Size matters

“This is more than a home,” she proclaimed, her lily-white hand stretching toward the heavens. “This is a tribute.”

The woman’s plump, manicured fingers then fanned out before the enormous façade. “We did not build this as any mere domicile,” she continued. “We built our home in the very image of God. This is the ultimate statement of our belief in a Supreme Authority.”

During the next hour, I gathered that God’s image is actually quite similar to your run-of-the-mill Colorado trophy home. Apparently, the Almighty is clothed in large expanses of endangered redwood. The Great One’s skin is covered in marvelously hewn and painstakingly imported pink marble. Custom-pressed copper roofing makes up the Lord’s headpiece, and his flowing robes are actually a mile of heated asphalt surrounded by acre after acre of manicured landscaping. A six-car garage and two fully stocked wine cellars share space where God’s bowels should be. And judging from the tour, the Supreme Being accessorizes with billiards tables, home theatres with plasma televisions and lap pools sporting endlessly flowing water.

Hallelujah!

“We spend two of our favorite months of the year here,” our perfumed hostess added, dispensing flutes of champagne from a silver tray. “Although, I must admit I am quite partial to our beach villa in the Caymans.”

At the time, words like “beach villa” were fairly foreign to my vocabulary. As were items like heated driveways, lap pools and the phenomenon of surround sound. Back then, I was an associate editor at a small mountain town newspaper. My wife and I had recently cobbled together a down payment and were struggling to make the monthly mortgage on a 750-square-foot alley shack in that same town. The building started as a coal shed for a turn-of-the-century boarding house. In the 1950s, an enterprising individual tuned it up into a garage. And early in the disco decade, the town’s public works director slapped together the remodel that became our home and our “very image of God.”

The leap between alley shack and Parade of Homes has rarely been taken, and to be honest, the tour was not my first choice of entertainment that weekend. But what journalism lacks in wages it makes up for in perks, and I have yet to meet the writer who has rejected a complimentary ticket to free booze. And so, I found myself an unwitting member of Expedition Starter Castle. After three flutes of Tott’s and a great deal of polite head nodding, I started questioning the wisdom of accepting that ticket.

I don’t know if it was too much bubbly, a serious overdose of the Colorado McMansion or just too much grip and grin, but

something unsettling started twisting in my stomach. Eyeing a door, I quickly escorted myself out onto the “west observation deck” and nearly doubled over and returned the Tott’s to the earth from whence it came. Instead, I took a wide-eyed look around. There beneath the ice-block foundation, beyond the redwood veneer and under the futile attempts to grow bluegrass at 9,000 feet, was a pristine parcel that just two years earlier had been untouched pastureland dotted with the red and white backs of cows. Inside, our illustrious tour guide was making a public check presentation to the local land trust.

That was it. I took a last breath of fresh air, quickly jumped back inside and then snuck out of “the very image of God” and through the gardener’s entrance. My 750-square-foot masterpiece awaited in all of its power and glory.

For years, that bizarre episode lay dormant in the forgotten corners of my mind. But after a good look around earlier this summer, the twisted vision returned. According to the above model, Durango should consider itself blessed. A virtual smorgasbord of God’s very images are taking up local residence.

Our landscape is changing, and 5,000- to 10,000-square-foot homes are now officially on the menu in La Plata County. They’re materializing out of the earth along the Purgatory corridor, getting plopped down in Tamarron, sprouting up in the vicinity of Vallecito and even appearing in some hidden corners inside Durango city limits. They come equipped with waterfall features, “private forests” and exclusive river access. Their bedrooms are known as suites and often accessed by an elevator. Hand-carved wood, artisan-cut glass and custom kitchens adorn their interiors. “Luxurious,” “work of art,” “well-appointed” and “the very image of God” are all terms used to describe this new breed. And the price tags reach as high as $6 million.

Ironically, it seems that spending too much time in the presence of the Almighty is too daunting for most. Like my original trophy home mentor and favorite tour guide, many of these new Durangoans are only living for four to eight weeks in our corner of the world. When that time draws to a close, they turn down the heat, shut off the water features and elevators, call the caretaker and point it for another gated community outside another quaint town. And as they leave, more than a few cries of “Hallelujah!” help them out of town.

– Will Sands