Estes Park

Even after five years, Colorado continues to surprise me. I’ve come to accept her mercurial moods, the sudden shifts in weather, 70-degree days in February and snow in May. On a mid-April trip to Estes Park the pendulum swung from bright sunshine to blowing snow as we crossed Berthoud Pass, and then settled into a moody mist when we reached Estes.

Though the weather may be unreliable, Estes Park is always charming. Perhaps it’s the journey required to get there, but it has a closed-off, magical air, as if visitors have dropped into another world. In Estes the shops are small and charming, the mountains are a looming, majestic presence, and elk wander freely through town.

It was too early in the year for an elk sighting, so my husband and I had to content ourselves with exploring the town and our hotel. The streets were quiet. The skiers were off trying to wring the last few good runs of the season, and the influx of summer tourists hadn’t yet begun. It felt like a gift, as if we were the lucky recipients of our own private showing.

We stayed at the Stanley, which is a fascinating destination on its own. We took the ghost tour, following our guide, “Scary Mary,” as she explained the hotel’s history. She would pause occasionally to indicate that her spirit guides were present, or to instruct us to take

pictures where there was a high possibility of an orb showing up in the frame.

We stayed on the fourth floor, which is said to be haunted, and wondered if anything—or anyone—would disturb our rest. There were no ghostly visitations, though, and our pictures were steadfastly orb-free. Still, it was easy to imagine the presence of otherworldly beings. Surely if you lived in Estes for even a short time, you would be reluctant to leave.