December 1: Kayenta to Telluride. Starting mileage: 39,700.
We left from Kayenta, Arizona. Today, we’d stop to walk through four states (!) and then go on our way to Telluride, Colorado. After lunch at a diner in Dolores, our road wound up into the San Juan Mountains. Finally, we started to see trees again.
Peace in Telluride
I first came to Telluride in 1999, still mourning the recent loss of my grandmother. It was a work-related trip, and in between trying to learn to ski and spending time with colleagues, I found an incredible peace and comfort among those mountains. To this day, I return to Telluride for quiet, for contemplation, for solitude, for communion. Telluride is my version of heaven-on-earth.
The Dogs of Telluride
It’s fair to say that one reason I love Telluride so much is the gondola. It glides from Mountain Village, up and over San Sophia, and down into Telluride. Free, easy, convenient, and gorgeous. I could ride the gondola morning, noon, and night. Another reason I love Telluride, equally justified, is that there are so many dogs and dog-loving people. Combine these two, and you get Gondogola (you’re going to want to look that up)! Yes, dogs are allowed on the gondolas–Telluride is highly civilized after all. And oh my, there is no better ride than to share a gondola with a Telluride pup or two (or five). Once again, Telluride = Heaven.
This trip, we met Sparky, a red merle cattle dog/husky mix, who lives with his people at the Peaks. So handsome, and calm and delightful every time we saw him.
Pray for Snow
It was December, the opening weekend for skiers in fact. But snow had yet to reach Telluride’s slopes. It was causing anxiety. Everywhere we went, people talked about how this was the worst they’d seen in 30 years–a snow drought. Signs all over town said “Pray for Snow”. Machines ran night and day spraying ski runs with man-made powder.
It isn’t just skiers losing vacations when there is no snow. When the skiers don’t come, ski resorts, retail shops, and restaurants reduce hours and lay off employees. Working people lose their housing because they can’t work without snow. Every night, we watched the weather report with hope. Every morning, we checked the slopes for snow. And the entire time we were there, the snow-making machines ran, and ran, and ran.
Spa and Fireside
We spent a few glorious days in Telluride. During the days, we had spa treatments at The Peaks, sitting in the deserted kiva hot tub and sauna afterwards staring at the mountains. We rode the gondola–back and forth, sometimes just to ride. We petted every dog who smiled at us, stopped in most of the shops, and walked all around the back streets admiring the history and the architecture–especially the old, the tiny, and the colorful places. There were tasty, filling comfort food meals at Brown Dog Pizza, The Butcher and The Baker, and Altezza. We had coffee at Baked in Telluride and The Coffee Cowboy. And we sat for hours in front of the massive wood-burning fireplace in the lobby of the Peaks, reading, relaxing, and talking.
Our trip was soon coming to an end. This was our time to reflect, to relax, and to begin remembering all that we’d seen in our time on the road. As we took our final ride over the mountain the last night, I smiled at the moon and the lights of Telluride, nestled down there in its box canyon. I’ll be back again one of these days.
Three quiet October days in Telluride. The place holds a special place in my heart.
I first visited Telluride on a media trip in 1999, just a couple of weeks after my Grandmother passed away. I was tired. My heart hurt from crying. And I ached to see her again, to talk to her some more…just a little more. While the rest of the group skied, I spent time in solitude…staring at the mountains. And in those moments, I found a peace that comforts me to this day.
So, when I realized that I’d be within a 6 hour drive of Telluride just a few days before my birthday, I decided to return.
The “6 hour drive” from Santa Fe turned into an 8 hour drive because I stopped so many times to admire the wide open spaces and the long winding roads through the pueblos and reservations of New Mexico.
I arrived in Mountain Village just before dark, threw my stuff in the room, and took the first of about a dozen gondola rides up and over the mountain into beautiful little Telluride.
Peace on the Mountain
I would spend only 3 nights there–waiting for the sun to rise and set on the mountain top, soaking up the sun on the streets of Telluride or my sweet little balcony, walking the side streets and trails with my camera, looking for the even-numbered magpies, sketching and writing in the coffee shops, and savoring a little time in the spa. Good days.
Another year around the sun
On my birthday, I was on the first gondola to the mountain top. I walked across the ridge waiting for the sunrise, my boots crunching the frosted grass. Three elk stopped about 50 feet in front of me. I could see their breath clouds. After a silent few minutes of mutual acknowledgement, they returned to grazing and I to walking. I heard their antlers tapping together a few minutes later and turned to see two of them playing like puppies on the mountain side. Just after sunrise, I called my mother and father from the mountain top. I talked to several friends that day, had a massage, enjoyed some home-made ice cream and had a perfect little day. And as I went back over the mountain the final time that evening in the quiet dark of my own gondola, I whispered a few things to my precious grandmother.
I drove out of Telluride in the still pitch-black morning…at one point, I heard hooves clicking and clacking on the road. Eyes glistening in the dark indicated it was a family of deer. They ran alongside my car, for just a minute, on that winding mountain road. Ah, Telluride…I’ll be back!
We arrived in Rome in the morning of April 27, and spent a few hours in the airport waiting for our delayed flight to Venice. It had been a long cold night on the plane and we were in a dream-like state–despite the sudden delight in having access to fantastic and cheap cappuccinos in the airport (we’d each had 3 within the first 2 hours on the ground in Italy). We were fighting nodding off in our cozy and lovely stretched-leather chairs in the airport. I remember staring at Bryan’s watch face willing my eyes to focus, while trying to listen to the announcements in Italian. “Are we delayed? Are we boarding?”
