I’m having a stare-down with the blank page in front of me.  Its lack of personality and imagination does not inspire.  In my mind, however, swirl vibrant and rich memories of a week spent upwards of 10,000 feet above sea level, breathing in clear crisp Colorado air.  The struggle:  propelling the memories out of my head and onto the page in a manner that will do it all justice.

Part of my hesitation is knowing that many people who read this will have walked/driven many of the same roads, sailed the same lake, and gazed up at the very same snow-capped peaks with awe and wonder.  Is it worth writing about at all?  Can I possibly have anything valuable to say?  Well, I’m plunging in – as at least I believe there’s merit in the exercise, if only as a way to chronicle my travels for nostalgic reminiscing when my wandering days are over (may they never be).  Here goes:

For seven days in July, Lexi the Golden and I leisurely traversed from Virginia to Colorado, all the while looking forward with excitement to arriving at our final destination – Breckenridge, Colorado.  I’m not a skier or snowboarder  – heck I don’t even like winter very much, but this skier’s paradise holds much appeal mid-summer.

We wound our way north on Route 9, finally arriving into town after a few hours drive from Cañon City via the roads less traveled, and grateful to at last park in front of the home of my friend Jane.  Despite six amazing days on the road, I would not be moving my vehicle for the next seven.  Extracting myself and then Lexi from the car, she stretched and then scrambled up the stairs to the front porch.  Deep breaths of clear sweet air – not a hint of humidity.  This immediately felt like a place to settle in.  Following more slowly behind her, I arrived on the porch, taking in the well-loved chiminea situated in the corner with two comfy chairs beside and a small pile of wood.

I imagined cozying up to a fire in the cool of the evening, waiting for the stars to slowly show up in the pitch dark of this western sky.  Looking up at the house, I tried to take full measure of it.  Clearly designed more vertical than horizontal, I imagined the views from inside were pretty sweet. Turning around, I noticed we were perched high enough to enjoy a serene view of the town spread out beneath.  The star of the show, however, loomed just beyond: a stop-you-in-your-tracks spectacle of a mountain, reaching almost 14,000 feet into the cerulean sky.  Below the tree line, the telltale lines of the ski slopes streaked and traversed down its face. This is, at least in part, what I drove 2500+ miles for.  We may or may not be leaving at the end of the week!

An inspiring view of the mountains above Breckenridge

It seemed that Jane, however, was not at home.  While we waited, Lexi and I explored the very obvious foot and bike path worn into the hill just beside her house, linking one street with the next for those who prefer a trail to a street. Wildflowers lined the path- most notably the lavender lupines and columbines, which waved in the afternoon breeze along with smaller yellow and white blooms. Lexi bounced her way across, eager to sniff out a friend while I marveled at the views from every direction.

I can barely recall the rest of the day, so complete was my exhaustion. (I had no idea I was that bone tired until I had a chance to truly press pause and not be responsible for any decision-making!)  Jane returned, and our happy reunion was quickly trumped by the meeting of our furry friends.  Lexi immediately fell for Jake, Jane’s 2 year-old English shepherd. He was pretty taken with her as well.  The non-stop chatter and laughter that would mark our days together began its natural flow.  Thirty-five years of friendship gives you a lot of ground to cover, and we had not been together for a long time. By the time I fell into bed, my voice was half gone.  Certainly I had expended more words in the last six hours than in my entire week-long drive to get here!

The next morning I was left to explore a little on my own as Jane had work to do.  (More on her interesting life in the next segment!  For now, see Jane’s Lodges for a quick spoiler.)  I quickly discovered that downtown is a busy place.  A little less than 5,000 permanent residents live in Breckenridge, though the population swells in the midsummer for those who come to bike, hike, mountain climb, fish and play on the water.  It’s the winter, however that Breckenridge is built for.  Sitting at the base of the Tenmile Range, an extension of the Rockies, these mountains have been home to some of the best skiing in the country for the past hundred years.  Lodge-style homes, both of the ridiculously glamorous variety and those just considered more generically amazing, dot the lower part of the mountain for those who want the convenience of ski-in/ski-out.

With the attractions of the mountain and all those homes and money comes a handsome parade of shops and good restaurants lining Main Street as well as the many surrounding blocks.  Those on the west side of the street have the double bonus of rear curb appeal thanks to a winding path that divides shops and restaurants from the rushing Blue River.  It’s all meticulously cared for and no-doubt chronicled in many a blog and book, magazine article and even travel show.  It was almost “too pretty”, but no.  I was smitten.

