By Gentrye Houghton

There was a time when my life’s compass was calibrated to a single, immutable north: Movement. It was a principle I forged in childhood, a quiet vow made while observing a life of quiet desperation. I decided then that my own story would be one worth telling, a narrative etched in the dust of far-flung roads, not the monotonous groove of a daily commute.

I first landed in this valley in 2013. I was a mere budding traveler then, my Chacos still caked with the dust of elsewhere. I found work waiting tables at the Crystal Club Café, my sandal resting on the bar’s brass footstool as I watched the afternoon light filter through the windows. It was there that I met Sue McEvoy. Redstone’s darling was sitting at the bar, drinking an afternoon glass of white wine and collecting the till from the day’s Castle Tour tickets. When she learned I had a background in journalism, she handed me her card for The Crystal Valley Echo.

McEvoy had a preternatural knack for drawing people in and seeing their talents, pulling them into the community’s fabric. Because of her, I began providing submissions in a limited capacity, as a writer and photographer weaving in and out of the high country, returning for the seasonal paycheck.

Yet, the siren song of the road became so loud that I could no longer ignore it, and in 2015, my partner and I built that promise of movement into the very bones of a 28-foot school bus. It was a steel-and-rubber vessel for a life measured in experience, not square footage. That life had its own sensory symphony. Freedom was the low, resonant rumble of the diesel engine vibrating up through the soles of my feet. It was the percussive rattle of our tin coffee cups in the cupboard as we rounded a sharp corner on a mountain pass. It tasted of grit and frozen pizzas and the clean, metallic tang of icy water from a backcountry stream. It smelled of campfire smoke woven into the fabric of my favorite sunshirt.

Some of you may still remember that for a few years, we lived entirely on the wind, returning to the valley for the summers, working and reconnecting, before the first frost signaled it was time to move again. Yet, a life of constant instability eventually wears you down and can grind you to a halt. The relentless calculus of fuel costs and the search for a safe place to park for the night began to erode the passion that had initially propelled us. By 2018, the exhilarating freedom had started to fray at the edges, revealing a deeper truth: I was a person who had not yet learned to be comfortable in the profound stillness of my own soul.

Our decision to finally lay down roots in this tiny mountain hamlet was not a surrender, but a conscious, deliberate trade. We came seeking a new equilibrium. I moved through this community in a collection of roles: A friendly face behind a bar, a pair of healing hands in a quiet massage room, a storyteller leading trail rides. Then, in 2019, an opportunity fell into my lap.

The Crystal Valley Echo was started in 2003 by Alyssa Ohnmacht, funded through a grant from the Marble Charter School. For over 16 years, Ohnmacht captured the ebbs and flows of the Crystal River. When she signaled it was time for her to move on to other projects, I made an offer. Buying the local chronicle wasn't a calculated business decision; it was a quiet leap of faith. It became the crucible in which my character was forged.

To become the keeper of a community’s stories is a profound and dizzying honor. I became a public figure here not by seeking a title, but by being present. My daily walks with my dog became my moving office, a confessional booth on legs. The sound of my trail runners on the Coal Basin Road would be met with the familiar rumble of a pickup truck slowing down, a window rolling down, and a head leaning out, “Gentrye, you won’t believe this…”

In this role, I found a voice I didn't know I possessed. I became an integral member of a community where gossip is more than currency, but neighbors confided their deepest fears and asked for advice on navigating the complex systems that govern our lives. Through this, I learned the power — and the absolute necessity — of involvement in the democratic system.

I was invited into rooms I never dreamed I’d witness. I sat in meetings with governmental officials, including federal representatives, watching the gears of power turn from a front-row seat. I saw how a single voice, backed by the weight of a community's trust, could act as a fulcrum for change. The responsibility was a weight I learned to carry in my marrow.

It was in those solitary moments, often under the pale blue glow of my monitor at 2 a.m., that I discovered the true quality of my integrity. I took calculated risks, publishing stories that were vital for the public to know, even if they threatened the financial bottom line. I learned that my primary obligation would always be to the reader. In those crucibles of choice, the insecure person who first arrived in 2013 burned away. She was replaced by someone stronger, someone who had been tested and had not bent.

I have watched this community redefine itself over and over again. I’ve seen it weather grief, celebrate hard-won victories, and adapt to the changing seasons of the high country. Now, I am taking a page from that very book, and am choosing to reinvent myself once again.

I am immensely grateful for the leadership I found here, but in the process, I traded away pieces of my spirit that I am now ready to reclaim. This departure is not an escape, but a reclamation. Last fall, my husband and I purchased a 1980 Defever 48 motor yacht, currently docked in the Olympic Peninsula of Washington. Our intention is to live aboard and travel full-time. The anchor has been pulled, and I'm ready to feel the swell of the open sea and reincorporate the thrill of movement, but this time, I carry with me the wisdom and self-knowledge I gained in the shadow of these mountains.

It is my privilege to introduce the man who will carry this legacy forward: Tucker Farris.

Farris is a fifth-generation local whose roots in the Crystal Valley go deeper than the piñons and junipers of Prince Creek. He is a scholar with a PhD in sociology, a weekly late-night community radio DJ, and a man who understands that it takes a village.

In a beautiful, full-circle moment of cosmic symmetry, Farris’ path also began with Sue McEvoy. Years ago, as a high school sophomore, his grandmother, Dorthea, took him up to the Redstone Castle. There, under the archway, where so many people were greeted by her hospitality, he met Sue. She handed him her business card and asked him to submit photos to The Echo; it happened to be the first time his work was ever published.

Farris is a man of this soil, and I firmly believe the residents of the Crystal River Valley are in capable, dedicated hands. He understands that this newspaper is not solely a commercial venture, but a community treasure. In the words of my late, dear friend, Diane Owens, this publication functions with a foundation in "community, not commodity."

As I prepare to head toward the Pacific, I feel a rising tide of exhilarating anticipation. For the first time in nearly a decade, my primary responsibility will be to the story waiting to be written within me.

To all of you who are reading this, the community and my neighbors of the Crystal River Valley: Thank you for the gift of this discovery. Thank you for trusting me with your stories, your secrets, and your history; it has been the honor of my life, thus far. By telling your stories, I found my own, and I cannot wait to see what my own voice has to say about the trail within.