The 'tank

“Satank is like Narnia; it’s hard to find, but once you’re there you never want to leave.” –JB

For those of you who don’t already know, Satank is a neighborhood to the west of Carbondale. It’s not actually in Carbondale, as in the town limits, but you can walk to Sopris Park in about fifteen minutes— and that’s with two dogs who like to stop and smell the opposite of roses. Satank was originally called Cooperton for founder Isaac Cooper, who has streets named for him both in Aspen and in Glenwood Springs. Satank sits just above the confluence of the Roaring Fork River and Rock Creek (the Crystal River) with many old trees lining the quiet roads. A lot of people have lived in Satank at least once in their valley rental history, and everyone I’ve heard from has enjoyed living here.

That’s not to say Satank doesn’t have its quirks; it does. As residents of unincorporated Garfield County, Satankers have, for the most part, adopted a laissez-faire attitude when it comes to rules and regulations. From tribes of free-range chickens to plastic ones artfully placed in the front yard, anything goes in Satank; we even have a free box corner. And for the most part, neighbors overlook each other’s strange habits because we acknowledge our own idiosyncrasies.

Over the years, Satankers have earned the reputation of being everything from ‘challenging’ to eccentric, to just plain cray-cray. But don’t let the lawn clutter and patch-worked outbuildings fool you— being a recluse goes hand in hand with having a high I.Q. Yep, I said it; only the good die young, and only the bright choose a little hinky over an HOA. Sure, our neighborhood may resemble Sanford and Son, but at least we can have a yard sale any time we want and leave the Christmas lights up after January 1st.

One of these days we’re going to start the Satank Country Club, and then look out! “We have a pool and a pond… Pond’d be good for you.” –Ty Webb (Caddyshack.) Truly, the future look and feel of Satank is anyone’s guess. With a range of individuality rarely seen in such a small area, Satank is enduring and unique. Even with all the changes Carbondale has undergone in the last few years, I’m not worried. As satankerous* as some of my neighbors are, I seriously doubt we’ll even see curb and gutter work in my lifetime.

The newest Satank trend is to live in a trailer while you build a house, and I must say, I’m rather envious (my retirement dream is to live in a trailer on the beach.) Back when we moved our house to Satank, we felt it fit in perfectly because it is a stick-built to look like a modular. My husband’s brother, Jack, was the first one to buy land from my uncle Charlie, (he bought the land from Bud Fender) and he built a straw bale house on the river. Next, we moved in an old wood house off my grandparents’ ranch; it took about fifteen minutes to drive down Hwy 133 with a Wide Load truck leading the way, and more than two hours to negotiate the twists and turns of Satank. So now, if the youngest Wilfley brother moves his family to Satank they’ll need a brick house, in keeping with the Three Little Pigs storyline. My in-laws are not as corny as I am, but they put up with my huffing and puffing jokes.

Maybe that’s the secret to Satank, a sense of humor. No one here takes life so seriously that they won’t kick off their shoes and put their feet in the ditch with a neighbor on a sunny afternoon. When Brad Hendricks (Satanker extraordinaire) passed away, there were little handmade signs in front of the houses that read: ‘park here’ and ‘parking for Brad H.’ It was heartwarming to see neighbors reaching out in consideration instead of calling a tow truck. True community is about appreciating each other’s differences, and paying it forward in kind. And in this respect, Satank’s diversity makes it, already, a very rich neighborhood.

*courtesy Tom Camp

Going home

They say you can never go home again; meaning, I suppose, that as we grow older and lose our sense of wonder about the world, places we return to just aren’t the same. And as we age, we lose our friends and family members, making us all the more homesick. Well, I’ve found a glitch. I went to the National Western Rodeo and Stock Show at the Denver Coliseum this year for the first time in thirty years, and I’m here to tell you it is exactly the same. The same denim and fringe sights, the same animal husbandry smells, even the time-consuming banter between the rodeo clown down on the dirt and the MC up in the stands was just as awkward as I remember.

