Frisco sits at 9,092 feet, flanked on one side by the likes of Peak 1, Royal, Wichita, and Buffalo. On the other side, is Dillon Lake. There is a main “shoppy town” area which is 8 streets deep by 1 1/2 streets wide. Just outside of that perimeter is a log house on a hill. On Saturday morning, Anne stood on the front porch with a mug of tea and welcomed me up.
We caught up, played Scrabble, he-manned my totes up the not negligible slope, and went for a hike-about on the mountain trails which start just up the street from our house. That evening we met Joel, Anne’s other, and I was introduced to the Cool Bus. A short bus which Joel purchased some four years ago and since then, has been filling it with love. It boasts a hand-built table, an array of seating options, and a formidable bumper sticker collection. A core clan of 4 gents once took the cool bus on a rambling tour up to Oregon. A highlighted map of this trip adorns the ceiling. We drove the old girl to a public concert in Keystone and I got a feel for my new community.
Anne worked on Sunday so Joel and I decided to pass the day. I got an introduction to the lay of the land and the towns which have cropped up here. He introduced me to the mountains by name. Then we decided to paddle out on the reservoir. We loaded the gigantic metal canoe frame onto the top of Joel’s ’86 wood paneled Wagoneer and drove down the hill. We put in and were just going about the business of relaxing when the afternoon thunder-storm rolled in. We retreated from the water just as the first claps came a boomin’.
Jacoby, who dreams of being on The Amazing Race came up from Denver with a camera savvy friend and a pocketful of ideas on how to cast their 3 minute audition video for the show. The rest of the afternoon was spent long boarding down back roads,climbing rocks, and waiting out thunderstorms then playing in the road mist which curled up into the evening sunlight.
By 6, everyone was off of work and the clears had skied, so we loaded up a flotilla of canoe and 3 kayaks, and all set in to the water. Anne, Em, and I dodged about in the kayaks while the men manned the canoe. Forest clad mountains roll up on all sides of man-made Dillon Reservoir. Much like Smithville Lake, somewhere at the bottom of it lies the shell of a town who lost land rights…
Night came on and the moon peeped from behind veils of milky clouds. Glinting, razor sharp mountain stars punctuated the clear panels of sky. I sleep heavily at elevation.
On Monday morning I went about figuring out how to get around town, introduced myself at the library, talked to a local Credit Union. It turns out that to settle in here, one must first have a month of residency and be able to prove it. I did some job snooping and then went for another frolic (I would not call what I am able to do up here, “running” quite yet). That afternoon I attempted for a third time to fix Frank’s stupid flat tube and to get the tire to seal under the rim. Tim King had made it look so easy and natural when he was assembling Frank that I was not prepared for a struggle of this magnitude.
So I gave up on Frank for the afternoon and went about cooking with Anne. That evening 6 of us gals gathered around over antipastos and just generally enjoyed one another’s company and stories.
This morning, Anne, Em, and I climbed Mount Royal. Now I am contemplating how very very much I am going to need a camera.