By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
Midwinter, when the lake had nearly frozen over, a set of buffalo tracks emerged from a hole in the ice. As the tracks were unnaturally large and emerging from the frozen water, the Arapaho concluded that a supernatural buffalo lived in the lake. They believed this buffalo spirit returned from time to time to wander the frozen lake, so they called it Spirit Lake. We call it Grand Lake, the largest natural lake Colorado, sitting on the western edge of the Rocky Mountain National forest. The highway through the mountain passes to Grand Lake is made for luxury car ads, with steep grades and rapid switchbacks, and then past lush mountain valleys, Lake Granby, and Shadow Mountain, before curving into Grand Lake proper and the boardwalk. The town is much as I remember—quaint with a side of comfort—only a few names on the storefronts have changed. For a minute, I am seventeen and running the streets like a local. I pass the ice cream parlor with a perpetual line blocking the boardwalk, and I remember the taste of rocky road melting on a hot summer afternoon. The number of bars, bistros, and BBQ joints surprises me. I wasn’t on an eat-out budget at seventeen, and I was too young to drink, still, I don’t remember this part of Grand Lake. Sagebrush BBQ, the loudest and busiest restaurant on the strip, beckons with scents too tasty to ignore. The host, wearing cut-offs and a t-shirt that suggests you “leave the peanuts on the floor,” leads me to a table. He brushes peanut shells from the hard bench before handing me a menu. A bucket of peanuts on the table invites me to add my own debris to the mix. The energy is happy. Families with kids chatter and college boys pseudo-swagger as they pass. Laughter pours in from the adjacent bar like audible rain, washing away my melancholy. The smell of butter and rye makes my mouth water when dinner arrives. Like the mock cowhide on the table, the brisket isn’t fancy, but it’s robust. Outside, the kids tire of an outdoor concert and sneak away to run circles around a yapping dog as they bounce in energetic and random patterns through the lawn. They’re singing happy birthday to Karen, a charming reminder that this is a close-knit community and tourists are the interlopers. The air is cooler in the mountains, a lovely break from the high nineties just two hours away. The walk is comfortable as I head to the inn back on the highway. I check in just in time for happy hour. It’s a beer place with $1.25 drafts. The rustic pine interior and old cowboy at the bar let you know. It’s a little bit country. The registration clerk, doubling as waitress, is wearing turquoise and denim. She hands me a draft before moving to the next thirsty traveler. The deck on the east side of the bar is designed with mountain and lake views. The outer edge is lined with fire-pit tables and cushioned chairs. There’s a gentle breeze and birds flit past, chirping a much happier tune than the country song blaring on the loudspeakers. Baldy (Mt. Craig), one of the bowl rims at the end of town, is alow with sunlight that still shines there. The surrounding hills, once tree-covered, are crowded with mountain homes too large to call quaint. New condos and million-dollar homes on the lake further alter the landscape, but even with the changes—progress—Grand Lake is home. I relax by degrees. Take a deep breath, enjoying the clean air and the glow of setting sun casting light and shadows on the calm water, and I find myself here, or pieces of who I once was. The Arapaho called this Spirit Lake. Like the buffalo spirit, I return from time to time to wander the lake; away from the chaos of life and the roles the confine me. This is my spirit walk, and tomorrow I resume the journey.