When I was a kid my dad took us to the Stock Show every year, and we sat in my grandparents’ seats right down in front where you really felt like a part of the action. So, wanting to replicate my childhood memories, I bought tickets in the second row. Seeing this timeless event through adult eyes did offer a bit of a different perspective— like when a clomp of dirt/poop went flying into my plastic cup of beer with a decisive drink-ending plop, but the overall experience was like travelling through time.

Growing up, my sisters and I would come to Carbondale to visit our grandparents on their cattle ranch. As you entered their house through the dutch door, there was a metal grate in the floor for scraping the mud (and other stuff) off your boots. Meanwhile, high above on the wall, elk and deer heads watched you with apprehensive disdain. At the top of the stairs was a wood-framed glass door and through that a mud room with a wood stove and a bench along the wall. The mudroom was always full of coats, hats and boots; you need a lot of different kinds of boots when you live on a ranch.

Once through the door at the other end of the entryway, you were in the kitchen. The pantry was the first door on your left, but there wasn’t anything worthwhile in there, trust me. My sisters and I spent hours planning elaborate schemes to get our hands on cookies or potato chips— any snack we weren’t supposed to have between meals. Plans complete with double lookouts and an escape route through the laundry room, only to get away with a handful of red hots, or maybe some semi-sweet chocolate chips if we were lucky. As a last resort, we could go downstairs and probably find a cousin or two hiding in the cool basement eating Jello packages by licking their fingers and sticking them into the sugary powder (like homemade Fun Dip Lik-a-Stix.™)

My grandmother had seven children and dozens of grandchildren, so she had resolved long ago to only get involved when it was a matter of ‘life and death.’ Plus, it was the 70s, and adult supervision wasn’t nearly as prevalent as it is today. I don’t know if the adults just had more to do, or what, but kids had more privacy back then. The Ranch had a million great hiding places, inside and out. Thinking back on those days, I instantly conjure up the surfaces: green slate kitchen countertops, shag carpeting on the scary dark staircase, flagstone patio, and all the different sizes and shades of blue circular tile in the outdoor pool behind the house, where we spent countless hours underwater.

It’s funny how a place in our memory can connect us long after we’ve moved on. I can definitely relate to the symbol of a family tree with strong roots and many branches, (many, many branches!) But it is a tapestry I think of when I think of my father’s family, each member a unique part woven together into the larger picture. My grandmother passed away last week, and I feel like I have lost my last thread to a time and place. But if I close my eyes I can still see the large diving rock above me, shifting back and forth through the lapping light blue water.

Carbondale: A Great Place to Be (Yourself)

In the last few years Carbondale has been featured in several magazines, showcased as A Great Place to Be! Well, it’s working; we’re like a fly strip for transplants. I get it, if you weren’t brought up by people who carry a pocket knife, there’s a romantic quality to the whole ‘living off the land’ lifestyle, and it’s authentic here. Carbondale has a quality not found in many small towns; it’s a capable-yet-laid-back feel, definitely worth preserving. And while change can be good, I think we should go over a few things, in the hopes of making the transition smooth for everyone: new and old, good and bad, upstanding and down-to-earth.

Attention newcomers: welcome to our Rocky Mountain town at the confluence. Yes, we know how great it is to be here; we live here, we work here, we play here. And while we’re glad you’re here, please don’t try to change it. Just let Carbondale be. The sooner you let go of your past, the better our future will be. And the same goes for the old-timers: no use grumbling about all the new faces. Just think of it like this; there’s a whole new batch of folks to buy the drinks and listen to your stories…

I’ve put together a few tips on being a Carbondale local; how to act when confronted with real life in this small mountain town:

When driving on Catherine Store Road, (yes, that is the name of the road. There’s no ‘s and it doesn’t bother us, grammatically or otherwise) and you find yourself driving at the pace of cows walking, show some patience and slow down. Those beasts are your future fancy cheeseburgers with Gorgonzola aioli. (True Carbondale natives will want to know the definition of aioli: “It’s what rich people call mayonnaise.” -MM)

When hanging out at the Pour House, trying to blend in, it is imperative that you A) don’t wear a black cowboy hat unless you can back it up, and secondly, don’t bother ordering ‘stiff’ drinks from the bartenders. That’s the only way they know how to make ‘em. (It should go without saying, but I’ll say it: don’t bother ordering ‘light’ drinks either.) And if you’re going to eavesdrop on the next booth’s conversation –hardly your fault, as their voices get louder with each round, whatever happens, do not interrupt with a story about how you did it back home. Also, for your own safety, leave your yoga mat in the car.

