Out in the Middle of Nowhere

One of our young friends was moving. His roommate said, "Don't move to St. Louis! You'll be out in the middle of nowhere."

"Look at a map" I retorted. "Living in Denver, we are in the middle of nowhere." It's 520 miles to Salt Lake City,  392 to Santa Fe, 554 to Kansas City. And heading north, there's nothing bigger than Cheyenne until Canada. 

The conversation came back to mind when we headed out of town to the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, and pure nowhere. 

Which reminds me, on another trip in the southern part of the state, there is  a dot in the road named Saguache (pronounced Sawatch) whose motto is posted as "We've got a whole lot of nothing'."














Being in the middle of nowhere is a plus--fewer emergency sirens, far fewer vehicles on the road, and the stars are likely to be visible. 


So last week we headed for "nowhere". Once past Vail the people disappeared and the vegetation dried up. This vista shows the mesa, the flat table top of the mountains, stretching toward Utah.  

Bill said "This reminds me of Surry County, only more so."

"How so?" I countered. 

"Even less cars." 

 Less of everything, actually: people, houses, cars, and water. 

We laughed at this sign, because there weren't any green leaves to be seen, just dusty needles. 

Another road sign said "No Passing." No passing cows?  UFOs? 

 I bet a geologist would be able to explain the layers and vertical fracturing of the rocks. Interesting, but not my idea of beauty.














Our destination was Colorado's wine country. More literally, Colorado's wine town. Palisade, population around 3000, is in a small valley next to the Colorado River. Hard to believe, it hosts at least twenty five wineries. In addition to traditional wineries there are specialties: fruit wines, mead, or port. 

The few we made it to had something distinctive about them.

Plum Creek Winery displays art by sculptor Lyle Nichols.  He transformed found objects into this chicken. Observing closely was like being on a scavenger hunt. 

The art was more refined than the wine, but we did like a white blend.

Colterris, meaning, of the earth of Colorado, had a sophisticated dispensary of their wines. Bottles faced stood in a glass fronted shelf. They were side by side from the whites through rose to the heavy reds.  We bought a bottle for a gift.

Greystone was a cute building that boasted prize winning port wines behind a purple front door.

 

Under a surprisingly large weeping willow tree we enjoyed a lovely lunch at Maison La Belle Vie. They produce a merlot blend that I liked very much and wish I'd bought. Maybe it's available locally. 

The next day we headed higher into the mountains to Grand Mesa National Park. Unlike the mesa, there were many lakes, ponds and streams.  Kayakers and fishermen were enjoying the water despite the chilly air. 

From the ranger station we took a quick self-guided hike that explained some aspects of the ecosystem. This stand of aspen trees lets in light for various pines to start.

I noticed that the underbrush was much more varied than I usually see in Colorado forests. It must be the higher water content from snowfall. 










This was my favorite view. No houses, no sounds except wind in the trees and birds, but plenty of green. Out in the middle of nowhere, just the way I like. 

Glorious Sprinter in Colorado

It’s glorious sprinter in Colorado. That’s one of our season combos, spring + winter = sprinter. Grass is brown, the shrubs have been chainsawed within a foot of the ground, and nothing is budding. Even though March is our snowiest month we have days in the high 60’s that make us forget that old man winter is hiding around the corner ready to pounce. 


Trader Joe's sold me daffodils with buds so tight they looked like they'd been picked that morning. Overnight they opened fully and their yellow splash is bringing life to the apartment. The flowers, plus the sun's creeping a little closer to our lanai every day make me crave spring. 




Friday, bright and balmy, I slid open the patio door and enjoyed fresh air. 
It must have been at least 65 degrees.

I jumped in the car headed for Nick’s Garden Center. The pansies were calling to me from the entrance. The highest shelf on the rack boasted bright purple blooms, then a shelf of my favorite apricot color, then yellow, burgundy, and the mixed packs. They were stacked like a layer cake.  


I grabbed a basket and choose a dozen healthy plants that will fill the pot on the slab outside our door that will get a couple hours of sun in another month. In the meantime, I will push the pot around to follow the light. The pansies will hold their own if I bring them in on cold nights. 

An aside, a we-need-hearing-aids conversation:   
Bill: Do you want me to bring in your pansies?  
Me: Bring in my panties? 
Bill: Pansies! It's gonna be cold tonight.
Me: Oh.

Back to the pansies. The squirrels have already dug up one plant out of the pot so it will have to be protected by bird mesh. But I’m thrilled! There is life and color outside my door. 

I’m grateful I don’t live in a place like Minnesota where winter is unrelenting until May. Nope, here we know March, April and May will sprint by!