Colorado springs neighborhood spotlight: Cimmaron Hills garage nights

It was late, the kind of late where you wonder if people are at the bar because they’re still trying to have fun or because they ran out of other options. I was on my second beer—a Coors Light, because it felt like the kind of place where ordering anything with more syllables would get you a raised eyebrow. The bar had no theme, unless “bar with a dartboard” counted as a theme. A guy in a Broncos hoodie was leaning on the counter, watching the old TV over the bar that was playing a rerun of some random bowling tournament.

“Where you from?” he asked, noticing me watching him watching the TV.

“Out of state,” I said, noncommittal. “Passing through for a few days. What about you?”

“Cimarron Hills,” he said, tipping his beer at me like it was an introduction. “The part of town no one brags about, but everyone secretly likes because it’s easy to park.”

I laughed. “What’s the vibe over there? Like, who lives in Cimarron Hills?”

He shrugged. “People who don’t want to deal with the drama of Colorado Springs. It’s quiet, laid-back. You can still find a house that doesn’t cost a fortune, and you’re not going to step outside and see someone filming their TikTok dance in the driveway.”

“So, it’s the anti-Downtown?” I asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “No one’s trying to impress anyone in Cimarron Hills. People mow their own lawns, fix their own trucks, and argue about football at the bar like God intended.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad,” I said. “What do people do for fun over there?”

“Well,” he said, scratching his chin, “there’s the bowling alley. There’s also the other bowling alley. And on a good day, the Dairy Queen opens early. But mostly, we hang out in garages.”

“Garages?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, garages,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “You open the door, roll out a cooler of beer, maybe fire up the grill. Garages are where the real conversations happen.”

“Deep thoughts over light beer,” I said. “I like it. What’s the downside?”

He tilted his head. “Well, let’s just say it’s not exactly fancy. No wine bars, no yoga studios, and if you’re looking for a craft coffee shop, you’ll have to drive. But that’s kind of the charm, you know? No one’s pretending to be anything they’re not.”

“So, it’s honest,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “Cimarron Hills is where you can wear the same hoodie three days in a row and no one’s going to say anything because they’re doing it too.”

I raised my beer. “Here’s to hoodies and garages.”

He clinked his bottle against mine. “And Dairy Queen,” he added. “Don’t forget the Dairy Queen.”

“Never,” I said. “Sounds like a solid neighborhood.”

“It is,” he said. “Cimarron Hills: the land of people who aren’t trying too hard but still get the job done.”

I finished my beer, half tempted to swing by one of those garages and see if their conversations really were as good as advertised.