August 30: Breckenridge, CO
“When I told my mom I work on an industrial marijuana farm,” the caretaker explains, “she was very disappointed.”
“Which was harder...” we ask follow-up questions, “telling her you’re gay? Or telling her you work on a pot farm?”
“Well…” he replies. He turns around at the bar and retrieves an amber bottle. “Care to Irish up your coffee?” Before we can answer, he splashes Bailey’s in our hot cups.
There are strange places along this trail…
Earlier that morning, I’m walking with a hiker named MeHap and we arrive at the Arapaho Wilderness Ranch south of Granby Lake. On the gate a sign says “Closed,” but inside the gate a sign says “Camp Store Open.” We could use some extra calories and respite from rain, so we follow the dirt road inside.
We arrive at a forest cabin in seeming disrepair. “Hey whatsup?” a groggy man’s voice calls from a rusty trailer behind some trees.
“Is the camp store open?”
“No, but I’ll open it for you boys.”
The trailer door swings open and a jolly round man emerges with a long gray beard. He looks like Hagrid from Hogwarts.
“Follow me.” He leads us into the cabin. Its exterior does not match its interior. Inside we discover persian rugs, luxury sofas, a baby grand piano, walls of books, and fine art. We follow him through many rooms – a parlor, dining room, solarium, a second dining room – and arrive in a showroom with fluorescent lights and glass cases displaying woven rugs and native crafts.
“Over here.” He leads us to a case with chips, soda, and candy boxes. We buy a couple Snickers and a Coke. “You boys drink coffee?”
We wait for percolation in the solarium. I examine a wild stallion painted in oil. Nostrils flared, hooves in the air, eyes wide with fear, it’s rendered in psychedelic colors like a Gauguin hallucination. It’s huge and terrorizes the room. “Coffee’s ready boys,” he calls from the dining room.
We fill our cups and he asks, “You boys want to see the smallest bar in Colorado?” He opens a small door---ostensibly a broom closet---and reveals a tiny room with wooden paneled bar, art glass lamps, and two barstools.
Inside the bar he tells us everything. We learn that the history of the ranch involves an heiress, a love story, a yellow race car, and Guatemala.
We sign a leather bound guestbook. What is this place? I write.
Later, we walk away through the ranch gates, caffeinated and buzzed from the Bailey's. “Well that was unexpected,” says MeHap. I look back, but I can't see the cabin through the foggy forest.
















