As I descend the hill from Homestead, it looms outsized in my vantage. Whether I approach Edwards from the east or west on 70, there it thrusts menacingly against the reddening sky. A yellow crane, an ordinary piece of construction equipment, but also a harbinger, a badge, a blatant symbol of the unabated development that is the hallmark of not only this valley, but the world at large. Along with that infernal orange electronic sign that has been warning of imminent traffic for months, the crane has been inexplicably irksome, a blight upon the sanguinity with which I try to approach this life.
Some years ago, in these very pages, I postulated the idea of Vail as a mountain metropolis, the only logical conclusion to reconcile the need for housing with the sanctity of our surrounding landscape. In the intervening time, one marked by influx and the constant ravages of conflict, my tolerance for the seemingly unchecked growth of this community has waned considerably. Perhaps I have simply advanced along the age-curmudgeon continuum, but my instinct to protect the spirit of this special place has sharpened, threatening dangerously to amount to the dreaded NIMBYism that I have long decried.
Recognizing this troubling trajectory, and wishing desperately to avoid an embarrassingly reactionary localism, I, with no small effort, reset my thinking. As I often find helpful when I feel hemmed in by a problem, I zoomed out on the situation. This time, instead of considering a larger geographic scale, I focused on my infinitesimal spot on the temporal scope of human existence. Reviewing my gripe through this lens revealed its folly. I was not the first person, nor the first millionth, to lament the building of apartments on what was once open space.
In the 1960s, as Vail began its most modern incarnation, I suspect strongly that those denizens were disquieted, at best, to witness the explosive expansion westward, just as those who had homesteaded in Eagle were terrified of the eventual connection between that old town and its eastern, ritzy neighbor. Comparison of maps from that time to those from now is to make tangible the gargantuan changes that enlargement has wrought. While loathe to classify it as progress, the transformation is undeniable.
These alterations were minuscule compared to that which we view from a further demagnification of time. The Utes and other indigenous peoples of this place must have been positively mystified by the apparatus and attitudes of those “pioneers” who arrived over the Rockies, manifest destiny in their hearts and rifles. A yellow crane is a laughably tiny irritation compared to being gifted a blanket laden with smallpox, to having land that had been communal for centuries suddenly privatized.
Gaining this perspective, I was able to see the yellow crane not only as emblematic of the rapacious pace of development, but as an inevitable maturation. Struggling as I do with the concept of inevitability, this is no easy task, but I also want to avoid being subsumed by misery. I still see the yellow crane in my mind’s eye, but its color has faded a bit, as I work to pay more attention to the beauty that stretches in the horizon in the background. Not complacent, I am nonetheless making my uneasy peace with the burgeoning project that will undoubtedly affect the workings of my town.
Mind you, I am still intensely pro-conservation, both philosophically and practically. But, and this pains and surprises me deeply to admit, I am attempting to adapt to a mild amount of realistic thinking, a certain acceptance of what I am powerless to fundamentally affect. As one who revels in charging through brick walls, I am endeavoring not to beat my head against them. I have had too many concussions already.