The day after closing day, Telluride empties out like someone pulled a drain plug. One morning there are people everywhere -- ski boots, lift lines, someone's dog in a bar. The next morning there is almost nobody. A few cars on Colorado Avenue. The sound of the river. Maybe a raven.
If you know where to look, you can trace the migration.
Hawaii
The restaurant and hotel crews go to Hawaii. It's almost a rule. They've been on their feet since November, they haven't seen a beach in six months, and they have just enough tip money saved to spend two weeks forgetting what altitude feels like. Maui, mostly. Sometimes the Big Island. They come back tan and a little dazed, just in time for summer hiring season.
Lake Powell
Lake Powell is for the boat people. Houseboats, wakeboards, red rock canyon walls, and a cooler that gets restocked every few days. The water level is perpetually controversial, but that doesn't stop anyone. They've been going since their parents took them as kids, and they will keep going until there is nothing left but a very wide river. You'll recognize them when they get back -- they'll have a sunburn in a very specific pattern and opinions about slot canyons.
Moab
Moab is for the person who needed a break from Telluride but not too much of a break. Still a bike. Still red dirt. Still a town organized around outdoor recreation and breakfast burritos. They tell themselves this is different, and in some ways it is -- it's warmer, flatter, and there's no gondola. But the lifestyle is basically identical. Whether that makes them grounded or unimaginative is genuinely hard to say. Maybe both.
Nosara
And then there's Nosara. If you don't know it: small surf town on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica, jungle roads, no shortage of yoga mats, and a community of Americans who are mostly from somewhere cold and expensive. Telluride has been sending people there for years, long enough that it has an informal nickname -- Telluride South. The people who go to Nosara for offseason are either escaping something or optimizing something, and sometimes both. They will tell you about the sunsets.
The One Who Stays
Then there's the person who doesn't go anywhere. They walk the dog down an empty Colorado Avenue. They eat whatever is left in the freezer because most of the restaurants are closed. They hike trails they've been meaning to do all winter. They feel a little smug about it, a little noble, and occasionally, when the wind picks up and the town is very quiet, a little wistful. They are not wrong for staying. They will be very ready for summer when it comes.