Don’t ask what’s in it, just drink the Piehole.

Do not set your car alarm. Ever. It is pretentious (the antithesis of Carbondale) and you might as well have a loudspeaker on top of your car that shouts, “I am from out of town!” Know that as a Carbondalian, you will eventually drive a pickup or a station wagon; it’s up to you how long you hold out.

Quit buying up all the open space you can get your hands on. Going in and outbidding the Entities That Be before they can get their unruly ducks to line up is not making you popular with the locals. That land belongs to our children’s children and they’re going to need it for hunting and foraging. If you don’t believe me, you should eavesdrop at the Pour House more often.

When walking down Main Street early in the morning try not to gawk at the folks who are still in their clothes from the night before, as those are real locals. They may not know exactly where their car is at the moment, but they’re the ones who’ll stop in a blizzard to help you out of the ditch. Also, please refrain from stating, “What a cute little town” at any time of day.

When driving down Main Street and someone walks out in front of you, stop. Take a deep breath, try to relax, and smile as you wait for them to shuffle across the street. Which reminds me, smile a lot. The more you do it, the more familiar it will feel and maybe one day when someone you don’t know smiles at you on the street, you’ll automatically smile back. Life is good here.

Winning

 

Well, there you have it, another Superbowl down. Personally, I didn’t know whom to root for between the Cheaters and the Sea Chickens. Apparently the New England Patriots let some air out of their balls when it’s cold outside so that they can catch them, hence their new nickname. As my husband likes to say, “Cheaters never prosper, but they sure do win a lot.” And lest you think I’m a poor sport, I called Seattle’s team the Sea Chickens long before they beat the Broncos last year. They were my brother-in-law’s team and now that I think about it, way back before they switched to the NFC West, I think Seattleites may have been the ones to give their team the nickname.

Anyway, did you know that the NFL is a non-profit? Yep, the professional sports league that currently brings in about 10 billion dollars a year enjoys tax exempt status. When I think of a non-profit I picture tired people with frizzy hair feeding hay to stray animals or a place for under-privileged youth to experiment with music and art instead of drugs and alcohol. I do not picture large men with painted faces running around in tight pants and neon shoes.

What is the deal with the outfits in football? They don’t even wear pants that tight in fencing, and those guys have swords. In other sports loose-fitting knickers are the norm: basketball, baseball, rugby… Ah, rugby. Now there’s a sport I can cheer for. No pads or helmets (except for those little rubber caps they wear to protect their ears from being torn off.) Professional rugby is just a skin on skin game, with the biggest danger in the scrum being unsolicited orifice penetration. (And what about the language in professional sports?! Rim this and rim that, deep penetration, tight end. My goodness.)

Rugby is a faster game, which makes it more exciting to watch. The stop and go of football lends more to napping on the couch, not that there’s anything wrong with that. After a certain age most of us would give anything for a good football nap. But if I’m in the mood to scream and holler I’d rather watch a rugby match or a hockey game; “Skate—fight. Skate—fight. Score!” –DM. And to be fair, football’s delay in action has more to do with the passionate relationships between the refs and coaches than the players themselves. Like when they bring out the big Queen of Hearts stick with the attached chain to measure down to the centimeter where the ball landed, when the ref arbitrarily eyed it there in the first place. I love how it always takes two guys to carry that thing out onto the field; if you ask me, those guys should have special outfits too.

My main issue with American football, though, is that the players are under extreme pressure to be perfect during the games, but then not held accountable for any of their actions off the field. I have no idea what it feels like to be treated like a modern day gladiator, but I do know what it feels like to idolize a hero. And that’s what those guys are to millions of kids. What are our children learning when we let star players off without so much as a slap on the wrist (although they do get slapped on the ass quite a bit, but it’s not the same thing.) I think all professional sports players should be above reproach, or be fired. Especially since there are so many able bodied back-ups sitting on the bench.

