By Mark Johnson

I credit last Saturday’s solo scramble up Hayden Peak for reordering a few personal priorities. In today’s world it’s easy to get sidetracked from the things one needs to thrive, as opposed to survive. It can even happen here, in a place as fortunate and lovely as Ouray County.
Whether it’s work, lack of work, bosses, customers, kids, grandkids, aging parents, debt... whatever... the sum total adds up to “The Man.” It’s easy to feel like he’s eating us alive. Some weeks we’re as shredded as if we’d swam the Uncompahgre… upstream, in a school of piranha, making it easier still, to forget why we moved here in the first place or for “natives” to take it for granted.
Climbing Hayden’s talus slopes, all specked with orange and green lichen… wading through glorious gardens of wildflowers, breathing rarified air and, finally, reaching the heaven-on-earth vista from her lofty brow… was an exercise in restoration. It was like hitting an internal “reset button” because it reminded me of both why I’m “here,” and why I’m here.
I’m “here,” because I’ve found no other place that fills my soul like these ragged San Juan Mountains. Sharp edged and craggy, they punctuate our horizons with exclamation points. Way back in 1976, a yet unwise, wet-behind-the-ears 26-year-old, made the serendipitous decision to emphasize whereabouts over what-abouts, venue, if you will, over vocation. It landed me in Ouray, nursing an old GMC pickup truck loaded with the few possessions with which I couldn’t bare to part… mostly tools, and a prized Yamaha 250cc dirt bike. I’ll never forget that late November evening; it was snowing and Ouray’s sidewalks were all but rolled up. The only place lit was a Main Street bar. It cost me a beer to learn that there would be no jobs till spring. I retreated to Montrose… tail between legs… and landed what appeared to be the only job in the valley, selling cars.
Any resident will tell you, living around here comes at a price. Most are familiar with the local adage, “Ya can love those purdy mountains, but ya shore can’t eat’em.” But I was “here,” Ouray at last, or at least damn close, and thriving.
Why I’m here (as in, “on earth”) is less evident. It’s more a philosophical question… you know, the qualitative esoteric sort with no real answer. Just when I think I have my head and arms wrapped around the bugger, it slips from my grasp like a greased pig. Maybe it’s because I am the unfortunate son of a nomadic preacher-man... still rebelling and questioning after all these years (another story for another time).
I’m at my best when waxing philosophical because no one can pin me down or tell me I’m wrong. It’s a little bit like political science (oxymoron?) and/or religion in that philosophizing is subjective; thus, opinion is everything.
Readers of my blog kindly suggest I’m just a worrywart… that I’ve found my “purpose.” Someone needs to “go tell it on the mountain.” Someone needs to remind, enlighten and inspire us to get out and enjoy the bounty in our own back yard… about why we chose “venue over vocation.” Maybe I’m a preacher-man after all… sermonizing the virtues of a small town life in the San Juans. But unlike my daddy, I am a hypocrite, for I secretly indulge the fantasy of a life on the open road; the inexplicable need to wander, to “leave,” burns inside.
Imagine a constant “should I stay or should I go” duologue running in your head, “Yes, there is no maiden fairer than thee, Miss Juan, but I must be certain. Willest thou wait while I go in search?” Alas, the “typical male” syndrome.
Listen in on the argument. On the one hand, who wouldn’t want to live and raise their precious offspring in a small mountain community, one that’s worlds apart from the big city? Who wouldn’t want to live in a county with two equally quaint towns and only one stoplight between them… a place so sweetly secluded that the nearest shopping mall and freeway are two hours drive? I’m talking, of course, about Ridgway and Ouray; two idyllic villages, one in sun, the other shaded, either perfectly suited for escapees from the “rat race.”
On the other hand, what else might be out there? What if she’s prettier… my landscape soulmate… the place that puts an end to the insane duologue playing inside my balding head?
What a fool, to plot an escape from paradise, to break up a perfectly good marriage (figuratively speaking, my Love). When I lived in the asphalt jungle of a Missouri boomtown, I swore to God that no sacrifice was too great. “O Lord, if Thou wouldst only parole me from this bug infested sweatbox, I will edify your Name evermore.”
Well, I’m not the preacher man my daddy was; I fancy edifying the Lords handiwork over winning souls. But if I can be of some employ, to remind people why they live here, how to push the “reset” button and make suggestions of where to do so, I figure that’s close enough.