Mapping Senses on Elk Avenue

My first attempt at this exercise was rather futile.  As I reviewed my notes following my first walk, I realized I had written down every detail about every stimulus.  Isolating and focusing on one at a time proved to be much more difficult than I had anticipated.

My second attempt was much more methodical and (hopefully) successful.

I chose to move in a circular path, starting at one end of Elk Avenue and following it to the end until I was forced to cross the street and return to my origin.  Elk is the main street in Crested Butte, filled with small-town businesses and certainly no franchises.

I’m not sure if I am supposed to map these senses individually, but my natural inclination is to combine the individual experiences into a cohesive journey.

I began with audio stimuli and spent most of this walk staring at the ground to avoid visual distractions.  I took vigorous notes as people quickly passed by me.  My second lap was focused on the visual sense and I documented this with photographs.  The third lap was tricky, but I decided to focus on smell and used written notes to document that experience as well.

And so it began.

The first thing I noticed was car sounds.  Engines of old cars rumbling by.  A bicyclist with rusted chains pedaled slowly past me, smiling at me as I looked up from my notepad.

I see a library sign and wonder how many books are in the facility.  Do they use card catalog still?  I know they at least have computers since I have spoken with some of the local residents about where I should go to use the Internet.

A motorcycle grumbles its exhaust and I can’t help but look up to see the fat, shiny teal and silver body.

Many of these buildings resemble log cabins.

I hear two boys approaching behind me, laughing.  Their feet stomp in a half run, half march.  They pass me, one on either side.  I can feel their thudding shoes beneath my own feet.

Birds are chirping and I can tell the high-altitude UV rays are penetrating my skin much more deeply than those of the Arizona desert.

I hear more bike tires rolling down the street as high-pitched noises emit from the chains and cogs.  The whirring sound is familiar and reminds me of my own bicycle’s need for a tune-up.

A toddler on a tricycle rides by and his plastic wheels are clunky against the pavement.  He points in front of him and says, “I put my bike on the side…” and his tiny voice fades away as I pass him, heading in the opposite direction.

I hear a car door unlock and shutter sound as an elderly man turns off his camera and places it in his back seat.

Two young boys, pre-teen, jog past me with heavy breathing and bright red faces.  Their shoes slap the pavement and their arms follow the motion of their legs in a smooth, but not synchronized, rhythm.

The man (no longer) with the camera softly closes his car door.

A dog collar jingles and I begin to hear bluegrass being played by a number of instruments.  There is a banjo, an upright bass, and a violin maybe?  It’s hard to make out exactly what instruments are being played, and I am too far away to see them either.

A woman on her cellphone passes and says, “He is still biking and he’s coming out of the looping trial shortly.”

A young girl pushing her bicycle loses her balance and nearly falls into me.  She giggles and continues walking.

Three adults on beach cruiser bicycles ride slowly next to me and seem to be leisurely viewing the town.

A skateboard approaches me on the sidewalk and passes quickly as it enters a downhill.  The clicking against the pavement slabs rapidly increases until each click is almost indiscernible.

A small girl in a stroller squeals with laughter as her mother pushes her at a running pace.

Another old and rusted truck rumbles by as more kids on squeaky bikes approach.  I hear the laughter of a young adult male and more cars drive past.

I hear keys rattling and the crunching sounds of a brown paper bag.

A man and his small child pass by.  The boy is talking excitedly and the only words I can make out are, “The battleship movie…”  which I noticed is one of three movies playing at the only movie theater in town.

A little wiener dog runs by and his collar jingles.  His owner’s flip-flops clap against the sidewalk as his tugs the dog’s leash.  A woman on a bicycle speeds up as she sees him and starts shouting excitedly, “Tommy got a small dog!  Tommy got a small dog!  Tommy got a small dog!  Tommy got a small dog!  Tommy got a small dog!  Tommy got a small dog!”  They both stop at the corner to chat.

Before I approach the corner, to my right, I hear two young men talking about looking for work.  It’s Sunday and one of them says, “No one wants to talk to you on the weekends.”

