Small Town (John Cougar Mellencamp)
Well, I was born in a small town,
And I live in a small town,
Prob’ly die in a small town…
Oh, those small communities.
All my friends are so small town,
My parents live in a same small town,
My job is so small town,
Provides little opportunity, hey!
Educated in a small town,
Had myself a ball in a small town,
Married an L. A. doll and brought her to this small town,
Now she’s small town, just like me.
No, I cannot forget where it is that I come from,
I cannot forget the people who love me,
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
Oh, that’s good enough for me.
Well, I was born in a small town,
And I can breathe in a small town,
Gonna die in a small town,
Ah, that’s prob’ly where they’ll bury me.
Grand Lake, Colorado
If you look up “funky” in the Dictionary, and we did, there’s a picture of Grand Lake right below the word. On the way into town, there’s a very funky riding stable and in town there’s an absolutely funky boardwalk/sidewalk fronting a curious collection of funky shops and restaurants. It’s wall-to-wall Funk-a-rama in all its radiant splendor. We liked it the first time we drove into the town and we absolutely loved it when we left.
The population of Grand Lake at the 2000 census was a mere 447. It had rocketed up to 461 by 2011. Population isn’t everything, of course, and it is entirely possible—nay, probable—that Grand Lake doesn’t really want a whole lot of population. There is a hefty summer influx of vacationers in to enjoy the town’s namesake lake, the largest natural body of water in Colorado and the deepest, with maximum depths of 265 feet. And people from miles around flock in nightly for a rotating quartet of plays at the fabulous new Rocky Mountain Repertory Theater. That included us. We came to see A Chorus Line, available only one night of our vacation. We picked up our tickets early and sought out a homey place for dinner, settling on O-a Bistro, a small, four-year-old restaurant operated by a nice lady named Olney Kliewer. The place might seat thirty in a pinch. We chose a table which featured two big comfortable living-room chairs and enjoyed exotic treats like stuffed dates, wrapped in bacon. If O-a Bistro was in Ocala, we would go every week.
During dinner, we noticed a man sitting nearby, waiting for his wife. His daughter worked in the place. His name was Jim and apparently he was some sort of city official. Save all this for later. Dinner over, we made our way to the repertory theater, a 5.2 million dollar, 296-seat edifice opened in June of 2011. It is hard to imagine a nicer-looking theater or one with better acoustics, always helpful to have when staging musicals like A Chorus Line. Siobhan and I like musicals. Yeah, we know, the stories are usually silly and trite but the singing and dancing makes it all worthwhile. The whole idea of most musicals is not really to tell a story but to wrap some plausible thread around and through a clever collection of songs, and A Chorus Line does this nicely, although we could do without all the moaning and groaning of the gay participants who never fail to bemoan their sordid plights growing up and breaking into the business. ATTENTION—Gay People!: We know life’s a bitch and we’re delighted you’re all throwing off the shackles of discrimination and racing to the altar—we’re on your side. Really. So how about cutting us playgoers a little slack and letting up on the caterwauling and graphic descriptions of child abuse which have haunted your miserable lives? I mean, you’re spoiling theater night for thousands. A little consideration, that’s all we ask. Sheesh.
On the way out of the theater, a little man in a white shirt and tie was standing at the exit, smiling and talking to the people leaving. When he got to me, he asked “Are you Bill Killeen?” You could have told me Cleveland had been invaded by hermaphrodites from outer space and I would not have been more surprised. How the hell does this guy in the middle of Grand Lake, Colorado, know my name?
“Yep, that’s me,” I admitted. The theater man told me that the people at O-a Bistro had found my wallet. Councilman Jim, who is fortunately blessed with superb hearing, overheard talk of the theater. Olney Kliewer called and the repertory people checked the reservations for my seat number. Neat, eh? The man in the white shirt told me the deputy outside the theater might have my wallet since the bistro was about to close.
The deputy was not hard to find. At about 6-5, 240, he looked like a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers looming above the crowd. “I hear you might have my wallet,” I advised him. “No, it’s still at the bistro,” he answered. “But tell you what, I’ll drive down and get it for you.” WHAT? Has this guy not read the police rules for proper conduct? Where does it say he’s obliged to be nice? Did Norman Vincent Peale write the local operating manual? I told him it was only a couple of blocks, I’d just walk down there myself.
