and I understood why no one dared to ask him something personal like his age.

Fly Fishing Clique

A few days later, Melinda and I hired a guide named Patrick at one of the local outdoors stores on Main Street to take us fly fishing. She surprised me when she told me that she’d always dreamed of doing it; so had I. (I loved those stores, and spent too much time in them while in Durango. It got to where the employees looked at me like, “There he comes again.” I didn’t care, much — I just enjoyed listening to them discuss streams, fish, climbing, and the weather with customers and each other).

Patrick took us 8,000 to 10,000 feet up into the High Country to fly fish little streams. The valley where the streams ran was stunningly beautiful. Patrick acted like it was just every day scenery, as, of course, it was to him. We hiked upstream through little creeks in ice-cold water, and I felt like a nine-year old boy playing in the river bed. My sister, Brenda, has said that when I actually was nine and our family camped along the Red River that I kept falling into the water until I didn’t have any dry clothes left. So I guess I’ve never really grown out of it.

We both hooked several fish, and Melinda actually caught one, with Patrick’s help. (Anyone could catch a trout if Patrick was by their side helping, but we still felt the glow of accomplishment). We fished until I announced I was done. One of the many parts of that day that made it magical was spending it with Patrick, watching him operate, and listening to him talk about fishing and Colorado.

The Adventurers Clique

The third clique (much harder to mix with on this trip) was the twenty-something adventure crowd. I’d first encountered kids like these when we camped at Joshua Tree National Park and came up on a group rock climbing. They’re young, seem completely unafraid, and live a different lifestyle with a different set of rules. We saw them while we were riding mountain bikes down the slopes of the Purgatory Ski area. On a mountain bike, those slopes are scary steep, but we both came down pretty well. But when a line of those young men and women would approach us from behind, we would pull out of the trail and stop. They’d swoop by us at unbelievable speeds, jumping and sliding as they went. Just as we’d experienced with the kids at Joshua, they were very careful around us old folks. They gave us space and thanked us as they swept past in a blur. I do enjoy watching them test their limits.

All of these different outdoorsmen (and women) live lives I envy. Not enough to do anything about it, of course, but I still envy them. You may be one of them. If you are, know that I envy you, too. If you’re not, you may know someone who is.

Have you ever wanted to be unafraid to climb a cliff? Or to be the fly fisherman, like Patrick, who has a set of fishing flies pinned to the visor over his car’s steering wheel because they mean something to him?

I like to dabble in outdoor adventures, too, and — occasionally — I actually do; but unlike the young adventurers, I need a guide.

I’m good with that.

Bookstores: I Love Them

Bookstores. Can’t pass them up. Especially Independents. You may be the same way. I have always been that way. I have always been the kid who wandered into the bookstore at the mall (in the seventies bookstores in malls were a thing) and wandered out an hour and a half later.

There are several bookstores on Main Street in Durango, Colorado. The more mainstream one, (a loose description because of the eclectic nature of the communities in Durango), had books from the 1960s on debates between William F. Buckley and James Baldwin in the window. It had five different books written by James Baldwin near the front of the store on the eye-level shelf, the shelf where stores put items that they want most to sell.

I was impressed. Baldwin has begun to drift into obscurity, and I was glad that the bookstore owner wanted to promote his books.

Another of the bookstores I passed up twice. There was nothing but a sign on a glass door crammed between two other stores. The sign said it was open, but, when I opened the door, all I saw were stairs. The second time I opened the door, I was simply too lazy to climb the stairs.

Passing Bookstores: The Third Time

The third time, when my wife was otherwise busy and I was off the leash, I climbed the stairs. At the top, there was a little sign urging you on down the hall. At the end of that hall, there was another sign pointing down to the end of the next hall.

I thought I’d found something. Maybe old copies of the type of books I love. Or a copy of Dostoevsky or Proust. When I finally made it down the hall, I frightened the young girl working there. I must have been the first and only customer of the day.

She acted puzzled about my questions. “Where’s your classics?” I asked as I wandered from packed room to room. “Do you have any Russians?” She smiled, and I think giggled a little at me, but that’s okay. I’m glad to be entertainment. I didn’t find any classics or Russians.

And even though the little store was a disappointment, I’m still glad I made the effort to visit it. I took some beautiful pictures of cluttered book shelves that I can use as background for my podcast, Author Talk. Plus I got to be around all those books. And what if I had found a treasure? How good would that be?

Number 9

We pulled into a small farm, surrounded by small farms, from a dirt road fifteen miles outside Durango, Colorado. All around us in the distance we saw mountains. In the fields near us, we watched horses and donkeys, fenced-in cattle, a tall goat the size of a pony, and a white Great Pyrenees larger than that.

Our landlady, Holly, waited for us. A tall brunette, middle-aged, dressed like she’d been busy on the farm all morning, she wore her hair up in a bun, and she spoke extremeley fast.

As we introduced ourselves and the two dogs that accompanied us, she walked us around the little farm, then showed us our temporary home. “The cows are kept in the pen because of the calves,” Holly said (not appearing to take a breath) and then walked us up to a pen with ten cows and seven calves in it. “Keep getting out of the fence in the south forty acres. It’s hell getting them back, so they have to all stay here.”

Meeting Number 9

We walked next to her with our dogs on leashes. The cows moved away as we approached — All but one big Angus that stared back at us, unmoving. The others rotated around her before taking their positions.

Holly looked out at the herd. “That’s Number 9. She’s an old cow, but I don’t kill her because she has a calf every year. Probably too old to be any good anyhow.” She walked on past the pen to show us the open fenced field of forty acres. Draft horses grazed in a neighboring field. A donkey with them heehawed a complaint about something.

Holly started again, “You can see the fence there in back. Calves get through it like I said. Feel free to hike out there all you want. The gates are right there.” As she walked on to show us our place, she added nonchalantly, “Number 9 is a known dog killer. You better watch your dogs.”

Ah, what? I thought. I looked back at the pen. The other cows had wondered off. All but Number 9. She still stood where she had been, staring at us. Not at us. At our dogs.

Lucy the Schnauzer and Number 9

Over the next couple of weeks, I’d take my schnauzer, Lucy, out the back gate to the back forty. The gate is right next to that pen. Every time we approached it, Number 9 pushed against the fence on her side, staring down at Lucy. My dog understood, and kept as much distance between her and Number 9 as she could, continuously peeking back until we wondered off into the backfield.

But when we returned, Number 9 would be at the gate, waiting.

Number 9 became a part of our lives for the weeks we were there, and she took a larger part of my thinking. I imagined her motives. Examined the looks she gave Lucy, and the fearful and careful looks Lucy gave back to her. I think that there is a children’s story wanting to be written about Number 9, but it isn’t a sweet and gentle story. It is a dangerous story. Those can be much harder to write, and we’ll have to see how I do.

What Do You Think?

What do you think about the possibilities for this story? Let me know because I wonder if I’m on to something or not. I wonder if all this thought about Number 9 is just because that whole little farm is such a wonderful place.