Destination: Westcliffe

I failed to mention where in Colorado we were actually headed (in case you didn’t already know). Scott’s uncle and aunt, Don and Patty Malotte, live in Sedalia, CO, just west of Castle Rock. They own a cabin in Westcliffe, a small town fronting the Sangre de Cristo range, west of Pueblo. They had invited us around the first of the year, and we took them up on the offer for the weekend of the Fourth.

In the three years we lived in Colorado, I never got tired of traveling those mountain highways. Trips along I-70 west of Denver were anything but boring—there was always something to see, and the hours would fly by. In the same way, the trip climbing from Colorado Springs to Westcliffe was fascinating—even more so, that none of us had traveled that particular way before. Some of it was beautiful, and frankly, some places were downright ugly. That’s the thing about the West: without the dramatic backdrop, much of it is unattractive, arid wasteland. The little towns are often run-down, sad and shabby, in the shadow of splendor though they may be. They are usually not promising places for young people—as evidenced by a crisis pregnancy clinic in one of the tiny towns.

All of us gaped at the federal prison outside of Canon City where many terrorists are living out their lives. Seems to me that plopping a max security prison in the mountains where hiding places abound might not be the best idea. Then again, would we want it in downtown Manhattan? My vote would be in the middle of Death Valley where exposure would kill you fast and the only thing you could hide under would be the bones of your fellow escapees.

After winding over the Wet Mountain Range, we dropped into the valley and into the town of Westcliffe. The cabin was nine miles south of the town and a welcome sight after driving all day.