I swear they were wood spirites.

There were four of them, minstrels donning clothing that would have appalled in any other setting. They had come out of the woods in camouflage style. None had noticed the fairie band until they were in the middle of of the congregated crowd. One chap wore a girl’s bikini top with a washtub bass for defense. The leader had a tiny cup which he raised towards the droves of gawkers. His message rang across the Telluride campground with stunning conviction — “Rumbaaaaaaalls!!!!” The crowd went ballistic. They returned the cry with a deafening boom and raised their own glasses before downing the liquor concoction. It was Wednesday, June 19, one full day before the commencement of the 29th annual Telluride Bluegrass Festival, and the Town Park Campground already had the feel of a Saturday under a ruckus moon.

Kirstie and I had gotten to Telluride, Colo., early in the day, confident that we were early birds to the festival. Town Park was the pretigous campground for the fest. Lazy, sunburnt, or other campers could hear every note from their tent. The walk was perhaps 200 feet to the innards of the festival grounds. People were allowed to come and go as they desired, coming back when the hankering for a picking returned.

Plan early if you venture to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. The prepared get there at least a week early. And get Town Park camping at all costs — mentally and physically. Sleep is nonexistent. The sun and wind punish travelers with a healthy mix of chaffed skin and dust that takes up occupancy in every pore. But the annoyances are an afterthought. Music pours from every campsite. There are no strumming egos. A 20-year guru of the banjo can be seen with a two-minute guru of the kazoo (I fell into this latter category). Smiles decorated the campsite like a two-acre connect-the-dot puzzle.

What started 29 years ago as a grassroots fest for locals has hatched into a world-famous event that attracts 10,000 “festivarians” (a term coined in the Telluride program) to the old mining town of Telluride (population 1,985, elevation almost 9,000 feet).

The Ute Indians were the first visitors here, summer dwellers along the stunning San Miguel River. Hordes of elk, deer, and mountain sheep were available for Ute consumption and winter preparedness. The cold months were (and still are) brutal, and the Utes retreated to the lower canyons and deserts. Spaniards appreared in the late 1700s searching for an overland route from Sante Fe to the Pacific. They named the mountain range (which Telluride is nestled into) the San Juan Mountains. The adverse weather kept all but the hardiest out.

It wasn’t until the gold rush of the late 1800s that Telluride became a destination. Prospector John Fallon made the first claim in the Marshal Basin above Telluride. The claim was huge in zinc, copper, lead, iron, silver and gold. In 1880 the town was named Columbia.

Because there was another mining camp in California by the same name, the Colorado haven got changed to Telluride. No one is sure of the name’s origin, but historical speculation is twofold: the name may have been derived from telurium, a non-metallic element that’s associated with rich mineral deposits of gold but is nonexistent in T-Ride; or (and my favorite) is the famous send-off, “To-Hell-U-Ride!” given to folks willing to brave the San Juans for a metal lottery ticket.

Immigrants poured into the valley. Mining tunnels snaked 350 miles into the iving basins. Butch Cassiddy made his first official robbery there in 1889. The community thrived with all the tabooed ammenities — saloons, gambling, and a thriving Red Light District.

The silver crash of 1893 and the shadow of WWI decimated the mining boom. By 1960, Telluride’s status was beginning to have the phantom trails of a host. The peak population of 5,000 in 1889 had dwindled to a paltry 600.

The savior used to be the hinderer. The white mammoth that could grow to 4,000 inches in the winter gave T-Ride its second boom. Entrepreneurs figured that the town would be great for skiing. With snow hanging around for almost 3/4 of the year, a ski resort seemed obvious. A ski area was crafted out of a ridge coming off of Gold Hill (overlooking T-Ride). Skiers from everywhere flocked to the resort and revived an ailing economy.

The town is now full of pleasure-seekers year round. One noitceable difference is the lack of any corporate monoliths (i.e. McDonalds, Wally World). All shops are locally owned (and heavily priced). There’s a sense of tourist trappings, but there’s a lack of tackiness that seems to blotch other towns that rely on the greenhorns. The views are inspirational in a 360-degree sort of way. One only has to look up to see Bridal Veil Falls, which traipses down the mountain with elegant ease. Visible peaks include Telluride Peak (elevation 13,508) Ajax (12,785) and Trico (13,321). Trails are mere footsteps from town and offer falls, mining towns, jeep jaunts, dizzying heights, and severe rubber-necking.

We had arrived in the San Juan Mountains two days before. Our first stop was Ridgway, a tiny community at 5,800 feet. Cradled in a valley which overlooks the regal Mount Sneffels (elevation 14,150). Ridgway is famous for its Orvis Hot Springs. It’s an out-of-the-way place and word of mouth is its only advertising (although you can find Orvis Hot Springs on the web). James, our rabid-eyed, crinkly-haired host, glowed with the Colorado sun. Happy to know you, even happier to talk to you. The rooms were stifling hot, but what do you expect with a place that promises rustic? No phone. No TV. Just a room that reminds me of our pilgrimage to Mexico. Native American art, dream catchers, jugs of water to combat the dry air, and a view that defies even the most calculated of adjectives.

With the purchase of our room, we had unlimited acess to the Hot Springs that are a few gallops from our door. Of course, no one warned us of the Lobster Pot, a quaint secluded tub with temperatures bordering around 114 degrees. Being of sound mind and ill-preparedness, I jumped into the seafood broiler. It’s strange, but it almost felt like plunging into a freezing lake. My breath took a vacation and my heart superballed around my ribcage. How in the world does a human stand a temperature that unravels the skin? “The key,” one amused onlooker said, “is not to move at all. It keeps you from scalding yourself.”

Not in the mood to be masochistic, K and I discovered a bigger pool, where the temperature hovered around a “cool” 100 degrees. Taking a dip was like having a hundred hands discovering the secret of even the most elusive of knotted muscles. Scores of happy naked people floated around us as Mount Sneffels watched over us from its rocky throne. As we walked back to our room, I noticed that no one had succumbed to the Lobster Pot. Perhaps self-infliction had become taboo in Ridgway.