Horsetooth home for free spirits

By Dan MacArthur
North Forty News

It's quitting time Friday afternoon and campers are lugging their boats and homes on wheels up the hill to spend a weekend living large at Horsetooth Reservoir.

But the cast of characters who consider themselves fortunate enough to call this special place their full-time home already are contentedly ensconced while the campers set up housekeeping at the reservoir below.

"G.I Bill" Woodward is chatting it up with the laid-back locals living in the community surrounding the Canyon Grill. He consumes a steady supply of Marlboro Lights and Coke as he tends to a sporadic stream of customers. They buy bait and fishing gear from his seasonal stand in a once-abandoned utility shed next to the Grill. Retired from the Army career that gave him his nickname, Woodward lives just up the hill from his enterprise. "I never thought worms and minnows would be so important in my life," he jests.

"I'm never going to get rich here," he acknowledges, "but I have a good time and I meet a lot of people."

Beneath his self-effacing demeanor, however, lies the heart of an entrepreneur. Woodward constantly expands his wares based on his own market research. When patrons asked for Coleman fuel, lighters and soda pop, he promptly started stocking them. A friend dropped off a disabled mo-ped this afternoon and he instantly set to repairing it. Woodward said he's considering getting a few of them to rent. When it gets colder, he plans to convert the bait shop to a cappuccino shack.

Clyde, aka Clydester, aka One-Eyed Clyde (no last name please because of some lingering legal complications in Texas) joins the conversation. They met when Bill came home one night to find the Clydester sacked out on his couch.

"I have met more interesting people," Clyde said in a smoky twang betraying years of working in the Louisiana and Texas oil fields. A three-year resident with a mouth framed by a proud and profuse mane of whiskers, Clydester lives above the Grill. He works in the kitchen and does whatever proprietors Sue and Jeff Moorman need done.

"Everybody up here is just like one family," he explains, recalling the time his newfound family somehow determined the date of his birthday and surprised him with a party complete with cake and candles. "My momma never even made me a birthday cake," he declares.

Almost everybody's got a nickname up here, according to Bill and Clyde. Monikers are typically based on their heredity, profession or often-unfortunate physical characteristic - although nobody seems to take offense. They reel off the list including Crippled Craig, Cuckoo Karen, Budweiser Bob, Horsetooth Billy, Tony the Leprechaun, Painter Billy and Chief. Sue Moorman doesn't have a nickname but doesn't seem distressed about it. She and Woodward agree there are a few too many Steves right now and it's probably time to start assigning them nicknames.

Sue forsakes the comfort of the liquor store, which is nicely chilled by the beer coolers, and awaits customers, sitting and chatting with G.I. Bill at the outdoor picnic table between the bait stand and the store. Sue says here "the view is better." This view overlooks the parking lot and the road beyond.

Frank Vigil is one of those regulars who appreciates Woodward's particularly robust worms. As do others in this close-knit community, Vigil considers himself a citizen of Horsetooth rather than what some consider as the not-so-Choice City at the bottom of the hill.

"The people up here are very independent and they don't want to be bothered by the new Fort Collins," Sue Moorman agrees. The Grill, according to Moorman, "is like a family thing" similar to Cheers, that prototypical television tavern where everybody knows everyone's name. It's a place where these independent sorts can come together to mark all of life's joys and woes from weddings to funerals.

One-eyed Clyde fully partakes in those joys. He especially enjoys dancing with the ladies at every opportunity. "I don't care if they're 7 months or 89," he proclaims. It's now beer-thirty and the Clydester excuses himself to head inside the Grill to join the regulars for some Friday night brews.

While Clyde is partying hearty, artist extraordinaire Miles Best is concentrating intently on the work at hand. He's nestled into the command post of his cluttered studio working shirtless, glasses perched low on his nose, accompanied by classical music - engrossed in airbrushing the image of an elk onto a slab of sandstone.

"It's a mess, but I know where everything's at," he explains.

Illuminated by a bare light bulb, bikes hanging from the ceiling, the ramshackle structure is attached to his trailer in a park of vintage mobile homes, which apparently haven't been mobile for decades, across the road from the tavern.

Self-taught and apparently quite capable in his trade, Best can and does paint just about everything from leather jackets to circular saw blades to outdoor furniture and even G.I. Bill's bait stand, which sports a vibrant trout. Best also has done more conventional gallery grade works on canvas, but now favors more marketable populist fare like wildlife and cartoons on sandstone, boat paddles and curious artifacts culled from garage sales.

"Everybody loves animals," he says in his soft-spoken manner. "I think animals and cartoons will always be popular."

His studio is a popular stop for friendly neighborhood dogs who wander in with their people in tow. Pensive but companionable, Best seems to enjoy the interruptions, repeatedly and patiently demonstrating his techniques to a visitor.

While the evolution of his artistic endeavors is somewhat elusive, Best's vast portfolio is truly eclectic. It ranges from bold murals to images of custom and classic cars, to portraits of patrons' beloved pooches, to customized T-shirts for Royal Gorge tourists. He markets his work at the Masonville Store, a Fort Collins gallery and all over the world through eBay.

It's a reminder that we're all unavoidably part of that bigger world. But right now - just for this moment - it's comforting to take refuge in this unconventional community of caring characters who share their company, their happiness, their sorrows and their lives.

All seems right in this little piece of the world for at least a little while on this fine Friday afternoon. And that's about the best anyone can hope for.