duck-shaped pain

This is a place that I visited a lot as a child, but rarely as an adult (last time I was through there was easily seven or eight years ago). A place high in the mountains with bonus servings of scenery, more than its share of t-shirt and fudge shops, lots of Ye Olde Ski Chalet architecture, and a name that people from elsewhere have a hard time pronouncing. [1]

Wait, now I'm making it sound lame. It's better than that, I promise.

My dad and I actually had coinciding days off. This never happens, so he suggested that we go swimming somewhere. The original plan was to drive to Glenwood Springs and swim there, but since I've been to and through Glenwood many times this year, Ouray seemed like more of a novelty. It's twice the drive and could be snowed suddenly at any time, but what the hell.

Driving there, we passed these things: corn, apple trees, a lot of cows (dairy and beef), about three huge fields full of pumpkins, a sign on a convenience store that read "Beware The End Of Yogurt," a truck that had "Chocolate Fantasia" painted on its side, someone roasting chiles in a parking lot (yum), a red station wagon that looked like it was being driven by a golden retriever, many orange and gold aspen trees (changing color sort of late this year), a bunch of boarded-up old houses, a lot far from any house filled up with rusty old tractors, and a flotilla of Mercedes SUVs, all waiting at the light located at the turn-off to Telluride.

On the radio was some local public radio show, about endangered toads. I was slightly alarmed when the biologist being interviewed mentioned "toadlets". How a toadlet differs from a tadpole was never really mentioned. Maybe someone out there knows.

Here it is: (sort of large, wait for it)

Downtown Ouray (all nine blocks of it) is kind of interesting. Lots of old Victorian buildings and stores that range from interesting to completely useless. Why does a town of only several thousand residents (less in the winter) have a store devoted entirely to salsa, right down the street from one that sells only truffles? The mind boggles.

I had heard good things about the bookstore in Ouray. There's a bunch of decent small-town bookstores that I've found across the Western Slope, and am always happy to add to the list. At first glance, it lived up to its reputation - nice location in an old hotel, nice shelving, big comfortable chairs. Then I started looking at its stock, and was mildly dismayed. For this store had a niche: Western history and fiction. Which is not bad in and of itself -- I found a couple of things I wanted -- but I don't know if having a specialty is the greatest thing when the nearest bookstore is 50 miles away via roads that are frequently closed to weather. I'm sure that after a long winter, the last one would want to read about is the history of mine accidents, or yet another book about hardy pioneers. Oh please, one might think, give me a cookbook. Or some porn. Or something about a beach. Anything.

I really liked the ancient grocery store, which had more cans of Beanie Weenie and packages of tiny crumb donuts than any other place I've ever seen. They had some nice bread selections, and I bought a loaf of green chile Cheddar bread as my souvenir of the trip. "That's real nice bread," the cashier said. [2]

There's also a variety store - something that tries to be all stores to all the people who live here. It does a pretty good job, with a little bit of everything all crammed into a small space. They did carry an alarming selection of SmartWool socks for such a tiny store, though.

Swimming time. For such a nice day (it was in the mid-60s and sunny, the nicest conditions you could ask for on a mid-October day at 7,800 feet), the hot springs pool was surprisingly empty. A few older men sitting in the therapy pool with paperback books. Some stragglers here and there, making there way around the perimeter of the pool. And some annoying loud people. But overall, it was preferable to a lot of yelling and splashing.

I float in the therapy pool, my head and arms resting on the cement wall separating it from the relatively cooler (90 degrees vs. 104 degrees in the therapy pool) main pool. Of the rest of my body, only my toes and part of my belly protrude from the water. I breathe in and think, I am here floating in this pool instead of being at work.

Breathe.

I am here floating in this pool instead of being at work.

Breathe again.

I am here floating in this pool instead of being at work.

(repeat, repeat, repeat)

Two conversations.

1. Girl in a blue bikini and woman floating in inner tube:

Girl: "I don't want turkey again for my birthday. It's against the law to have turkey on your birthday."

Woman: "Well, how about shrimp then?"

Girl: "Only if I get shrimp gravy with it, and bacon wrapped around the shrimp."

2. Two old men sitting in the hottest part of the pool:

Old Man 1: "So your potatoes doing well this year?"

Old Man 2: "Eh, no, too many potato taxes involved, can't make a profit. What about you? You grow anything?"

Old Man 1: "Oh, only apples. Me and the wife just moved down to these parts from the big city [3] and we're trying to set up a business growing special old-time apples."

Old Man 2: "Like crunchy apples?"

Old Man 1: "Crunchy and spicy apples."

After an hour, I was waterlogged. Then I got out of the pool and felt completely desiccated.

Barbeque for lunch. My dad wanted to go to this Mexican restaurant he likes, but it only opens for dinner in the off-season. I saw a tiny barbeque restaurant (more like a shed, really - the proprietor called it a "shack") hidden under a porch when I was exploring earlier in the day. People were lined up at it, so I figured it had to be cheap and/or good, and hopefully both. So I decided that we needed to go there.

I had a barbequed pork sandwich with baked beans and potato salad. My dad had the same, only with beef. It was very, very good. Turns out that this place was usually not open at all (sold most of its food via catering), but opened up for some special occasion, which just happened to be today. Still, I recommend it. If you ever drive through Ouray and Jolly's Bar-B-Que is open, you'd better stop.

The woman running the place was real Southern, with a drawl that seemed odd coming from someone that looked like your usual mountain-town hippie girl. She pronounced it "YOO-ray," which I found charming.

Not much else to do in town. We drove south a bit over Red Mountain Pass, a real sphincter-loosening drive that features steep cliffs and no guard rails at various points. Out the window, I saw a lot of old mine buildings and other contraptions, and a bunch of tourists smiling and having their picture taken in front of a sign that said "Mining Reclamation Makes Water Better" (or something like that).

Then it was time to go back. We took the semi-long way, avoiding the highway for much of the drive, seeing more corn fields, more pumpkins and going through my favorite place: the town of Pea Green, home of the Pea Green Store and not much else. The store was closed, unfortunately. But I was tired, so maybe it didn't matter.

[1] "Yur-RAY" and "you-RAY" are both acceptable. Frowned upon are "oh-ray," "oo-ray," "uh-ray," and any other possible pronounciation.

[2] When I returned home, I confirmed that he was right. Spicy and cheesy and tasty. It will go well with the black bean chili I'm making tomorrow night.

[3] Further eavesdropping revealed that by "big city" he meant Fort Collins, which is not a big city at all.

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