Last week when the snow was floating down for hours on end, when everyone in town was either snuggling up under blankets or skiing the sick pow at the resort, Joey and I decided to venture a different way.
Tucked up highway 160 West, just past a turn no one ever remembers exists, La Plata Canyon stands regal in all it's mountainous glory. The trees catch the snow which makes them look like they are soft and fuzzy; like they are old and grey.
The only thing we could do with that kind of landscape was to go out and explore.
You'll never hear a true lover of Indian Creek call it by it's given name. No, lovers of Indian Creek will only have to say "the creek", and that will suffice.
The creek serves as church for its religious followers. People who love the creek believe in the creek, as the creek--often referred to as a feminine--she believes in you too.
She will take care of you as long as you take care of her. She instills fear in your as you’re humbled by her power and she can take away your life as easily as you came. True believers in the creek will push her boundaries so deeply that some can say they've seen heaven from the top of her spires, and hell from the base of the unobtainable.
Followers of the creek dream about her at night and say her name throughout the day. She challenges them in ways that no one can really grasp. She offers an itch to those who seek, and rewards those who find and once she has gotten sand in your hair, and scrapes and scratches and bruises and blood, you'll always have the creek in you.