Telluride.
For years, it was simply a name I’d heard in movies, seen in glossy travel magazines, or noticed on the back of a Kia. Like many people who don’t ski or spend their winters chasing snow, I couldn’t have told you exactly where it was, much less why people spoke about it with such reverence.
Now I know.
My husband Ed and I set out on one of our infamous road trips to attend Mountainfilm in Telluride, CO. We could have flown, but we love taking the scenic route, stopping to visit friends, partners, and communities along the way. We have found some of our greatest adventures between “Are we there yet?” and “Wow… look at that.”
This trip was no different.
We drove across deserts and Indigenous lands, wound through breathtaking canyons, and revisited one of our favorite places: Moab. Every mile seemed more beautiful than the last. Then came the drive into Telluride.
Our friend kept calling, asking where we were and encouraging us to arrive before dark. I thought she was just excited to see us. She was, but she also anticipated our reaction to pulling into the mountain town itself. And let me tell you, the mountain road into Telluride is not for the faint of heart.
Hairpin turns wrap around hillsides, and steep drop-offs remind you to keep both hands firmly on the steering wheel. At one point, Ed looked at a road sign and asked, “Why does it keep telling us to make a U-turn?” But it wasn’t a U-turn—it was another crazy curve. By the time we finally reached the valley, I think we’d both forgotten to breathe.
And then… There it was. Telluride.
Towering, snowcapped peaks surrounded a town that looked like it had been lifted straight from a storybook. Crystal-clear streams flowed through the valley. Historic buildings housed cozy bakeries, bookstores, coffee shops, and locally owned boutiques. Wildflowers spilled across the mountainsides, elk grazed quietly on the edge of town, and the cool mountain air provided a refreshing welcome (after all—we’d just come from hot, humid Georgia).
When we got out of the car for the first time, I simply stood still. And if you know me, that’s saying something.
Every morning we were in Telluride, I pulled back the curtains expecting the mountains to somehow look ordinary after seeing them the day before. But they never did. Each sunrise painted the day differently. There was something both humbling and peaceful about standing beneath mountains that have watched generations come and go. In a world where I am constantly in meetings or taking calls, I could hear Telluride whispering to me, “Slow down.”
Now, onto the Mountainfilm Festival.
I honestly didn’t know what to expect, but I quickly realized this wasn’t your average film festival. It was a gathering of storytellers, conservationists, photographers, climbers, environmental advocates, athletes, artists, and changemakers from around the world—all united by a belief that stories can change people, and people can change the world.
The energy was contagious!
One morning we met for breakfast with my dear friend, the legendary Phil Henderson. Watching Phil walk through Telluride was like watching someone return home. Everywhere we went, people greeted him with hugs, handshakes, and memories. As we sat talking over coffee, another legend joined us: Conrad Anker. Sitting there watching two pioneers in the outdoor community exchange stories with such genuine admiration is a memory that will stick with me forever.
Among the festival goers, presenters, and filmmakers, I was especially encouraged to see Tennessee State Representative Justin J. Pearson participating in conversations about community, justice, and our shared future. It was a reminder that protecting our public lands and our democracy belong to the same conversation.
Mountainfilm challenged me to think, and I believe it inspired people to act. And it reminded all of us that storytelling is one of the most powerful tools we have.
Yet as inspired as I was, I couldn’t ignore something that has become familiar to me in many outdoor spaces. I looked around, and I noticed who wasn’t there.
[Let me be clear: I never once felt unwelcome. People smiled, struck up conversations, and shared recommendations for restaurants, hiking trails, and coffee shops. Every interaction I had was warm and kind.]
The absence I noticed was representation. As I sat in theaters and wandered the streets between screenings, I couldn’t help wondering why there weren’t more people who looked like me—or like so many of my friends across the outdoor community.
- Do people of color hike? Absolutely.
- Do we climb mountains? Without question.
- Do we make films? Do we tell stories? Do we seek adventure? Every single day.
So why aren’t we showing up in greater numbers at places like this? Ironically, many of the films we watched at Mountainfilm celebrated diverse communities from around the world. Indigenous stories, Black stories, stories from communities often overlooked or underestimated. I simply wished more of those communities were sitting in the audience.
Thinking about our future, I believe inclusion begins with intentionality.
It begins by extending invitations before people have to ask. It begins by building partnerships, removing or reducing barriers to access, and helping communities see themselves reflected not only in the stories being told, but in the spaces where those stories are celebrated.
Those conversations are already beginning. During the festival, I had the opportunity to talk with organizers about ways the BIPOC Outdoor Collective might become involved in future festivals. I don’t know exactly what that partnership will look like yet, but I left feeling energized and encouraged.
Change rarely happens overnight. It happens one relationship, one invitation, one conversation, and one story at a time.
As we packed up to leave Telluride, I was reminded just how much beauty exists in this country, there is still so much to explore, and that all communities deserve to experience places like this—not because we’re just checking a diversity box, but because these mountains, rivers, films, and stories belong to all of us.
I’ll be back, Telluride. And next time, I hope I won’t be coming alone.
I hope there will be more Black families, Latino families, Asian families, Indigenous families, and outdoor enthusiasts from every walk of life standing beside me beneath those incredible Colorado peaks. Because everyone deserves the chance to discover that Telluride is far more than a name on the back of a Kia.
And perhaps, if we’re intentional, it can also change who gets to experience it.