Sarah Haas, Peak to Peak.   There may be no more trenchant symbol for the difference between mountain folk and flat-landers than their respective definitions of anonymity. The former, having sought distance from society, are often far removed from even their nearest neighbors, either in acreage or reclusiveness, feeling cloaked by solitude, even though they can’t go anywhere without running into people they know. Those who live on the plains, increasingly conglomerated around urban centers as they are, frequently walk the streets as strangers, only to find their own blocks assuming a more familiar feel. On its own terms though, the word “anonymous” is actually quite simple in meaning. Originating from the Greek an, meaning without, and, onoma, meaning name, it translates, however comically, to: no-name.

No-name is not his chosen pseudonym, but it’s awfully fitting for the protagonist of this week’s column who prefers to keep his name out of the paper, a goal I’m happy to help protect, given that the substance of his story remains true. After many years as a flat-lander, he’s spent the last 16 in pursuit of a more private life kept between family and pets, wildlife and trees. But those that do know him, know him well: he’s an open book who gives freely of himself. During the course of our interview, he offered at least three generosities, two of which he pulled out of an ordinary canvas bag full of Mary Poppins like magic.

“Would you like a padrone pepper?” He says, reaching the better part of his arm in the bag and searching around. I half expected him to pull out a lamp instead.

By the end of our talk I was convinced that he does, in fact, live a magical life. He lives in a humble home on 35 acres that he describes as Shangri-La, a fictional Eden first written into popular lore in 1933 by James Hilton in his book, Lost Horizon. At first an adventure story, the book’s genre inverts to a more inward journey when a plane crashes in the Himalayan mountains, leaving its passengers stranded. Saved by the hidden oasis of Shangri-La, a permanently happy land owing its joy, in large part, to its isolation from the rest of the world, it’s not long before the temporary refuge the travelers sought turns into a more permanent situation and their once transitory goals turn to eternal ones, like the pursuit of enlightenment.

“When I first moved up here, my friends were taking bets on how long I’d make it. It’s been 16 years and I’m never leaving. This is paradise,” he says, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the view spread out before us.

We’re at Golden State Park’s Panorama Point and from where we sit you can see all of the Indian Peaks and beyond — North and Southern Arapahoe, Kiowa, Apache, Shoshoni, Audubon. He doesn’t take his eyes off of them and whenever conversation comes to a lull, it’s them he’ll start talking about, like mythologic gods requiring the sacrifice of his attention, which he gladly gives. It’s early October and already they’re covered with snow, but still he talks of climbing them, if not this fall then in the spring.

His knees are getting worse but no matter, he walks miles every day through the woods, often ending up here, a spot he’s dedicated to his younger brother who passed in 2002. He says he can walk some of the way here blindfolded. He knows because he’s tried and succeeded, thinking of the blind walk as a test of sorts, a way to benchmark his intuitive prowess and to build trust of his own instincts.

But looking at him sitting here, a hunter in a Bronco’s hat after a long day of manual labor on his feet, I’m admittedly surprised to hear him talk this way, about the power of the mind and the energy of the forest. To me, hunting and football have always seemed incompatible with transcendental philosophies, although I know many, including myself, who contain the contradiction nonetheless.

Earlier he’d told me about the first time he shot and killed an elk, about the grief that followed, an emotion importantly distinct from remorse. “It’s strange to make that turn in life, to enter into a different sort of kinship with the animals you share the woods with, to start eating off the land.”

He tells me that there are 280,000 head of elk in Colorado, the most of any place in North America and that the health of the population, and of their ecosystem, depends on artificial culling, which is to say hunting. The sound of his voice reassures me of his sincerity — it’s deep and of a patient cadence, and full of the earthly energies he speaks of.

“Do you seek enlightenment?” I ask, toward the end of our conversation.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m 62 and I’ve done a lot of things, but where am I going? What’s my purpose? Living in the forest, this is my purpose,” he pauses before adding, “living in the forest make me happy.”

Mountain Folk Tales is a weekly column about locals living along the Peak-to-Peak. To suggest someone for a profile please email Sarah at mountainfolktales@gmail.com.

(Originally published in the October 18, 2018, print edition of The Mountain-Ear.)