Boulder

We had barely dropped our bags before Lia noticed that everyone in Boulder appeared to be mid-workout. Not at a gym, just walking around in trail shoes with the loose competence of people who summited something before breakfast. The Flatirons loom over the whole town, five great slabs of sandstone tipped up at an angle that looks deliberate, almost architectural, and they exert a kind of pull. Within a day the mountains had recruited us too, and we found ourselves buying trail snacks and pretending we had always intended to hike at altitude.

Chautauqua and the Flatirons

Chautauqua Park sits right at the base of the rock, a green meadow that tilts up into pine and then into stone. We took the trail toward the First and Second Flatirons early, before the parking filled, and the climb was honest work in the thin air, my French lungs registering every one of the missing atmospheres. But the meadow below kept opening wider with each switchback, and rock climbers dotted the slabs above us like small bright insects. Lia, who claims not to like hiking, went suspiciously quiet in the good way, the way that means a place is working on her.

Pearl Street and the town below

Back down in town, Pearl Street Mall is a car-free brick promenade where Boulder does its socializing, and it is genuinely good at it. Street performers work the corners, a man was balancing on a slackline between two trees, and the shops and cafes spill out onto the pavement. We sat with cold drinks and watched the parade of dogs and mountain bikes and unreasonably fit retirees. There is a smugness to Boulder that people warn you about, and it is real, but sitting in the sun with the peaks at the end of every street, I found I could not entirely blame the town for being pleased with itself.

Creek path and a slow afternoon

Boulder Creek runs right through the middle of everything, and a paved path follows it for miles, dipping under bridges and past willows. We walked a long stretch of it in the late afternoon, watching tubers float past on the current, shrieking at the snowmelt cold, and cyclists ringing their bells. It is the town’s spine and its release valve, the place where the athletic ambition of the Flatirons softens into something anyone can do. We ended the day with a beer at a creekside table, the water loud enough to drown out conversation, which neither of us minded.

Getting There

Boulder has no commercial airport of its own, so nearly everyone flies into Denver International and drives the forty-five minutes northwest, watching the plains give way to the sudden wall of the Rockies. A bus line, the Flatiron Flyer, connects Denver and Boulder directly if you would rather skip the rental, and once in town the compact center is best handled on foot or bike. Come prepared for the altitude, a mile and more above the sea, and drink more water than feels reasonable. We gave it two nights and could easily have stayed a week.