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Thresholds

Driving The Line Between Dirt and Asphalt in the New West

By Robert Revel

An old timer once told me that when the old towns of the West got too crowded and the railroad roared through for the first time, some folks took it as a sign that it was time for them to move on. Move on to an even more remote place, where spaciousness might be as deep and pervasive as the silence that held it there. Where the spirits of a saloon were not essential to quell the assault on the soul by the frenetic business of men.

Today those remote places, and the kinds of folks who sought them, are rare. In their place are the last rural vestiges of them in the West, a Ridgway here or a Paonia there. These are the towns without a seeming mainstream reason to exist. They are the overlooked, peaceful rural enclaves, without a ski-hub village. Sweet, American micro-villages without even vapor-caves or geothermal hot spring delights to entice the money-bearing urbanites to recreate. These communities are instead peopled by folks whose focus is primarily on raising a family with a good quality of life amid a beautiful and natural environment. This is not the place for priceless mountain real estate situated just minutes from mythically architected downtown gallerias. These places are not Aspen, or Vail or Telluride.

No, these are the quiet towns with, for the most part, "salt of the earth" folks. They are the towns that represent the last remnants of a genuine human impulse to live simply, in a natural environment, where there is more space than people. But alas, the new high-end "four wheel" locomotive has arrived, and there are many who fear their beautiful paint jobs are in imminent danger of being sullied by this natural but "harsh" environment.

Last month I received a notice from a few homeowners in the Pleasant Valley area I live in near Ridgway. With its sought-after valley views of the San Juan mountain range and Mt. Sneffles, a picturesque fourteener, this area attracts folks with the money that can afford real estate here. And now, some are petitioning to pave the long dirt county road that leads out to this magnificent place where I live. They cite their concerns about that dirt road. They say it is dusty. They say the potholes and washboard textures are hard on the vehicles they drive. They say they are tired of the toll the magnesium chloride takes on their automobile paint. They say it will cost a mere $700,000 and that I should help them pay for it over the next 20 years.

Like last century's invasion of the railroad, these complaints and demands are an ominous sign. They portend the arrival of creatures of comfort and security at any cost, not pioneers who at least attempt to reconcile their existence with the natural environment they inhabit. These complaints arise from the kinds of people who buy ocean-front property and then petition to build a harbor or jetty to mitigate the crashing waves because they make too much noise. The kind of people who just love the star-filled rocky-mountain evenings, but then put up a 20-foot-high mercury vapor parking lot lamp in their driveways. You can recognize their large homes nestled in these high desert climate zones by the imposing grass lawns in their front yards slurping up our precious water. In the restaurants you can spot these discontented folks exchanging frowns regarding the clumsy "hick town" service they are receiving. These are the kind of people who actually decide to marry someone so they can completely change them into something more suitable.

The beautiful thing about thresholds is that you can't take what's on one side and mingle it with the other. We don't live in cities with smoothly paved roads and light pollution spilling out from every driveway and strip mall. We don't live in dense urban environments where getting from points A to B is a matter of speed-frenzied life and death. Make the county road below my home a paved road and I guarantee you'll see those same folks who demanded the asphalt hauling ass down it while I, my wife, or both of us are trying to take a leisurely walk along that road some evening. There's nothing like a smooth stretch of paved country road to wind out the new SUV and shave a minute from arrival time.

I guess I'm a bit like those quiet-loving men of the Old West, except I'm not leaving anymore just because I can hear the railroad off in the distance. But I will testify to this: I don't enjoy light pollution or car alarms. I don't follow the frenzied need to haul-ass up and down the road anymore. And quite frankly, I don't want to hear any whining about the rural country being, well, the country. All the comforts and sensibilities of urban life are plentiful in urban areas, and Ridgway is not one of them.

I guess it's enough for someone like me to simply stand up and say "no" without a need to win or be right, the way one does with a child who needs a healthy boundary. So to these few kids who have arrived to set up camp in our community, the answer here is "no." You can't have a strip mall in Ridgway, and you can't pave old County Road 24 and have me help you pay for it over the next 20 years. Instead, here are a couple of alternatives you might consider: You could get an old, beat-up pick-up truck if you're worried about your Lexus paint job. Either that or you can check out the long list of American urban wonderlands we have in this great country of ours. These huge, sprawling metropolises are a veritable oasis of paved roads - Meccas of smooth asphalt that stretch out in all directions, as far as the eye can see. And you can enjoy driving all over them! Along with the other 30 million folks with real nice paint jobs.

Robert Revel is an asphalt refugee from the streets of Northern California's San Francisco Bay Area. He lives off-grid in an earthship home he built in Ridgway with his fiancée, Jill. Their driveway remains unpaved.