Ouray

Once upon a time, Mark read in a travel guide that if there ever were a town one should choose to hunker down in and write a book, Ouray was it. So, first chance he got, he took an autumn drive from Moab up through the spectacular San Juans to Ouray. He only spent a night and he certainly didn't get to write a book while he was there, but the place enchanted him enough that he tucked it away in his memory and eight years later he suggested that we head up there together. After a blazing, sunny day's ride through the deserts from Flagstaff through Cortez and Durango, the long, looping evening drive that climbed its winding way through the myriad green shades of the almost-summer San Juans dropped the veil of enchantment--and that slightly haunting feeling that had followed us since our return to the States--down like muslin on our shoulders. And that was before we descended into the jewel-box canyon of Ouray at twilight to stay at the recently restored and lovely Beaumont, an 1880s mining-era hotel that feels perhaps spookier for having been so meticulously restored. By morning Sarah declared she was fonder of Ouray than even of Flagstaff, and we spent our last day before hopping over the mountains to the bluegrass festival strolling and daydreaming in the handful of sleepy streets. Mark patrolled one side of the town, sampling ice cream, hardware stores, and his habitual favorites, park benches, while Sarah took the other side, meeting the townsfolk and taking beaucoup photos of this weirdly, simultaneously thriving and drifting mountain village--and somehow finding shops enough to construct a clever little gift box for Mark, filled with forty bucks' worth (exactly all the cash she had on hand, right to the penny) of carefully considered goodies, which she surprised him with as he left a bookstore later that afternoon. A sweet, mostly quiet day in a sweet, mostly quiet place. Maybe someday we can come back to stay a while and write that book.

Oh, and by the way--Ouray has an unusually high population of photogenic dogs and cats, a temptation few photographers can resist, as you will see for yourself if you roll down a bit.