Steamboat Springs

After driving a while, we approached a sign that said there wouldn’t be another gas station for 120 miles. Looking down to verify our quarter tank, I noted how lucky it was that I had even seen the puny sign. The thankful feelings soon left when I looked around us. “Do you remember seeing a gas station nearby?” I asked Lindsay. She shook her head. A feeling of anticipatory dread took over me, as if waiting to see if the teacher would collect the homework I didn’t do. “Why wouldn’t they put that sign near a gas station?” I said, hitting the wheel with both hands. I wondered what sort of sadistic individual decided it would be funnier to put the sign somewhere you couldn’t do anything about it. Paying for a sign to pose a problem and then not offering a solution. Perhaps it was the irritating killer who’d been marking all the mountains.

We eventually found a gas station without having to abandon the car and walk 500 miles (which again, is not a solid romantic strategy) and continued on our way to Steamboat Springs. Even on a dark night, you could tell it was a beautiful place. Karie and Scott took us out for dinner and we discussed what it was like to be a local in a tourist town. Earlier that day in the car, Lindsay and I had agreed that we were simply too tired to drink that night. I’d actually said the words, “maybe just one beer to be social but that’s it.” Karie and Scott were both bartenders. They asked our beer preferences and made recommendations for a good local draft. In the winter, it would be possible to ski up next to us for a drink. The combination of that kind of wood-railing ambiance, the delicious pitchers of beer and the fact that both Karie and Scott were experts at filling your glass after each sip made us quickly abandon our drinking-restraint plans. We drank, we ate, we relaxed and I knew I’d come back to Steamboat Springs.

Before getting breakfast, the four of us stopped off at the Farmer’s Market where Karie leaned over and said, “People here really like things carved out of wood.” To my great delight, I quickly found that she was not exaggerating. There were benches, dressers and lamps all carved out of giant logs. The only thing that could’ve enhanced the experience was obviously a 2-for-$10 straw cowboy hat. I cursed myself for not pulling the trigger on those.

During our amazing breakfast at the Creekside Cafe, Scott told us more about the rotation of local workers. They’ve been in Steamboat longer than many and between the two of them, have worked with almost every bartender, waitress and dishwasher around. This was evident as their mimosas kept getting refilled, free of charge. Suddenly, I heard a scuffle behind me and noticed heads turning like dominos in the same direction. I followed that direction to find a large, shaggy dog who had entered from the patio and was making his way happily through the tiny establishment. A man dressed in the latest Ralph Lauren casual shorts and sweater came in after the dog, laughing and shooed him out the front door. An interesting thing about Steamboat was that this guy fit in just as much as my lovely hippie companions. I like a town that will accept any person mad enough to endure 14 feet of snow a year.

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Steamboat Springs

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