Most people who live in mountain towns spend the offseason traveling to warmer climates, places like Mexico or So Cal or the Arizona desert. I decided to go to Alma.
Yes, I’m talking about Alma, Colorado. At an elevation of 10,578 feet, Alma is the highest incorporated township in the United States (no, it’s not Leadville – 10,152).
I found a little one-bedroom A-frame in Placer Valley, where Mounts Bross, Lincoln, Democrat and Cameron form a 14,000-foot skyline, a barrier between me and the world I’d rather forget. The owner rented it to me for half the amount she advertised, grateful for some lunatic who actually wanted to be there in the offseason.
When I told my friend Hope my plans to hole up in a cabin in the woods, she said, “Don’t forget, you take yourself with you wherever you go,” but anyone who thinks you can’t run away from your problems has never been to Alma.
Six miles north of Fairplay on Colorado 9, it’s a tiny hamlet on the valley floor sandwiched between the Continental Divide and the wind-scoured peaks of the Mosquito Range.
Many of Alma’s downtown buildings are ramshackled, neglected and worn by weather and wind, paint chipping, wood peeling, like a comfy old pair of jeans with holes. There’s a health food store, a coffee shop and two bars, even though Alma’s Only Bar kept its namesake after the South Park Saloon opened two doors down.
It reeks of Old West. It’s where everyone congregates at the local coffeehouse in the mornings, where yoga classes are held once a week in the town hall on Thursday nights, and the mayor plows the streets. There’s no reason to blow-dry your hair or even wear clean clothes – a warm pair of pants, hat, sweat shirt and down jacket will work for any place or occasion.
There was two feet of snow on the ground when I moved into my new place. The owner, Heather, who is five months pregnant, came over and proceeded to dig out the deck, chop wood and show me how to get a good fire going in the fireplace. She made chopping wood look so easy I was a little shocked when I tried it and got the blade stuck about a quarter-inch deep into the log on my first try, then missed the log altogether and almost chopped my leg off on my second try.
I decided to quit at strike two and collect sticks for kindling. When that didn’t work, I resorted to taking a hot bath and then wrapping myself up in a wool scarf and hat and wearing my down jacket to bed. Whoever said I’m not adaptable has no idea what they’re talking about.
It’s so cold, windy and dry, my knuckles were chaffed and cracking after the first two days. If I dress warmly enough to brace myself against the ice-cold wind and freezing temperatures, it’s a great place to run with my dog, undisrupted by traffic or people who freak out over leash laws. The empty roads are mostly dirt, and it’s not uncommon to see lazy pooches lying in the middle of the street, where they can make the most of the short-lived afternoon sun. They look at you without moving like, “Dude, go around.”
There’s something mind-altering about running at that elevation. I’m not sure if it’s the endorphins flooding my bloodstream or the lack of oxygen, but it’s a whole different kind of runner’s high. I love shuffling up Quartzville Road to the base of Mount Bross, where you can get a front-row view of this massive, flat-topped mountain that sprawls over the valley with wind blowing up its face like something alive, a big, friendly giant whose permanence and size provides me with a sense of security and comfort.
You know you’re out of it when you start thinking of a mountain face literally, like it might open its mouth and start talking to you. It’s worth that ache in my lungs and the tight pull of my skin over swollen fingers for that hour or so of total mindlessness and captivating natural beauty.
The face of Bross is the first thing I see through my bedroom window when I wake up, the rising sun illuminating its flanks like he’s waking up, too. Forget about warm sand and sunny beaches, I’m living the high life in Alma.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
