A cozy mountain hut, some Great sand dunes, and an idyllic mountain town

Ahhhh Salida. Just the thought of it conjures fresh mountain air, sun on my skin, and slow strolls through its lovely streets. I keep thinking how lucky I am to say it again—this might be one of my favorite spots yet. It is, quite honestly, an idyllic little mountain town. Smaller than most places we’ve been, with just under 6,000 residents, it's nestled between the “Collegiate” Peaks and Monarch Pass, home to one of the few remaining independently owned ski mountains in Colorado. Their snowy white peaks seem to rise up in the distance from nearly every corner of town, even from the couch where I’m sitting right now.

It’s friendlier and quirkier here; people sit out on their front porches and say hello as you pass, windchimes made of old bike gears clinking above their heads. Freshly poured sidewalks don’t hold accidental footprints, but hoofprints. There are deer everywhere. Deer out the window, deer along the street, just chewing, sitting, existing. Even Gus is fascinated. He’ll climb up on the dining table and sit and watch them out the window.

Downtown Salida and view of the 'S' from F Street

Birds eye view of Salida from "S" Trail

Arkansas River running through the downtown

We arrived in that magical in-between season where you can ski on a Saturday and hike dry, desert trails on Sunday. Unseasonably warm and endlessly sunny, Salida felt like a deep, easy exhale. We stayed just off bustling F Street, where art galleries, coffee shops, thrift stores, my favorite yoga studio yet, and of course, a few great breweries line both sides. Front and center as you make your way down F Street to downtown, you’ll see the town’s quintessential ‘S’ displayed proudly on nearby Tenderfoot Hill. If you look closely, you’ll spot hikers and bikers weaving through its trails. 

We made the short walk into town most every day, where we could admire the beautiful Arkansas River and take in the picturesque view of its snowy mountain backdrop. Sometimes for a coffee or a pastry. Particularly, a fried Amish raspberry handpie, in case you were wondering.

Getting ready to go!

Matthew's ridiculously large backpack

The hiking portion of our trek in

Eliza crossing a stream like a champ

Finally found some snow!

Our adorable little home for the night

Matthew getting the wood stove going

Matthew in his natural habitat

No cooler needed

Mt Sneffels Overlook

Sneffels Overlook selfie

Blueberry pancakes for breakfast

Speaking of magical, we spent our first weekend tucked away in the (somewhat) snowy Colorado mountains in a tiny hut straight out of a children’s book. As if that wasn’t enough, four of our closest friends joined us, turning the whole experience into something even cozier. 

Getting there was half the adventure. Watching everyone strap their gear to the outside of their already bulging backpacks for our one-night stay was pretty comical. Matthew found the world’s largest backpack at a used gear shop in Salida. The thing was a black hole. Every time I asked, “Can you fit one more thing?” it somehow disappeared inside. I still have no idea how he managed to haul it up the mountain. It also smelled like old cheese, but that’s a story for another time.

We hiked about four miles in, then strapped on skis and snowshoes for another three, climbing steadily toward our home for the night. For most of the way, the Colorado Rockies stretched out around us, the kind of views that make you forget your legs are working. The trail kept things interesting, too. It took us over stream crossings (I’ve truly never seen skis bend that way before), through winding stretches of quiet aspen groves, and down a few questionably steep canyon descents. I was thrilled to be on snowshoes.

By the time we crested the hill and caught our first glimpse of Ridgway Hut, I was more than ready to rest. It was the definition of quaint: a small cabin with a smoking chimney, a wooden staircase, and a lone picnic table out front, surrounded by snow and trees. Inside, wooden walls were lined with cozy bunk beds, and the kitchen was stocked with a propane stove and everything we needed. All we had to pack in were the tasty meals and snacks we had dreamed up, our sleeping bags, and the 24-pack of Coors Light Sean so graciously offered to carry the entire way. At the center of it all was a sturdy woodstove, which Matthew and friends soon had crackling away. It warmed up fingers and toes, melted snow into drinking water in a big pot perched on top, and sent a steady ribbon of smoke curling out of the chimney. 

