Bluegrass Music in the Dry Grass - High Mountain Hay Fever Festival

At the beginning of the month our quest for bluegrass music took us south and west into a barely-inhabited part of Colorado for the High Mountain Hay Fever Bluegrass Festival.

The site of the festival was Westcliffe, a charming small town (population 568) with a short downtown about five blocks long.  There were hollyhocks growing on the street corners, and hanging flower pots. The music pulled in four thousand people so lines were too long for the restaurants, but food trucks provided wood-fire cooked pizza, some junk stuff, and good barbecue, even “North Carolina style sauce” (but no red slaw.)  

Apparently people retire here and bring their passions—music, theater, art, food, and horses. One of the local musicians said they have so much expertise in the city “you should be able to get college credit for hanging out with them.”

A narrow valley away, the Sangre de Cristo mountains run northwest to southeast.  Our vacation rental house, which I will never reveal to you because it was too wonderful and I don’t want lots of people to know about it, sat high on a ridge, mountains as far as I could look to the left and to the right. 

It was the most remote place I’ve been in Colorado since I don’t hike or backpack. 

We didn’t see any wildlife except hummingbirds, but the owner shared a story about a bear falling into the basement window well, which was why it didn’t have a screen on it. And video footage of the driveway showed recently passing mountain lion and bear. In the middle of the first night something big bumped into the side of the house. Spooky. 

The afternoon thunderstorm clouds gave way to clear skies by evening. I tracked the moonset (2:30am) and got up early in order to see the stars. As I  regularly complain, we don’t have but four to seven visible stars in the city. I keep praying for a power outage on a clear night with no moon so I can get a good look at the heavens.

We barely wanted to leave to hear the music.  

Colorado is really into “innovative” “hybrid” “genre-blending” bluegrass. This spring we heard a group described as bluegrass, that had a fantastic fiddler who added jazz and klezmer. It was exhilarating and creative, but stepped way beyond bluegrass boundaries. 

Bluegrass music which grew out of Appalachia includes church-influenced lyrics, which Colorado bluegrass does not. Their version of “gospel” music leans decidedly to new age. It’s a lot of “mama died and I’ll see her someday” or sad stories of somebody derailing their life and needing the gospel but never hearing it. 

This festival had “West Grass” and “Latin Grass” and, we were glad to find, lots of traditional bluegrass. It also had a solid representation of true “good news” gospel music.

See the trees? Waaay out there?

The stage and audience areas are set under a huge circus tent to block out the sun (there are few trees in Westcliffe) and the sides rolled down when the afternoon thunderstorms blew through. When the sides were up we had a great view of the nearby mountains. 

I’ve already given the property owner our dates for a whole week next year. High Mountain Hay Fever Bluegrass Festival is our new western favorite. 

Hilarity on the Sixth Hole

I've never played golf, never watched golf on TV, never thought about living near a golf course. By chance the retirement community we bought into has beautiful grounds, swimming pools, the opportunity to participate in the community garden, and is built around a golf course. 

Since we've moved to a condo overlooking the golf course, I've decided it's an asset.

The wide expanse allows sunshine to reach my windows and glimpses of the moon.  The breezes blow unimpeded across the lawn and through my windows. 

We're happy to see wildlife. The hawk's scream lures us to the window and we watch as it circles repeatedly, hoping it'll snatch up a pesky squirrel. A coyote lopes across the course headed for better cover nearby. 

Even when it was bitterly cold, we could be naturalists in comfort. The whoosh of goose wings when landing or taking off, and their magnificent choruses brought nature close. I looked forward to it every morning.

However the grounds keepers view geese as a nuisance.  A golf cart chases them away if they linger once the snow melts. This spring one of the groundsmen drove a remote control motor boat on one of the ponds to scare them away. I laughed out loud. 

We forsook our hobby visiting lovely wineries when we moved to the city.  Instead we're amateur golf commentators. (It doesn't compare, but it's handy and amusing.) We watch and critique drives, putts and chips as if we were experts. Excessive mulligans do not escape our attention.  When reading outside we hold our breath when some not-so-controlled golfer brings the game a little too close for comfort, balls bouncing onto the garage roof, or smacking into the building. No broken windows or bruises so far. 

During good weather I watch for my friend Kristin on Wednesday mornings' league play. I cheer silently. She waves. It's like a hug. 

We're also seeing our teen-aged grandson more since he's taking golf lessons with the competent and friendly golf pro.

Recent hilarity at hole number 6 piqued our curiosity. Our senior golfers tend to be more serious, and practically mute.

             

All morning we heard high-pealed giggles, and the sing-song cadence of teasing. One young, exuberant, female foursome after another played through the hole outside our lanai. I wandered out to watch. 

They squealed like kids on a roller coaster when they drove their carts to the tee. They clapped and jumped in glee when the shot was good, and groaned collectively when it wasn't. They were a serial party, moving from hole to hole. Their playfulness put smiles on our faces and made us chuckle. 

I had to know more. Were they in a tournament? I inquired. It was a reunion of twenty friends who met in an Iowa high school. The organizer said she's looking forward to moving to our community (in thirty years when she's age eligible.)

Yay, golf course.