The drive the next day out of Ridgway rivaled anything I’ve seen in books, brochures, movies, guides, and even my own eyes. Red cliffs jutted out, almost touching every car and gawking tourist. Malibu Stacy (the nickname we had given our rented Chevy Malibu) rode perilously close to the edge that dropped thousands of feet. Pine trees dotted the vertical madness, with interludes of rocky peaks that stabbed the traffic of wayfaring clouds.

We were on our way to Alta Lakes, a camping area at 11,000 feet that hid little cups of lakes as well as an old ghost town named Alta. The ride up, in a word, was taxing. Our friends had gotten us a honeymoon present at the Observatory, a luxurious lodge resting between a smattering of peaks and offering all the amenities without the intrusion of a TV or phone. Of course this place is well hidden from the non-adventurous tourist and their address is a P.O. box. All we had to go on was a topo map, directions from confused hikers, and a road that had more boulders than a teen in need of Clearasil. Perhaps if we had had 4WD (like all the other vehicles we saw) things would have fared better. Each rock made these awful scraping sounds under our poor car. I had the good fortune of bottoming out on a boulder while trying to clear a creek that had taken up residence on the road. The din under the car sounded like steel fingernails on a fresh chalkboard. And we still had no idea where the hell the Observatory was.

Malibu Stacy had to take a reprieve (one must worry when a brand new car reaches its breaking temperature). But, we couldn’t have picked a better place to damage our car. The legendary Alta Lakes laid before us in a rippling welcome. Cone-shaped pines decorated the lake in a haphazard fashion.

Blissed, yet bitter, we circled around asking friendly campers where the invisible Shangri-La might be. Contestants #3 (two sweet couples from Vermont and Utah) pointed us to a tall, brown cabin hidden amongst the tall pines. Leaving Stacy behind, we trudged up to the house, expecting a cheery couple to come bounding out the door to greet us. No one appeared, although the house had immense majesty. Round stained glass formed around the bottom, and the cabin rose to a three-story high. Still, our constant query of hellos was met with muteness.

For minutes, no one answered, although we could hear a piano solo on an unseen stereo. It seemed to mock us as our confusion kudzued. Finally, we saw that the big oak door that we had meekly rapped on to begin with was now ajar. We took fragile steps into the foyer, still vocalizing a repetitive, “Hello?”

We were greeted by a whire-haired mountain man (who looked somewhat like a mini Yeti) that didn’t really know what to think of the red-faced greenhorns in front of him. After a hasty introduction, he responded that yes, this was the Observatory, and, tsk, tsk, that he wasn’t expecting us until nightfall. He seemed irritated by our earliness (the website has no arrving or leaving hours), and more so by the fact that all we had ever got was their answering machine. He mumbled something about picking up our food in town, and instructed us to take a looooooooong hike around the area.

Eons later, we came back. Our host had dissapeared, leaving us in a state of confusion. The front door was unlocked, but we felt weird about entering the wooden palace. Our stomachs finally took the intiative (after several hours of waiting) and we enetered the Observatory and headed straight for the fridge.

The food inside was fit for a Royal Court. Succulent pasta dishes, a buffet of Dutch cheeses, fruits, french breads,hummus, and wine sat in every crevice of the fridge. Was it ours or was it for our wooly-faced host? He made no mention of leaving the house to the two of us, but then again, he didn’t really grunt more than two sentences.

We ate cautiously and then ravenously. If we were squatters, so be it. Our food digested in syncopation with the setting sun. A maroon hue painted the lake and the three peaks (Palmyra, Silver Mountain, and Ophir Needles) that sat right outside our door. The rest of the night was lethargic — a popping fire in a fireplace bigger than my old dorm room, a dip in a hottub adorned with various gemstones, and a long sleep in a down bed. The tiny round window from the third floor gave us teases of the peaks that we had traveled 2,000 miles to see. A confusing place, yes, but well worth any travails it may take to get there.

We never saw our host again. I’ve come to think of him as a guardian ghost, a pale-faced, ornery fellow who guards the palace of the Observatory.

Feeling bushy-tailed, we left the Observatory early and headed for our first taste of Telluride. Friendly geeters directed us to the Town Park camping that was already alight with the sounds of banjos, guitars, mandolins, and other assorted plinks, plunks, and thumps.

We soon found our friends from Jackson Hole, and by early afternoon chaos ensued. A group next to us had a trivia tent that covered everything from Telluride history to the Simpsons. Winners were given a bluegrass disc of their choice. Losers had to take a shot of cheap tequilla. It was about that time that the Rum Balls were announced. A gaggle of campers appeared with a red cooler full of rum balls — fruit that had soaked in rum for at least a week. Each brave particiapnt was given a tiny cup of octane. One was enough.

Before I could gag my first piece of fruit down, the merry minstrals appeared. Their playing, perhaps fueld by the tainted fruit, was impeccable. But, like something out of a Tolkein yarn, they dissapeared before anyone noticed. Perhaps they were spirits, jolly pixies who had formed out of the creeks, leaves and trees that surrounded the hallowed camping ground. The festival was still a day away ...