From Denver to Grand Junction

I began my latest journey a few days ago, as the wheels of Montana (my so-called airplane) lifted off San Francisco International's runway. My flight would take me to Denver, CO where I would meet my boyfriend, Tyler, and his loving and efficient travel-companion-father. I arrived late in the night and was greeted with the freckly smile I missed and love. That same grinning boy brought us to a stinky, dirty extended-stay hotel (He booked it luck-of-the-draw style) but I didn't mind. (I told him I wanted us to stay in shit-holes together, but for him to get me the best. He laughed knowing that I was mostly serious.) Anyway I liked our beginning, as it marked the start of all kinds of living. In just five days we've stayed in two motels, one fancy Sheraton and one tent--the one that will be our pop-up home for the months to come.

On the first morning, the three of us searched for The Grubbery to have breakfast. In the middle of an industrial park, we found our meal. After hearty pancakes and omelets, we walked through prairie dog paradise-- Tyler's first dream of the west: realized. Then we said our goodbyes to Mr. Miller at the airport topped with circus tents (my guess is they're for cooling).

We checked into our hotel and took over the parking lot so we could organize the car-- our other summer home. The streets of Denver that night were full of musicians and artists performing for tourists who did not like the rain. We returned downtown the next day for the Pride festival, which was full of people: happy, friendly people. And I wouldn't attribute that just to the event-- Colorado seems to me one of the friendliest places on earth (Look out, Walt). We left Denver after getting the chance to walk through the art district, which was full of Westword Music Festival-goers, young people and friendly "hello's"; I'll fast-forward through our long search for a campsite (short version: naive to think we could check-in to a campground on the weekend in one of the most desired outdoor areas in the country? yes.) and skip to our arrival at Idaho Springs, CO, where the gold rush began. We had iced mochas and a chat with the woman running the small town's museum (She came from Medina, NY and never went back).

Sylvan Lake State Park sits in the center of White Water National Forest, suitably named after the flowing rivers that weave through the mountains. We arrived at Sylvan Lake on Sunday night and set up our campsite, and we brought only the food we could eat in two days. Our first dinner was a potato mash: 8 red potatoes, one cup of greek yogurt, olive oil, garlic, and the greens of our rainbow carrots. We wrapped the potatoes in foil and baked them over fire, then mashed everything together in my cast iron skillet. I might dare to say they were the best mashed potatoes I've ever chewed. 

Sunday morning we hiked through the greenest mountains I've ever seen. Everywhere I looked was green, save the dirt path that led us along the river and the blue sky above. When we weren't climbing up and down along the mountainside, a beaten dirt path led us through a sea of grass that swayed in the wind and glistened in the sun. The rocks that lined the ice-cold river made a perfect spot for lunch: half of an avocado sandwich, half of a ChocolateP.B.&BlackberryJ. with almonds.