Picture Postcard Ouray

Although I grew up in California, I spent part of every childhood summer in Ouray, Colorado, nestled in the San Juan Mountains. Most of my mom's relatives either lived there year-round or stayed part of their summers, too. So I ran around with first and second and third cousins, daring to wade into the rapid Uncompahgre River, teetering over the swinging bridge, climbing to Box Cañon, swimming in the hot springs pool, setting off firecrackers, and getting the occasional spanking for it. 

On Fourth of July, thousands of tourists filled the tiny town's streets. My Aunt Karen never failed to grumble and call them "turkeys." Uncle Jack and Uncle Bus fought in the crowd-pleasing water fight - an event where teams blast streams of water from high-pressure fire hoses to try and beat their opponents into submission. Uncle Jack and Uncle Bus won year after year.  

What's more, my family has history there. My mom's people came over from Italy in the early 1900s to work in Ouray's productive mines. Decades later, my Grandpa Fay and Uncle Jack were the last of the gold miners in our family. The mines in the surrounding mountains are now closed, the outbuildings historic landmarks. Even the house where my mom grew up - a turn-of-the-century two-story her family called the baracca (Italian for "hovel" or "shanty") - looks like Doc Holliday might walk out of it any minute. 

What with all that history, extended family, and my intimate knowledge of its gravel back streets, I got away with considering myself a Ouray local. 

Nowadays, I spend a week with my parents nearly every summer. They live about 40 minutes from Ouray, in the forgiving valley that gets about one-fourth as much snow in winter. When I visit, we spend at least a day in Ouray, hiking a 5-mile trail around its perimeter and eating lunch somewhere on Main. It's impossible not to run into a relative or two, or one of my mom's high school classmates. 

Though this makes me feel at home there, let's be honest - I'm not. My camera is perpetually around my neck. I'm shooting photo after photo after photo. I go in the Columbine Gift Shop. I buy postcards and silver baubles. I look at vacation rentals and dream.

If there's a more picturesque town in the country, I haven't seen it. Surrounded on three sides by 13,000-foot snowcapped peaks, a person could stand at the intersection of 6th and Main and make a living taking pictures for postcard companies. (Well. As long as she lived somewhere else. To own a house in Ouray you're not grandfathered into, you pretty much need to make an Oprah Winfrey type living. But I digress.)

Gobble Gobble.

On my recent trip, I scooped up dozens of postcards after the annual perimeter hike. I also made a point of visiting the tiny little Post Office (to buy postcard stamps I didn't even need). I stood in a line three people deep. All three were picking up parcels too big for their P.O. boxes, and the postmistress knew each of them by name. When I reached the counter and she said, "What can I do for you, ma'am," I realized just how hard I was working to fit in.

It hit me like a slap. I've become one of Aunt Karen's much-loathed "turkeys." But you know what?  It's worth it, for a day in Ouray.