Alone in windy Westcliffe

Jones Theatre in Westcliffe, Sangre de Cristo Range in the background

The chill had not left the air as I passed around Cheyenne Mountain into the Valley of Prisons that included Canon City and Florence. I had only passed through Florence on my way out of Canon City when its streets and sidewalks were crowded with summer visitors. On a Sunday in February, only a few businesses had opened and a few breakfast spots swarmed with people.

I walked the blocks anyway, wanting to appraise the town a bit. Its main blocks had a number of antique stores, windows stacked with items I could see in my own house. Fortunately for my wallet, most didn't open till later in the day.

Realizing I had time to burn if I wanted to try Florence-made beer, I weighed heading into Canon City, which I had visited, or moving onto points west. Points west won in a landslide.

The Wet Mountains approached first. A smaller range with its highest point on Greenhorn Mountain at 12,346 feet, the road nonetheless swept into higher elevations as it moved toward Hardscrabble Pass, the divide that reached into Wet Mountain Valley, home to the small towns of Silver Cliff and Westcliffe. On clear nights, the valley hosts some of the darkest skies in the Lower 48, and both towns are International Dark Sky Communities.

As I looked at the theater, a teenage boy on a bicycle rode by and gave me a bright "good morning," which I returned. Small towns still amaze me.

I had been passing on breakfast since Florence, and found my hunger was just strong in Westcliffe. A coffeeshop called to me. Along with the barista station and an ice cream counter, it was in the process of selling off lots of home goods from previous owners. As I ordered an Americano and a pastry, a crowd poured through the coffeehouse doors. I wished the barista luck, since she was the only one working.

Years ago I became enamored with train depots, a function of not having passenger train access in the last three towns where I lived. The buildings are always stylish, easy to pick out since they usually sit adjacent to train tracks. The train station in Florence had been converted into a senior center, and I felt conspicuous trying to photograph the building. The modest station in Westcliffe operated as a museum. Closed till spring, I walked around its plank patio.In Westcliffe, a section of tracks connected to nothing sat by the depot. The trains had long since abandoned Westcliffe even as the people hung on.

Westcliff train station

I kept walking around Westcliffe. On a quiet porch, a cat snoozed in a carpeted perch, breaking for a more secure spot once I came closer. The streets were quiet except for the thriving market at the edge of town. 

 Ever since my friend Rob and his family took over the State Theater in London, Ohio, I have become more aware of the single-screen theaters running in small towns on my travels.

At the west end of Westcliffe's commercial strip I came upon the Jones Theater, home to the Westcliffe Center for the Performing Arts. Beginning as a pool hall and saloon in the 1880s, the space evolved into the Canda Theatre, named for the man who brought silent movies to show in the 1920s. The Jones family bought it in the 1960s and it still runs. A mural on the side of the building told much of the history, while Knives Out was on the marquee.

High-flying clouds

The highway from Westcliffe skirted into national forest abutting the Sangre de Cristo. The road wound around farms, pillars of rock rising from the valley and the Beckwith, a historic ranch. I drove down a few U.S. Forest Service roads but the approach of a storm over the mountains led me to abandon any deep incursions.

A few dozen miles ahead, the road reached the Arkansas River canyon west of Royal Gorge. I was the only car headed east at that hour. Rocks that fell from the cliff faces to the road during the night provided an occasional obstacle.

Passing through Canon City, I contemplated a stop but decided to finish my business in Florence at the former newspaper office. A quick beer at the Florence Brewing Company brought me full circle, even as my thoughts still grappled with the rows of impossibly perfect peaks in the Sangre de Cristo.

Forest service road to the Sangre de Cristo range