We unpacked, lingered over a well-earned lunch, and then rallied for a short but steep hike to an overlook of Mt. Sneffels, arguably one of the most beautiful fourteeners in Colorado, especially dusted in winter snow. Back at the hut, Nick and Eliza made a seriously delicious chili mac and cheese, and we spent the rest of the night gathered around the stove, working our way through every card game we could think of. It’s hard to imagine a better way to spend a day.

Mt Sherman Summit

The following weekend, we set out to check another fourteener off my list. We even enticed a few friends to join. Thanks to an unseasonably warm winter, trails that are usually buried in snow and ice were manageable with just microspikes, so we decided to go for it.

Mount Sherman is known as one of the more approachable Colrado peaks over 14,000 feet, and I’d describe it as a very steep walk up a pile of rocks. The trail itself isn’t the most scenic; there’s some abandoned mining equipment scattered along the way, a few very cute dogs, but not much else to distract you from the steady climb. The real reward, as always, is at the top.

At the summit, the world opens up. Snow-capped peaks stretch endlessly in every direction, and for a moment it feels like you can see every mountain in the state. It’s that rare kind of view that makes you feel both incredibly small and somehow on top of everything at once. It was wildly windy up there, so we tucked ourselves against the side of the mountain, had a quick snack, and didn’t linger long before heading back down.

By the time we made it back to town, we were starving. We demolished two entire pizzas, ordered a couple of beers, and any plans of hitting the town quickly dissolved into an early bedtime.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

Beautiful contrast with the mountains in the background

The next weekend, we found ourselves in one of the most unique national parks we had ever visited. After about an hour and a half of driving through quiet desert farmland—the kind of empty highway where you half expect to pass a sign for the “World’s Biggest Ball of Yarn”—we instead rolled by a viewpoint promising guaranteed UFO sightings and, somehow, even more bizarrely, an alligator park in the middle of Colorado.

And then, out of nowhere, tucked against the massive Rockies, we saw them.

From miles and miles away (15 to be exact), Matthew said, “I think that’s it,” and he was right. From a distance, you could kind of make out what looked to be a mound of tan sand in comparison to the giant mountains that stood behind it, but as we got closer, the Great Sand Dunes grew into their unique shape and impressive size. 

We decided to conquer the second-highest sand dune in the park, High Dune. Before setting out, we stopped at the Visitor Center to learn how these surreal piles of sand came to be and to ask a park ranger about the best route up. That’s when we learned that there aren’t any “trails” on the dunes. You just…go. I suppose it’s hard to stick trail markers into sand as fine as sugar. 

Most people stick to the ridgelines, as the sand here seems to be packed down and easier to walk on. It was certainly tougher than walking on solid ground; your feet slip backwards with each step. But it was so unique, it hardly mattered. Around us, people were sandboarding and sledding down steep faces, families were digging and burying each other like it was a beach day, and then there were the slightly crazy folks like us determined to climb to the top of one of these massive dunes.

Looking ahead in the distance at the steep, sandy climb we had to make and looking back at the ridgelines of sand we had already crossed, it oddly felt like we were deep in the desert. We stopped at the “summit” for views of the dunes and the stark contrast of the beautiful snowy Rockies in the background. 

While others chose to take the ridgeline “trails” back down to the bottom of the dunes, Matthew decided we were going to run down its soft sandy sides. It was a strange feeling at first because it was pretty steep, but soon I was sprinting down the side of a sand dune, laughing hysterically at my husband, who was barrel-rolling/sprinting behind me. Something I can say I have definitely never done and something I would never even have thought to put on my bucket list.

By the time we made it back to the big blue truck, we were dumping sand out of our shoes, our pockets, everywhere. We drove to a nearby viewpoint for a picnic lunch, still brushing grains off our legs. We would be finding sand for weeks after that. I opened the dryer after washing our clothes, and it practically poured out.

Salida is a special place, one I won’t forget. As we make our way back east, our next chapter takes us to Bentonville, Arkansas. Known as the birthplace of Walmart, it’s also packed with trails and parks I can’t wait to get lost in.