In gold rush days, we called ourselves Camp Jimtown. But before the Gummint would give us our very own official post office, it made us take the more dignified moniker Jamestown. “The Town So Friendly You Can Call Us Jim” also has a café, the Jamestown Mercantile—“the Merc” to its friends; a town hall; a church; two parks; a scrappy little elementary school constantly fighting closure; and roughly 300 souls, not counting the critters.

Jimtown, one of Colorado's oldest settlements, has one boot in the 19th century, the other in the 21st. Crumbling mines surround us. Into the 1980s, free-range cattle wandered the streets. Now, broadband has come to town, and electronic bulletin boards alert us that horses have broken free of stables.

Mountain living isn't for everyone. U-Hauls move folks up the hill in the fall, and sometimes, after a hard winter, right back down again in springtime. We're half an hour from everywhere. Coasting into Boulder on fumes and prayers, new arrivals learn to keep a gas can full. We fondly recall former lives, when pepperoni pizza could actually be delivered to your door!

And the mountains can kill you. Guardrails on the switchbacks collect scrapes and dents early each winter. Invincible SUVs miss curves and land in Jim Creek. Floods roar down the canyon; in 1969 they washed away the pool hall, making room for our town square. In March 2003, five feet of powder fell. Power, heat and water went out. Phones died. I huddled beside the fireplace as firewood, and my larder, dwindled. Life became silent, isolated, elemental.

Eight months later, fierce winds forced wildfire east like a blowtorch, consuming 4,000 acres and 20 structures. As flames crested the ridge, Jimtowners knew it was time to leave and wondered if the town would survive.

Fires, floods, snow past your chin, no pizza delivery—why bother?

Mountain dwellers, for starters. We Jimtowners have no one particular personality trait; rather, individuality itself is treasured. Idiosyncratic folks of all sorts are welcomed: saints, curmudgeons and reprobates, in stilettos, Sorels, sandals and bare feet.

Musicians, artists, dancers and actors abound in Greater Jamestown. We play music everywhere: garages, living rooms, the Merc, Town Hall. We've played benefits for the Town Hall roof, victims of the fire, an uninsured builder. Folks with snow blowers rescue their neighbors after a blizzard. Volunteer firefighters—true heroes—face an inferno and save the town. We're all in this together.

Nature herself holds me here. Chipmunks circle in a mating dance. Great horned owls call hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, hoo to distant comrades. Mountain lions saunter with magnificent beauty. Coyotes lope across my driveway. Pasqueflowers, those furry purple mountain crocuses, erupt everywhere at once. A returning hummer hovers where the feeder belongs, chiding me for neglecting my spring chores. Long's Peak, Meeker, Pagoda and Chief's Head form what I call a Granite Goddess constellation. The sun progresses through the seasons, setting south of Audubon, then due west behind Sawtooth at the equinox, reaching Long's Peak at the summer solstice. A night sky undiluted by streetlights makes the Milky Way palpable. Backlit by sunshine, golden aspens shimmer. Fog drifts down frozen slopes, painting spruces and firs with hoarfrost.

Modern life tempts us to tunnel vision, as we scuttle from warm house to cold car to warm office. I choose to live in a place where Mother Nature grabs the scruff of my neck, shakes me, and whispers, or howls, “Hey! Wake up! Beauty surrounds you. Pay attention!”

I do. Promise.

Glenn Short, a musician, producer and recording engineer, owns Crystalline Acoustics LLC. In 14 years as an Ars Nova singer, he has trekked to Boulder through snow, rain and gloom of night, missing just one concert and few rehearsals. He also performs with Jamestown bands DJ & The Doh-Nutz, Jimtown Jiveass Boogaloo Revue, Stellar J Jazz Quintet, and Swamp Coolers.