October 1919 – Colorado: Paintings
"Goodness," The Lady gasps as she dips a toe in the inky blue waters of the lake, "it might as well be solid ice!" She kicks the surface to illustrate her point, the droplets catching the light as they fly into the air and shower down, sparkling like metallic confetti before dewing on the surface of her black velvet dress.
It probably was solid ice, not too long ago, this particular lake nestled in the magnificent Rocky Mountains of Colorado being fed by the melted snow that tops the jagged peaks around us and apparently never defrosts entirely, despite the unseasonable warmth and the glare of the sun.
It is a spot of almost unnatural beauty, so perfectly composed is the tableau before us. It reminds me of the great estate gardens of England, where the landscape is carefully manipulated to look like perfect nature, when in reality it is highly planned. But even the titans of the American Midwest who choose to vacation here do not have the power or money to arrange mountains simply to suit their mood, so we accept the theatrical topography as part of the richness of America itself – a richness that Americans are never hesitant to exploit.
This probably explains the popularity of this particular resort. Dotted around the lake are numerous log cabins nestled within groves of pine trees belonging to the best and brightest families from the middle of the country who come to partake in the flawless scenery. Although 'cabins' may be a humble word – some are grander than others, and some are quite grand indeed. But all are made of local timber and accented with homey stone fireplaces and back porches fenced with netting, which perhaps adds to the unnatural effect of an invented vista.
The town does not help either: down the lane is an Old West Main Street that seems borrowed from a moving picture about cowboys and Indians. Wooden storefronts with signs that say 'Saloon' and 'General Store' line the boardwalk, and, though the dirt road is populated by cars instead of horses, the impression is hardly interrupted by the modern technology. In fact the automobiles elevate the outpost from tourist trap to authentically useful commercial hub, proving this a frontier town that has survived wilder days and eased into comfortable middle age.
You would be forgiven for thinking the lake and its little town are an image and nothing more; the setting is so picturesque it seems to belong to a reality of wistful propaganda paintings that the American government commissioned to advertise western expansion to Easterners in search of their own piece of manifest destiny. The Lady and I saw an exhibit of such paintings in Chicago – the work paraded landscapes similar to our current backdrop with all the glory of a Turner sunrise and the drama of a Brueghel battle. These oversized canvases depicted a world of perfect dreams, ragged lands that could be conquered by the indomitable American spirit if only one had the courage to try, unending opportunity around the bend of every magnificent river, and all accompanied by the implied tagline 'You could call this home.' Some people obviously took up the challenge, claiming their piece of the dream in this cozy mountain town.
But we are just passing through, indulging in this particular dream for only a weekend. We perch on the edge of a rickety dock, surrounded by grey serrated mountains in all directions that embrace the lake like a ring of smoke around a crystal ashtray, daring each other to plunge a whole foot into the icy water, when it starts to rain. The cloud that is the cause has yet to obscure the sun, and the tiny droplets sparkle as they dance across the glassy surface in ever-increasing circles that appear with a plop and fade away into others with as little consequence as a whispered word or a quiet sigh.
"Good thing we didn't take out a boat," The Lady says as she unfurls an enormous red umbrella to shelter us from the storm. Personally I wouldn't have minded, drifting across a shimmering lake reflecting the orange and gold of the fall leaves on its shattered mosaic surface. As it is, from the sidelines, the symphony of color and texture appears before us as it may have looked in one of those commissioned paintings from the previous century, shafts of light streaming through the clouds and clashing with the rocks to create geometric forms in the shadows of the peaks. Curiously, those paintings never featured people, only landscape.
As we sit side by side above the freezing lake, I know what kind of painting I would have commissioned to advertise the West, and the sublime landscape would play but a minor role. For at the edge of an old wooden pier, there would be an elegant girl with a black dress and a red umbrella, laughing as she splashes water in my direction. Manifest destiny indeed.
R.C.