Ah, Boulder Country Club-where mature trees abound and the homes stand in their uniquely styles of days gone by. And right there, tucked against the 4th hole, nearly a third of an acre of carefully plotted paradise. Step inside and the first thing that happens: air, space, light – cathedral-high ceilings so generous that even the tallest of mortals can walk through without ducking, without fear, without the faintest brush of head to plaster. The whole house is a compass of life divided neatly by intention: to the east, civilization – the laughter, the chatter, the circulation of cocktails and anecdotes – the living room rolling into the family room, flowing through to the kitchen, gliding on to the dining room, then looping back around again, a social orbit so complete it practically hums. And to the west, ah, the retreat – the private hemisphere – the primary bedroom, an en-suite sanctuary with laundry conveniently near, where you can stand and stare at the Flatirons, those titanic slabs of stone leaning against the sky like the bones of the Earth itself.Below, the garden level, not a basement, no, not a tomb of concrete and dim light, but a half-sunken world where daylight still insists on pouring in.One bedroom, one bath, a flex room for whatever the new century demands-gym, studio, podcast lair – and storage enough for the detritus of dreams.When November forgets itself and the air turns soft, the patio calls-a veranda of contentment where the Flatirons perform their endless show. Just a step from the kitchen, morning coffee becomes ritual.Then winter-silence, snow, the fairway a frozen sea. Inside-oh yes-the gas fireplace hums with that low, electric purr of modern comfort, or maybe you go full primal, wood crackling, smoke curling. You sit there, book in hand, and think: this…this is it. The two-car garage, 650 square feet of pure, unapologetic American excess – awaits your gear, your skis, your bikes, your collection of Things That Might Be Useful Someday.