Imbolc Black Mountain Moon
As we drive back from our 25th anniversary dinner at the Buckhorn Exchange, the stars increase in number as the Front Range enfolds us, shields us from the Denver light pollution. “I still can’t believe I prefer living out here,” I said, “but 20 years changed me.” That was 20 years in Andover, Minnesota.
(Our table was just under this mountain lion.)
“We’re both introverts,” Kate said,”we prefer the quiet, the alone.”
Yes. “But,” she said, “we can always drive in. If we were in the city, we would have trouble being alone.” Yes.
So we live with the stars, Black Mountain and the lodgepole pine.
The Buckhorn Exchange, at 1000 Osage Street, holds Denver’s liquor license #1. It was founded in 1893 and now bills itself as a museum of the Old West. The number of mounted trophy heads are enough to keep one man working full time dusting and vacuuming. (I asked.) There are old leather chaps on the walls, an antique pill roller, countless photographs and magazine covers mounted on the walls. It’s on the National Registry of Historic Places.
(this was the view from our table.)
We were, originally, going to have our 25th anniversary meal at Mama’s Fish House on Maui, but we bought this house in Colorado instead. The Buckhorn Exchange is to Denver as Mama’s is to Maui.
I had a bone in bison rib eye, Kate had elk and bison. As a starter, I had Rocky Mountain Oysters. They taste like alligator. Which I could have had, Alligator Tail, center cut.
A memorable evening, a fitting 25th.