“No, no,” he said, heading for his car, “it’s beginning to rain and I don’t have anything better to do.” With that he was off and back in a flash, replete with wallet. What’s happening here? Have I died and gone to heaven or is this really Grand Lake, Colorado, home of honest restaurateurs, helpful town officials and cops from the Mary Poppins school of police behavior? The way towns and people should be but never are. I took the wallet and told him. “You know, I liked your little town before all this happened, but I really like it now.” With that, we jumped in our faithful Chevy Impala and drove through the mountains, using the entire empty road, gracefully avoiding the errant elk, virtually floating, as it were, back to Estes Park, secure in the knowledge that in one little place in the vast universe the populace was working diligently to assure that one’s faith in humanity was assured. Bravo, Grand Lake. We hope to see you again, someday.
The Phantom Of Ouzel Falls
The hike to Ouzel Falls begins from the fairly remote Wild Basin Trailhead in the southeastern corner of Rocky Mountain National Park, located near the small communities of Meeker Park and Allenspark, arrived at via a narrow gravel road. And you’d better arrive early in the morning. Talented as they are at cramming cars together in the parking lot, the park rangers still haven’t figured out a safe way to pile them on top of one another, but they’re working on it. The hike is 5.4 miles round trip, starting at 8500 feet, with a total elevation gain of 870 feet to 9370. On the way to Ouzel Falls, you pass Copeland Falls and Calypso Cascades and a few more small waterfalls. If you are a waterfall-lover like Siobhan, this is the trail for you. Except, maybe, for one thing. There is a ghost who flits along the Ouzel Falls trail. His name is Larry.
We first encountered Larry a little over halfway up the trail. He was carrying a fishing rod and nothing else. Larry was a very affable sort, telling us he was from west of Chicago, not far from Arlington Park, out here to do a little fishing before visiting his son at some unknown military base in a place called “Kansas”. This was our first clue that Larry might not be exactly who he said he was. After a quick internet search, we discovered there actually was no such place as “Kansas”. At the time, however, Larry seemed like the real deal and when he asked if he could accompany us up the trail, we were only too happy to include him. Despite his odd habit of suddenly disappearing “to fish,” and then reappearing suddenly out of nowhere, Larry was a good companion. We talked about his earlier travels through the country, about his girlfriend “back home” and about his love for fishing. Curiously, Larry seemed to avoid some of the best looking angling spots, but perhaps he was an expert about sizing up the possibilities. We didn’t give it a second thought at the time. A couple of times when we stopped for a little nourishment, Larry walked on, telling us he was happy to have had our companionship. We expressed farewells, but then, later on, he would suddenly appear again, a big smile on his face. “Howdy, strangers!” Larry would say, waving his dry fishing pole and rejoining the hike.
Along the way, we took pictures of one another for posterity. I gave him a Flying Pie card so he could access the website and read about our trip. Eventually, we all reached the parking lot and said our final goodbyes. There are pictures taken with Larry at the end of this column. Notice, I said “with” Larry. In the pictures taken “of” Larry, well….Larry is kinda not there. So, if you’re ever in Rocky Mountain National Park, be sure to navigate the Ouzel Falls trail early in the morning. If you see a friendly fellow in a baseball cap carrying an unused fishing rod, mosey on up and have a chat. Who knows, you might gain an engaging hiking companion, a good-humored fellow traveller. Chances are he’ll want to tell you a couple stories about this place called “Kansas”. Just smile. And take them with a grain of salt.
Next Week
The final installment of our trip, featuring massage parlors, the Rocky Mountain Opry and the Marijuana Capital of The World, Nederland, Colorado. With a special appearance from Ragtime Cowboy Bill and his gal friend, Flossie, as they cavort through the West, winning friends and influencing people. It’s a don’t-miss episode chock full of musical wonderment and Rocky Mountain travel. Be there or be square.
The Beach At Grand Lake
Lonely Customer Waits For His Tickets
Above The Treeline, Trail Ridge Road
Morning In The Mountains
Bill And Larry On The Trail To Ouzel Falls
Larry On The Trail To Ouzel Falls
The Return Of Nature Girl
A Sign Of The Times: Nederland Advertises Its Exports (and thanks, Chel)
That’s all, folks….
