ACORD: So long, flatlanders in flip-flops

Published September 11, 2007 at midnight

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They are the flip-flop people. You know - the flatlanders who flock to Colorado each summer, pockets filled with cash, bellies filled with road food and schedules filled with visits to attractions, camping trips and souvenir hunts.

We call them the flip-flop people (FFPs) because they give themselves away with their footwear. They accessorize those floppy rubber thongs with sunburned shoulders and, often, a fannypack worn backward for easy entry.

By the time you read this, the flip-flop people are back at home in Kansas and Illinois, Oklahoma and Texas. Their blisters are healed, their sunburns faded and their hikes memorialized in photo scrapbooks with captions like "We Made It!" and "The Best Day Ever!"

Each spring, before the FFPs arrive, the mountain town I call home waits, quietly. Campgrounds a block from my house are swept clean, their offices freshly painted and their sites awaiting RVs with heroic names like "Endeavor," "Venture" and "Patriot Thunder."

The aisles at City Market are uncrowded, and even on weekends, restaurants and bars are places where we see our neighbors, not strangers with out-of-state license plates. Then, slowly, steadily, they come.

On cold, rainy nights, they lurk in the grocery store aisles, drying out and stocking up on charcoal and giant bags of trail mix. They crowd the delis and line up at the town's three liquor stores.

They exude a combination of stress and fatigue, excited to be sharing the wonder of the mountains and tired by the effort they had to make to get here.

They have already spent more money than they planned, and the stress over money and sleeping in unfamiliar beds results in unfortunate public meltdowns.

A dad at the ticket window of a local attraction turns to his two young sons and screams: "Dammit! We've driven this far and we are gonna have fun whether you like it or not!"

A couple parked at the entrance to the Pikes Peak Highway argues about the drive. "It's straight up!" the woman says. "I don't want to go."

"It can't be straight up. We'd fall off the mountain," the man says.

It's a weak argument, but he wins and starts the drive up the mountain in front of my car. By the time they get to the switchbacks above tree line, they are driving in the middle of the road. I spot them again at the summit; he is white-faced, she has been crying. They both shiver because they didn't bring coats or sweatshirts and (I'm not making this up) they're wearing flip-flops. I never see them again, and wonder if they make it back down.

Some visitors seem perfectly suited to life in the mountains. They pass us on trails, rent mountain bikes and power their way up single tracks, and figure out quickly which are the best restaurants and the best places to sit back with a microbrew. But others never find their rhythm. It must be the altitude, they murmur. It's the lack of humidity - it makes their hair straighter and their skin dry out.

They try to live like Coloradans, taking the breathtaking sunsets in stride. They show up at garage sales and church events. They cook their meals instead of relying on fast food. But the whole time they are here, they know they have to leave the mountains and the chilled air and the best places to sit with a microbrew. By now, they've pulled away from my town in their Endeavors and Ventures and returned to their homes, places where rubber flip-flops make sense. So I'll give them that.

Deb Acord is the author of Biking Colorado's Front Range, Happy Trails and Colorado Winter: Activities, Trails and Tips.

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