Photo courtesy Kim Alaniz on Flickr.
The sleepy little town of Stinkwater Springs had suffered its share of troubles over the decades.
When the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad decided to bypass the town in 1881, for example, and instead build the line to Durango through the tiny town of Stinkwater Junction, 25 miles to the south.
Or when Alexander T. Sullenburger shut down the Stinkwater Lumber Company in 1916.
Not to mention the mass exodus of real estate agents from Stinkwater, when the Texas oil industry crashed in 1987, followed shortly by the Stinkwater real estate and construction industries.
Maybe it was the 1987 crash, and the void left by the departing real estate agents and carpenters, that attracted the Toorist.
Or maybe the Toorist had been here, all along, and we just hadn’t noticed?
At first, it didn’t seem like a problem, having him around. He seemed kind of harmless.
Yes, you had to watch out for him at the ski area. You could really get hurt, if you weren’t paying attention as he came barreling down the slopes, completely out of control.
And it was annoying, the way he took up most of the room in the hot springs pool, talking way too loudly about things you had not the slightest interest in hearing: immigrants, Jan. 6, the hot tub at his vacation rental.
Maybe the most irritating part was, the way he had grown so much larger. Twenty years ago, I’d occasionally catch sight of him, during the summer, or ski season.
Especially, Fourth of July. He was always prominent on July 4th — throwing his weight around, so to speak — but that didn’t matter because I’ve always made sure I’m out of town on July 4th.
But somehow, the Toorist has ballooned to an enormous size over the past five or six years. And he seems to be everywhere, all at once.
Trying to get a table at my favorite restaurant, the hostess would tell me, “It’s going to be a 45 minute wait.”
I peek inside and see that the Toorist was, himself, taking up seven or eight tables. His appetite has obviously got the best of him.
I give the hostess a dirty look, even though it isn’t her fault. “Thanks anyway,” I say, in an unnecessarily nasty tone. “I’ll try to find a restaurant that serves locals.”
But of course I can’t find a restaurant that serves locals. Somehow, the Toorist manages to occupy seven or eight tables at every restaurant in town. How does he do that? I have no idea. If you can explain it, let me know.
The worst thing, though, is looking for a house to rent. Every nice-looking house is occupied, as a short term vacation rental, by the Toorist. And all the available not-nice-looking houses and run-down RVs are renting for $3,000 a month.
It’s gotten to a point where the Toorist is everywhere I want to be, and nowhere I don’t want to be.
The psychological stress has become unbearable. Paranoia has set in. I’ve began hearing voices… with Texan accents. I wake up in a cold sweat, from nightmares that the Toorist had climbed into my bed and appropriated all the bedclothes, and my pillow.
Things are not getting any better. Quite the opposite. I’m wondering how long I can survive in Stinkwater Springs.
Just to be clear, I don’t blame the Toorist. He’s just doing what he does best. Ruining paradise.
Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all.