As a child in the 1950’s, I spent six summers in Telluride, Colorado. My dad, a geologist, was mapping the area. Back then, it was a small town with a population of about 500. No movie stars, no ski resort, no condos. We rented a different Victorian home each summer. We loaded up pack horses to reach Dad’s mapping area, camping high in the San Juan Mountains. I vividly remember the smell of evergreens, the sound of the wind rustling through the Aspen leaves, the chill and thrill of wading in the creeks with my brother, and lazy afternoon picnics.
Several years ago, on the way home from my 20th high school reunion, I decided to visit Telluride with my two young children. I hadn’t been there in 16 years. I had dreamed so many times about Telluride, and longed for the day I could see it again. My heart pounded as I drove up the twisty canyon, approaching my destination. Rounding the final bend, I was overcome with emotion as I caught my first sight of the town, nestled in the valley between majestic peaks of 13,000 feet. The view took my breath away. Pulling to the side of the road, I stopped the car and quietly wept as the children slept in the back seat. I was home.
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