I'll start with how I first found out about it. Contained within Ayn Rand's novel "Atlas Shrugged" is a place called Galt's Gulch. It is described as thus:
She glanced slowly around her. She was lying in the grass of a field at the foot of a granite drop that came down from thousands of feet away in the blue sky. On the other edge of the field, some crags and pines and the glittering leaves of birch trees hid the space that stretched to a distant wall of encircling mountains. Her plane was not shattered--it was there, a few feet away, flat on its belly in the grass. There was no other plane in sight, no structures, no sign of human habitation.
Alluring, no? When I found it was based on a real place (Rand and her husband had taken a trip to Ouray while she was researching her novel), I put it on my not-to-be-missed-in-this-lifetime list. As I learned more about the real mythical village of Ouray, it came to symbolize the exact opposite of everything around me.
(Note: my fascination with Rand's literature should not be mistaken for support of her political and economic views. I enjoyed "Atlas Shrugged" immensely, but mostly on the epic narrative level. Politically, it gets dry and repetitive and far too absolutist.)
Ouray bills itself as the Switzerland of America. Never having been to Switzerland, I can't really say how it compares. If Switzerland is anything like Ouray it must be an incredible place. Pictures (much less words) are a poor substitute for experiencing Ouray. Standing anywhere on Main Street is 360 degree experience. Look up one direction and you're staring at a 500 foot sheer rock face, look in the other and its a cluster of ivory peaks. Main Street is a mile-long stretch of chateau-style bed and breakfasts, mom and pop shops, and cheery restaurants. Ouray is also home to an opera house, world-famous hot springs, and an annual ice climbing competition, which happened to be taking place this weekend.
As I pulled into Ouray at about 3:30 Saturday afternoon the snow was starting to pick up. It had been fluttering for the last 20 miles, but was now steady. Coming around the curve into of the city's main stretch is a sight to behold. A mining town that boomed in the late 1800s, Ouray is nestled among mountains on all sides.
I spent 30 minutes strolling down Main Street, mostly staring agape at the location. The snow was obstructing a full view of the valley, a disappointing fact which weighed in favor of staying the night. I had been warned by the park ranger at the Black Canyon that rooms might be expensive because of the ice festival but as I drove out of the city I decided to pull into one place and just check. I found the rates at the Riverside Inn to be reasonable and booked a night on the spot. When I booked the room, I also got a ticket for the hot springs.
After I unpacked, I walked three-quarters of a mile up the river path to the hot springs. It was snowing hard now and I was glad I had gotten boots when I went shopping with my dad at Fleet Farm this past December. My feet were dry and warm.
The hot springs was filled with people young and old. It looks like an ordinary municipal swimming pool but is instead fed by mineral hot springs and gets as hot as 106 degrees. The sensation of soaking in hot water while it snows is an enjoyably contradictory one. A 30 minute soak was enough to leave me feeling revitalized.
I walked back to my hotel to change and then drove to Main Street in what was now practically a blizzard. The roads were slick but empty and I drove exceedingly slow. The town's dinner establishments weren't empty but the weather did appear to be keeping a lot of people in. I picked The Outlaw where I had shrimp in the Rockies, another nice contradiction. I proceeded back to the hotel as cautiously as I had come. I finally was in possession of my winter day in Ouray.
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