I woke up this morning to see the mountaintops of the Sangres jabbing through heavy white clouds. The sunrise that slowly dawned on the eastern horizon was lighting the battleship gray peaks, causing them to glow rosy pink.
No place I’d rather be than Colorado. My reverence for the landscape makes it difficult to express in words. But when words fail, sometimes I let my guitar speak, in an attempt to give voice to the landscape and hope I’m not disturbing the music played by the elements.
But since this is a letter, I’ll ask you to allow me to skip some words across the page (like a bowling ball) in an attempt to take you to “a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead, your next stop” … The Tinkerpaul Zone (to paraphrase Rod Serling).
No place I’d rather be than Colorado, on some mountain track with a rucksack on my back, foot-slogging with my dogs. It’s a canine dance to nature’s attractions, as we zigzag peaks, creeks and canyons, where only spirits dwell or as the Indians used to say, “the forest has more eyes than leaves.” Where winged observers monitor us as they soar effortlessly above in total disregard for gravity. Unlike my clumsy feet, fighting uneven ground, in combat with gravity. I do not hike with the grace of a panther; it’s more like the grace of an earthquake.
It was during the autumnal equinox that I built my home (El Ballie de la Luna) on the sunrise side of the Rockies, where the Sangres carry the sky on their backs and serve as nature’s tapestry.
The hot summer days were on the wane, aspen blazing gold in the sunlight, saffron robed in the moonlight and the night sky a workshop, overwhelmed with incandescent lights running wild.
It’s just a few acres and a cabin for my mountain home companions, the moon, the sun, my shadow and me, near a river that sings, follow me, follow me, set yourself free.
Without doubt, no place I’d rather be than Colorado.
“Tinker” Paul Silver,