Here I am, entering the meat of the summer, finally getting to turn the heater off at night, putting away the few sweaters and jackets, and embracing the 80-degree heat that has arrived. After one month, I’ve discovered why this place is a secret.

Week 1

We finally unpacked all the shorts that we owned, only to learn that the highs of 60 degrees may be a touch too cold for them. The massive collection of purple and gold shirts only makes us stick out like sore thumbs, as people here must think we are colorblind fools touting football T-shirts in a track-and-field town. At least the locals hate the Sooners and the Longhorns as much as we do, therefore saving us from ridicule for not supporting the Adams State College Grizzlies.

We are more than excited to try the local Mexican restaurants in town. Too bad the first few places don’t carry sweet tea, but their food is really good. Maybe next week we can try Italian food for a change of pace, but we’re having trouble finding a place that isn’t Mexican.

Shopping on Main Street is like a blast from the 1950s, with quaint boutiques and friendly people. Even the Wal-Mart staff is friendly and polite. I’m beginning to think we can ship milk ($1.99/gallon) and ground beef ($1.25/pound) home to friends and neighbors for the deal we are getting. What a wonderful place, even better than home.

Week 2

Packed the shorts up because it’ll never get hot here. Had to buy more jeans to stay warm.

Found out the source of the foul-smelling water: We are hooked up to a well, and the egg smell is never going to go away. I can feel it on me after showers.

I can no longer look down on people buying bottled water by the case and chilling it. It’s that or Cokes (or as the natives call it, pop). But I can only buy it when the grocery store is open, which is sunup to sundown. Not that I am complaining, because it’s now sunny from 5 a.m. to 9-ish, but during the winter, I might have to worry.

Everywhere we look, another Mexican restaurant. I am running out of things to order at these places, and still no sweet tea. I think the phone book listed a place that served something other than Mexican in the next town over. I might have to go scouting just to find something different.

Speaking of food, no Community Coffee, no fresh seafood, no Cajun mixes. Might have to ship that in. At least I can find Tony’s.

The wind hasn’t stopped blowing yet, and I am getting worried that the sand is starting to pile up. It’s like living on the beach of Hawaii without the surf, the water, the bikini-clad women, or the pineapples.

Week 3

I’m so sick of Mexican food that I might puke the next time I see tortillas in red sauce. I’ve started snorting Tony’s, so there is some sort of spice in my diet. That is, however, not as bad as my new sweet-tea freebasing, because no one in 100 miles makes sweet tea.

I’ve learned to drive 55 on dirt roads, but due to the fact that the nearest interstate is an hour away, I can’t seem to go past 60 mph. I have learned that first and second gears are not for decoration in our forays out of the valley.

Colorado also has decided that guardrails up a 10,000-foot pass aren’t important, that the 100-foot drop off the side is their version of cleansing the gene pool, and hairpin curves, 6% grade downhills, and snow-covered tunnels should all carry a 55-mph speed limit.

The only thing that is keeping me sane is the fact that the humidity here has kept my clothes dry. It finally stopped freezing overnight, and the sunrises over the peaks really awaken the soul in the morning.

Besides, I have to make room for you and your family when the hurricanes start coming in August.