The flight finally made it to Venice around 4 p.m. and we figured out the water bus easily. For 13 Euro each (including luggage), we’d get transported to San Marco Square. We followed a small stream of people out into the misty, windy Venetian afternoon and boarded a floating waiting room. About 10 minutes later, a boat pulled alongside, threw down a metal bridge between the boat and our waiting room. The trick was in getting the luggage across the divide, along with yourself, in the wind, quickly, because people were waiting; and both the boat and the waiting room were tossing in the waves…in different directions. I gave up on any grace, but made it over with everything in tact.
Little did we know, we’d spend another 2 hours getting from the airport to the San Marco stop. The canals were choppy, so the windows were closed to prevent splashing waves from reaching us. We were so drowsy–staring out those foggy windows. We tried to make out where we were, what we were passing and yet it was like a dream. I remember seeing an island of graves, hearing and feeling the boat-bus wash against the stops and the captain throw down the ramp, smelling the fresh sea air, and a prevailing smell of mint, watching a massive tour ship cross our path, and feeling the sea’s spray on my face when we opened the window for a clear view.
Finally, it’s as if we awoke from one dream and stepped out into a another dream–an ornate little miniature world come to life. We were in San Marco. There was the Basilica di San Marco. It reminded me of that old-timey carousel from Opryland. There was the Piazza San Marco and the long buildings with porticoes. There were the pigeons, the pillars, the tourists.
I’d read in a guidebook that Venice defies description, and so it does. It was drizzling and we followed a small map. Trying to find our way, and yet in awe by the canals, the gondolas, the gelato stands…
Our Hotel al Gazzettino was off a small canal, in a narrow alley. We’d splurged on a room with 2 tiny balconies over a canal–and wow what a room! Gold and blue bedspread, drapes and matching fabric wallpaper, white ornate furniture, a tiny TV that we never got to work (but who needs it in Venice!) and a bathroom as big as the room itself. We threw open the windows and stood out on the balcony watching the gondolas beneath.
It would rain almost the whole time we were in Venice, but the rain seemed to suit the place. With 117 Islands, 150 canals and 410 bridges–water is everywhere. Water stood at the entrance to beautiful old San Marco, easing into the delicate mosaic floor. Elevated sidewalks were set-up to keep the tourists’ feet dry. The wet streets and the sound of the rain hitting the water was becoming to Venice.
There are no cars in Venice–just boats. Boats for everything–police, mail, ambulance, buses, taxis, delivery, laundry… The Grand Canal has been described as the “finest street in the world” with a parade of old buildings now in elegant decay. Hundreds of gracious, ornate old buildings tilted this way and that line the banks…the water at their front doors. Boats are parked, tied up like Old West horses in front of the buildings. There is a smell of mildew and the sea, of old wood and coffee. Laundry hangs, pigeons wait, and Venetians tend to their potted gardens on tiny balconies and roof tops.
Our days were filled by wandering, watching, eating. We found a number of little restaurants–some with just 5 tables–serving homemade tortellini, lasagna, caprese salads, and delicious red wines. Cin! Cin! And there was the coffee, and the gelato. Grocery stores served fresh sandwiches and tasty paprika chips. We found a place selling wine for 3 euro–siphoned out of a giant cask and put into your plastic water bottle. We would sit on the banks of the Grand Canal, or in the coffee shop, watching the world go by. One day we shopped along the double-sided aisles of the Rialto Bridge…buying leather journals in a shop so small that the workshop above had to be accessed with a cedar ladder straight up.
San Marco was a highlight. No pictures allowed. The place is filled to the brim with treasures (from 1075, all ships returning from abroad had, by law, to bring back a precious gift to adorn “the House of St. Mark”): There are hundreds of relics of bones and bits in fancy glass jars, jewel encrusted walls, tiny-pieced golden mosaics on the walls and ceiling, and a loggia where 4 horses keep watch over the piazza before them. The ancient basilica’s floor is incredible with thousands of tiny mosaic tiles and so warped it could be described as hilly. I’m surprised that all the mosaics stay put in the floods and warping. There was so much to look at, it was stunning. That old basilica sits there day in and day out watching the crowds go by, feeling the water seeping into its foundation and holding tight to its treasures plundered and received 800 years ago. It is, by far, one of the most amazing places I’ve ever seen. I bought rosaries there–old marbled glass to remind me of the colors of the floor and walls.
We took a gondola ride during a clear hour one afternoon. The light in the canals was spectacular–diffused and rose gold. It’s about 90 euro for an hour ride around the area–and worth every single penny. Our gondolier, Ricardo, took us out into the Grand Canal for a pass under the Rialto Bridge. He showed us how the water’s high tide breeched the first floors of many buildings and described how many of the owners were abandoning the first floors of their homes–no longer using the canal-side doors. I imagined rooms with extravagant fabric wallpapers and gilded crown mouldings–standing lonely and empty now except for a few heavy pieces of furniture sacrificed to the flood waters.
On one of our last nights, we stood there listening to the violins and violas play the old songs in the Piazza. There was the tinkling of champagne glasses and delicate cups. We could see the rooms above with their red velvet damask wallpaper, dripping chandeliers and fancy dressed customers. Yet, the water still stood at the threshold of San Marco’s, lapping against those gold mosaics. “It’s like the Titanic,” Bryan said. Grand and sinking into legend.
Thank you for reading
Select photos from our trip are available on Etsy.
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Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted photographer and blogger living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com.