I loved the quaint bridges traversing back and forth over the Blue River, carrying those vacationers whose homes were walking distance from town yet still up the mountain just a bit.  I loved the gardens.

Whether it was a front yard erupting with a sea of orange poppies or the beautifully cared-for public garden along the river walk, Breckenridge in July is a riot of color.

I even loved the obvious dictates of the Town Council, proclaiming that everything appear understated, including signage.  It all had to look like it belonged there and had been there forever.  In some American towns, this type of enforced beauty creates a Disney-esque impression of the unreal and untouchable.  Breckenridge pulls this off, however, and leaves you with the sense of having one foot in the eclectic present and another in the picturesque past.

One of my favorite examples of this was the Main Street Starbucks, tucked into an adorable little yellow house with a humble sign in front that would be easy to miss if you weren’t desperately needing a chai latté. (Truth be told, if you know me at all you are 100% certain I “needed” one every day.)  Two twenty-five Main Street is a house with a past.  I learned that Theta Von Thun had been born in the house in 1911, grew up there, married Frank Brown, and raised her own family in the same little house.

She remained there until her death in 1993. She and her husband were true pioneers of this former mining town turned skier’s dreamland, where he served as the mayor for 18 years.  Some quick research uncovered that she loved to entertain and dress up in her grandmother’s wedding dress.  I love that image!

Even better, Jane shared a great story about a friend who purchased a sweater from an auction of Theta’s personal belongings.  When asked about her sweater, the friend tells folks, “it’s a Theta Brown”. Her legacy lives on.  And the house still has that homey feel. The effect is more local coffee hangout than big chain.

Another fun juxtaposition of old and new – just off Main, you can find the cutest little shed that houses a local ATM.  The size of a tiny play house, its burnt orange sides and barn wood green trim are open for modern banking business 24/7, though it looks as though it’s been there for a century.

One of the things I love most in my travels is the discovery of a great Main Street. No doubt Breckenridge has this in spades.  However, it was the rest of this little town that really captured my imagination.  Each home is different – you can find the tiniest of cottages, painted in the sweetest and most welcoming colors of red, blue, gray, yellow – the colors are endless.  Most yards are not the meticulously maintained variety of sharp lines and edges that we’re used to seeing in Virginia, with pristine beds and clear organization.  Here the appeal is more free and occasionally riotous, and the colors! So vibrant in the middle of summer.

Of course the town claims more than its share of the impressive as well.  While the lodges were the domain of the hills outside Breckenridge, the historic district of the town lays claim to so many beautifully loved 19^th and early 20^th century homes.  Intermingled with the fabulous are well-loved small barns and sheds, tucked into the side of a city lot and fitting right in.

Quite a few churches add to the harmony of the place, again just part of the landscape of streets like Ridge and French, Washington and Lincoln.  I especially loved the cheery yellow of St. John the Baptist Episcopal, its little cupola supporting the small white cross above it.  Its double red doors and the few surrounding pines elicited much curb appeal. I imagine walking out of the door at the end of a service, my soul refreshed and restored, to see the mountain peaks above me that only the imagination of God could render.  Surely this is a place for renewal!

Each morning during my stay, I had time to wander through town, peeking at shops and reading restaurant menus, poking my head into the visitor center and checking out the architecture of so many of the fine old homes.  By week’s end, I felt like I had barely scratched the surface.  Breckenridge, for all its vacationer appeal, was a place of depth, with history that stretched back into its prospector days of the mid-1800s.  Many a fortune had to have been won and lost and dreamed of along the banks of the rushing Blue River.  By the time the gold and silver panned away, hardly a breathing soul was left who called this town “home”.  In fact, in 1959 it was officially listed as a ghost town, with fewer than 200 residents, down from the thousands who had settled there just decades before.  In the annals of American history, this is a short saga.    It is, however, a rich one.  There was so much to learn, and I loved that it was all right here in front of me.

One more stop before I trudge back up the hill to the house to get on with the fun of the day – I needed some caffeine from the little yellow house on Main Street.  If only Theta Brown was there, clad in her grandmama’s wedding dress,  to serve it up with a smile.  I’d have loved to hear a tale or two.