Report from Colorado

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I still remember Conifer Hill as we drove away that night The snow was falling softly and looked lovely in the headlights. My heart was broken by the thought, "I am leaving my mountain valley . . . will I ever see it again?" In spite of everything, I still felt an intense love for this place which held so many memories.

All the same, the move seemed the only way out of a dreadful situation. The good job Larry found in Oregon is improving our lives every month (although we still owe money to several people). I miss Colorado and the mountains. . . but I do enjoy the snowless winters.

I have a reason for sharing this story. It's lovely and tempting—to think of getting away from civilization into a simpler lifestyle . . . but here's a warning for others who are so inclined: Emergencies happen despite the best precautions. and money to handle them is essential to true self-sufficiency. Granted, we made it through the winter, but only with the aid of our family and friends. It was unfair to force them into the position of having to help us. Both my husband and I want to leave the city again, but we won't go back into a shaky situation until we can sustain ourselves by our own efforts. That's the only responsible way to behave.

Despite all our troubles, though, we like to recall Conifer Hill: on an early morning in January, for instance, when the snow has just fallen and not a track has crossed the meadow . . . or just before dusk in March, when the fog has rolled in and everything is shrouded in mist. We are the only ones who have these memories, and we wouldn't trade them for anything. This last summer I went back for a visit to refresh my recollection of the valley's beauty. I needed to go home to the place that holds half my heart.

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