I hear a metallic slam as the door to the newspaper holder closes.  There are barely any newspapers left and the only ones are from the Denver Post.  Does this mean people only read the local news or is the international paper so popular that its run out?  I wonder how often it gets replenished.

Jazzy music from within a restaurant is playing as bare feet run past me, slapping the ground.

I hear the obnoxious lyrics to a pop song, which seems incredibly out of place in this low-key setting.  “I’m only gonna break break break break your heart.  I’m only gonna break break break break your heart.  I’m only gonna break break break break your heart.”  The restaurant from which the sounds emit looks rather tourist-y and a bit more populated than the other surrounding shops, many of which are closed.

A small boy walks by, talking to himself about a tricycle.  I hear running water from a stream that passes under a bridge.  The sound of a spray can being shaken becomes louder as the sound of the running water fades.  As I continue walking, the metallic clanking of the can disappears and I can hear the stream flowing once again.  I cross the street and head toward my origin.

I hear squeaky breaks from a car and it turns left as a jeep yields to it.  A bus rattles by and I begin to hear more obnoxious pop songs as I approach the restaurant that I had previously passed.

There is a parked car with its engine running and I can hear the mechanical hum and smell the exhaust.

Hollow thudding noises echo as some people walk down a flight of wooden stairs.

A woman playfully chases her unleashed yellow lab across the street.  As I continue walking, I begin to hear quiet chatting and wind chimes.

I hear the Gotye song “Somebody that I used to know” and I am reminded of the sadness felt while saying goodbye to my friends in Tucson.  The volume is increased from car that is playing the song.

I pass by a group of adults discussing restaurant plans.  A couple of the men in the group are ones that I saw earlier.  They had been talking about employment.  Now one of them asks, “So what’s the happy hour going to consist of?”  

The men encircle a woman wearing a cowboy hat and she seems to be leading the conversation.  The men all sit perched on bicycles in the street and she sits on a bench facing them.  She is tan and attractive.

My boss, Corey, approaches and informs me that I am looking at the owner of LoBar.  

I approach the group and give Ky, the owner, my resumé in the hopes that I will be hired as a server and/or bartender.  

She gives me their sushi menu to review and tells me we will meet in early June for an official interview.

My third and final lap, focusing on smells, was quite interesting.

The entire walk was filled with floral scents which became increasingly strong as the wind blew.

As I passed by restaurants, I anticipated strong food aromas.

Due to the low population during the off season, many of the restaurants were closed.

The ones that were open did not carry strong food aromas, probably because there weren't very many people occupying them.

My overall impression of Crested Butte is thoroughly positive.

Everyone seems to know each other and they wave as they pass by on the streets and sidewalks.

There are many signs posted saying that dogs must be leashed, but no one seems to care about this rule.

There are no franchises or tacky buildings.  Everything seems to belong.

The buildings were obviously houses at one time, but have been made into businesses.

Everyone travels at a leisurely place, as if time is never an issue.

Things are hand-painted, hand-crafted, and quaint.

The sidewalks are wide and many younger cyclists utilize it rather than the street.

Traffic in the street is slow and adult cyclists pedal with huge smiles.

Bright flowers bloom near the sidewalk and it pots in nearly every yard.

Even in the summer, tourists visit the small ski town.  They stick out.  You can tell they don't move at the same pace as the locals.

Everywhere, bicycles.  They are always unlocked, which is quite unfamiliar.

Many businesses are open for the summer, but the winter season attracts much more tourism.

Signs warning about snow and ice are particularly funny to see this time of year when the sun shines brightly.

So many options for vacation rentals.  Houses are tucked away on every hill and valley below the mountains.

The entire circular path is perhaps a mile.

Even in the summer, a shady spot shelters a melting snow pile.

Gardens are everywhere.  Dirt paths lead the way to secret patios and houses.

Certainly some down-to-earth and spiritual people in the area.

Clay statues and potted plants decorate the edges of the sidewalks.

The smell of earth gets stronger and stronger as I kneel to observe the flowers that grow next to white picket fences.

Bicycles, benches made of skis, wooden structures.  Many cars are old and rusted, and many of them have extra storage space attached to the top.

Crested Butte is beautiful.