As a country we like to gather at the water cooler and bemoan the violence that takes place daily, then go home and pay-per-view professional athletes who bring guns to work and beat their wives. At some point we may want to look at what it means to win at any cost, and then just play for the love of the game. (Also, let’s readjust the NFL’s tax standing to reflect their ‘for profit’ status.) I can’t wait til next year! It’s not every Sunday I get to take an afternoon nap after gorging myself on cows-in-a-poncho.*

*local vernacular for the Superbowl snack food also known as pigs-in-a-blanket.

The Wild West

The Wild West is a lot tamer than it used to be. Sure, there are more and more people running around these days, (actually they’re ATVing around) but there’s more to it than that. The amount of land in this country that is truly wild is disappearing faster than a hometown preacher in a whorehouse raid. I believe three major factors have come together in the last few decades to kill off the legendary essence of the Wild West.

First and foremost are the Gas & Oil companies. They come in like the wolf dressed as Grandma, all flattery and white teeth. They frack up the earth while the politicians drink the thick black kool-aid and pat themselves on the back for bringing labor-to-middle management jobs to town. And by the time we realize that our air and water are too contaminated for the birds, fish and wildlife (not to mention our children) all that’s left is an empty nightgown beside the bed.

Second to blame (and first to profit Gas & Oil) is the national marketing of The Great Outdoors. If I had a dollar for every Subaru ad with an attractive couple watching the sunset in the middle of nowhere… well, we’d all have brand new Subarus. When I was a kid it was still kind of a novelty to pack up the station wagon and head into the hills with a sleeping bag and a six-pack. Sure, your off-beat brother-in-law did it every chance he got, but civilized people stayed home and tried not to spill their third martini on the wall-to-wall carpeting. Then, sometime in the late 80s to early 90s hard wood flooring made a comeback, and more and more of us started going out to explore nature from the climate controlled safety of our gas-guzzling SUVs.

And lastly, in the trifecta of death for the Wild West, we have our local billionaires who want to realize their childhood dreams of being a cowboy. Whenever I hear the words ‘land management’ I throw up a little in my mouth. Why would raw land need human beings to manage it? Is it just me or is our hubris at an all-time high? Do we seriously think we can do a better job of maintaining natural habitat than the system that is already in place? (That’s our planet’s eco-system, for all you monotheists.) And when did rich people turn 180 degrees from the Roosevelt/Rockefeller school of thought? Upper class benevolence has gone the way of the dodo, which is why it’s more important than ever to democratically collaborate on public land policy rather than entrust the land to a few rich guys.

I mean, we are talking about men who would sue their own brother in a court of law. It’s not that I can’t imagine two brothers getting into a heated argument. I come from a family that spans the spectrums; from politics to party going tips, we rarely agree on anything. But to take it to the courts? That’s a level of self-importance that makes my family look like the tv show The Waltons. And trust me, we’re not. For one thing, we’re a ranching family, totally different than farming.

My grandparents ranched here for over sixty years; raising cows, horses and children, as my grandmother likes to say. As a child I did not fully appreciate spending time on the ranch; my memories are a hazy mixture of hard work and hot cereal. But now I would give everything I own to go back in time and spend a day there. For me, driving on a lonely two lane road with an old barbed wire fence running along the side is like watching a John Hughes movie during the holidays; it makes me feel as though all is as it should be in the world.

Why don’t we appreciate the intrinsic value of uncultivated land? While a lack of human management is unarguably beneficial to the soil, plants and animals, there is human gain as well. A healthy planet benefits all of us and speaking as someone from a Waltons-sized family, trust me, privacy is imperative to health. Now and then, even Mother Nature needs to hang a Do Not Disturb sign and lounge around in her underwear. And every time we let an individual buy or swap public land, no matter how good the intentions, a little bit more of the Wild in the West disappears.