Well, I was born in a small town,
And I live in a small town,
Prob’ly die in a small town…
Oh, those small communities.
All my friends are so small town,
My parents live in a same small town,
My job is so small town,
Provides little opportunity, hey!
Educated in a small town,
Had myself a ball in a small town,
Married an L. A. doll and brought her to this small town,
Now she’s small town, just like me.
No, I cannot forget where it is that I come from,
I cannot forget the people who love me,
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
Oh, that’s good enough for me.
Well, I was born in a small town,
And I can breathe in a small town,
Gonna die in a small town,
Ah, that’s prob’ly where they’ll bury me.
Grand Lake, Colorado
If you look up “funky” in the Dictionary, and we did, there’s a picture of Grand Lake right below the word. On the way into town, there’s a very funky riding stable and in town there’s an absolutely funky boardwalk/sidewalk fronting a curious collection of funky shops and restaurants. It’s wall-to-wall Funk-a-rama in all its radiant splendor. We liked it the first time we drove into the town and we absolutely loved it when we left.
The population of Grand Lake at the 2000 census was a mere 447. It had rocketed up to 461 by 2011. Population isn’t everything, of course, and it is entirely possible—nay, probable—that Grand Lake doesn’t really want a whole lot of population. There is a hefty summer influx of vacationers in to enjoy the town’s namesake lake, the largest natural body of water in Colorado and the deepest, with maximum depths of 265 feet. And people from miles around flock in nightly for a rotating quartet of plays at the fabulous new Rocky Mountain Repertory Theater. That included us. We came to see A Chorus Line, available only one night of our vacation. We picked up our tickets early and sought out a homey place for dinner, settling on O-a Bistro, a small, four-year-old restaurant operated by a nice lady named Olney Kliewer. The place might seat thirty in a pinch. We chose a table which featured two big comfortable living-room chairs and enjoyed exotic treats like stuffed dates, wrapped in bacon. If O-a Bistro was in Ocala, we would go every week.
During dinner, we noticed a man sitting nearby, waiting for his wife. His daughter worked in the place. His name was Jim and apparently he was some sort of city official. Save all this for later. Dinner over, we made our way to the repertory theater, a 5.2 million dollar, 296-seat edifice opened in June of 2011. It is hard to imagine a nicer-looking theater or one with better acoustics, always helpful to have when staging musicals like A Chorus Line. Siobhan and I like musicals. Yeah, we know, the stories are usually silly and trite but the singing and dancing makes it all worthwhile. The whole idea of most musicals is not really to tell a story but to wrap some plausible thread around and through a clever collection of songs, and A Chorus Line does this nicely, although we could do without all the moaning and groaning of the gay participants who never fail to bemoan their sordid plights growing up and breaking into the business. ATTENTION—Gay People!: We know life’s a bitch and we’re delighted you’re all throwing off the shackles of discrimination and racing to the altar—we’re on your side. Really. So how about cutting us playgoers a little slack and letting up on the caterwauling and graphic descriptions of child abuse which have haunted your miserable lives? I mean, you’re spoiling theater night for thousands. A little consideration, that’s all we ask. Sheesh.
On the way out of the theater, a little man in a white shirt and tie was standing at the exit, smiling and talking to the people leaving. When he got to me, he asked “Are you Bill Killeen?” You could have told me Cleveland had been invaded by hermaphrodites from outer space and I would not have been more surprised. How the hell does this guy in the middle of Grand Lake, Colorado, know my name?
“Yep, that’s me,” I admitted. The theater man told me that the people at O-a Bistro had found my wallet. Councilman Jim, who is fortunately blessed with superb hearing, overheard talk of the theater. Olney Kliewer called and the repertory people checked the reservations for my seat number. Neat, eh? The man in the white shirt told me the deputy outside the theater might have my wallet since the bistro was about to close.
The deputy was not hard to find. At about 6-5, 240, he looked like a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers looming above the crowd. “I hear you might have my wallet,” I advised him. “No, it’s still at the bistro,” he answered. “But tell you what, I’ll drive down and get it for you.” WHAT? Has this guy not read the police rules for proper conduct? Where does it say he’s obliged to be nice? Did Norman Vincent Peale write the local operating manual? I told him it was only a couple of blocks, I’d just walk down there myself.
“No, no,” he said, heading for his car, “it’s beginning to rain and I don’t have anything better to do.” With that he was off and back in a flash, replete with wallet. What’s happening here? Have I died and gone to heaven or is this really Grand Lake, Colorado, home of honest restaurateurs, helpful town officials and cops from the Mary Poppins school of police behavior? The way towns and people should be but never are. I took the wallet and told him. “You know, I liked your little town before all this happened, but I really like it now.” With that, we jumped in our faithful Chevy Impala and drove through the mountains, using the entire empty road, gracefully avoiding the errant elk, virtually floating, as it were, back to Estes Park, secure in the knowledge that in one little place in the vast universe the populace was working diligently to assure that one’s faith in humanity was assured. Bravo, Grand Lake. We hope to see you again, someday.
The Phantom Of Ouzel Falls
The hike to Ouzel Falls begins from the fairly remote Wild Basin Trailhead in the southeastern corner of Rocky Mountain National Park, located near the small communities of Meeker Park and Allenspark, arrived at via a narrow gravel road. And you’d better arrive early in the morning. Talented as they are at cramming cars together in the parking lot, the park rangers still haven’t figured out a safe way to pile them on top of one another, but they’re working on it. The hike is 5.4 miles round trip, starting at 8500 feet, with a total elevation gain of 870 feet to 9370. On the way to Ouzel Falls, you pass Copeland Falls and Calypso Cascades and a few more small waterfalls. If you are a waterfall-lover like Siobhan, this is the trail for you. Except, maybe, for one thing. There is a ghost who flits along the Ouzel Falls trail. His name is Larry.
We first encountered Larry a little over halfway up the trail. He was carrying a fishing rod and nothing else. Larry was a very affable sort, telling us he was from west of Chicago, not far from Arlington Park, out here to do a little fishing before visiting his son at some unknown military base in a place called “Kansas”. This was our first clue that Larry might not be exactly who he said he was. After a quick internet search, we discovered there actually was no such place as “Kansas”. At the time, however, Larry seemed like the real deal and when he asked if he could accompany us up the trail, we were only too happy to include him. Despite his odd habit of suddenly disappearing “to fish,” and then reappearing suddenly out of nowhere, Larry was a good companion. We talked about his earlier travels through the country, about his girlfriend “back home” and about his love for fishing. Curiously, Larry seemed to avoid some of the best looking angling spots, but perhaps he was an expert about sizing up the possibilities. We didn’t give it a second thought at the time. A couple of times when we stopped for a little nourishment, Larry walked on, telling us he was happy to have had our companionship. We expressed farewells, but then, later on, he would suddenly appear again, a big smile on his face. “Howdy, strangers!” Larry would say, waving his dry fishing pole and rejoining the hike.
Along the way, we took pictures of one another for posterity. I gave him a Flying Pie card so he could access the website and read about our trip. Eventually, we all reached the parking lot and said our final goodbyes. There are pictures taken with Larry at the end of this column. Notice, I said “with” Larry. In the pictures taken “of” Larry, well….Larry is kinda not there. So, if you’re ever in Rocky Mountain National Park, be sure to navigate the Ouzel Falls trail early in the morning. If you see a friendly fellow in a baseball cap carrying an unused fishing rod, mosey on up and have a chat. Who knows, you might gain an engaging hiking companion, a good-humored fellow traveller. Chances are he’ll want to tell you a couple stories about this place called “Kansas”. Just smile. And take them with a grain of salt.
Next Week
The final installment of our trip, featuring massage parlors, the Rocky Mountain Opry and the Marijuana Capital of The World, Nederland, Colorado. With a special appearance from Ragtime Cowboy Bill and his gal friend, Flossie, as they cavort through the West, winning friends and influencing people. It’s a don’t-miss episode chock full of musical wonderment and Rocky Mountain travel. Be there or be square.
The Beach At Grand Lake
Lonely Customer Waits For His Tickets
Above The Treeline, Trail Ridge Road
Morning In The Mountains
Bill And Larry On The Trail To Ouzel Falls
Larry On The Trail To Ouzel Falls
The Return Of Nature Girl
A Sign Of The Times: Nederland Advertises Its Exports (and thanks, Chel)
That’s all, folks….
