Different Day, Different Mountain

It always feels odd to me when I realize I’m finally visiting a place I’ve heard about many times through books, or films or television. The first time I turned a corner and saw Sydney Opera House it took a moment to fully grasp that this was the actual Sydney Opera House and not just somebody’s photo. While sitting on a ferry crossing Hong Kong Harbor I had to remind myself to savor the moment, because I’d waited years for this, and it was finally happening. Kuala Lumpur, Golden Gate Bridge, Singapore, Ayer’s Rock, when I set eyes on these landmarks for the first time, it always felt a little difficult to accept that here I was, and this was the real thing. I still feel that way when I remember I live in the Rocky Mountains. The Rocky Mountains, the ones everybody talks about, writes about, sings about. And I had the feeling a couple of weeks ago, while sitting enjoying lunch in a restaurant in Aspen, just over the Continental Divide.

Aspen sprang into prominence during the late 1800’s when thousands of prospectors poured into the area hoping to strike it rich in the silver mines which riddled the surrounding mountains. Like most booms however, it didn’t last and when President Cleveland made gold the national standard once more, the area's large mines shut down. By the 1930s, Aspen's population had dwindled to 700 and the town survived only due to its agriculture. Then some bright spark noticed the copious winter snowfall and had the idea of constructing a ski resort. In 1947 Aspen Mountain opened for business, with Buttermilk and Snowmass quick to follow. Before long, Aspen had gained status as an international arts-and-culture stop, an essential part of the jet set lifestyle. Nowadays, the billionaires are squeezing out the millionaires and Aspen is the place to be seen.

Except there weren’t many people to see or be seen by, at least not this lunchtime. The season was officially over, the ski lifts silent and by the looks of things; the beautiful people had all taken off to new watering holes. Which was fine by me. I’ve never really been part of the beautiful people crowd anyway (for obvious reasons) and as I don’t go much for celebrity worship, was more than happy to have the place to myself.

The place wasn’t entirely deserted of course; the locals were still here, going about their business. But other than a spectacularly ugly yellow HumVee Penis Extension on Main Street and a sulky child wearing a ski-jacket, which I suspect cost more than my car, there were few signs of notable affluence. Most of the people out and about in Aspen at this time of year use bikes rather than SUVs, and wear tie die rather than Armani. Having come from a business meeting I was attired in khakis and button down shirt, so was therefore one of the more expensively dressed patrons of the restaurant.

But the town itself was quite definitely in sleep mode. A large number of the stores stood empty while construction workers refurbished them ready for next season. A good few restaurants had also closed their doors, the owners no doubt relaxing in some tropical clime, while even the streets themselves were in many cases, blocked off as maintenance workers re-laid cobbles, planted flower beds and repaired the drains. There was a certain level of activity, no doubt about that, but the air was mostly one of slowing down and unwinding. The town had its collective feet up.

Of course, you don’t need large crowds in order to people watch. There was the guy in the park playing with his two Australian Shepherds (this year’s de rigueur fashion accessory apparently, although it seemed everybody had a dog of some sort), the Mom ferrying her three kids around on one bike, the bow legged guy in a red kilt with yellow stockings (no, that wasn’t me) and the constant stream of activity around the town’s bus depot. With the gondolas silent, the bus depot is the center of Aspen’s transport system and the countless mini-busses did sterling service shipping people around town and up and down the valley.

I was staying and working in Snowmass, a resort which was quite definitely closed for the season so took advantage of the bus service to visit Aspen several times. Most of my fellow passengers appeared to be resort employees, making the trip from home to work and back. Others were simply local residents running errands, laden down with grocery bags and backpacks. A very few were sightseers like me but almost all were exceptionally friendly. The bus drivers appeared to know everybody, often by name and unlike so many of their breed, were bright and cheerful.

On one trip two teenage girls sat across the aisle from me and when one remarked to the other, “I have a problem I need to ask you about”, the entire bus perked up in anticipation of the upcoming gossip. She’d fallen out with a third friend apparently and wanted to make up but as she considered herself blameless in the feud, was reluctant to make the first move. In no time we were all offering advice, in general agreement that in this case, it was OK to be the bigger person. Somewhat surprisingly, (at least to me) she didn’t seem to resent this intrusion and in fact, quite welcomed the input from various complete strangers.

On another ride I got talking to Mary who told me proudly that she was 68 this year. She’s just completed a motorcycle maintenance course in preparation for her upcoming bike run to Alaska. Her Harley was now running “sweeter than a bug’s ass” (whatever that means) and she was in the process of adapting her handlebar panniers to accommodate Pepé, the ugly little dog she held under her arm. What a trip that’s going to be.

My home of Bailey is also a mountain town, although even its biggest boosters would be hard pressed to call it a resort. For most people it’s little more than a wide bit on the back road to the ski areas. There are few celebrities to be seen, not too many millionaires and for the most part, any HumVees belong to the flatlanders passing through. But, it’s possible to buy a house here, even on my salary, one can drink coffee without giving a prayer of thanks for the expense account and nobody particularly cares what brand of ski jacket you’re wearing.

So while Aspen may have its appeal, at least out of season, I think I’ll stay where I am. Until I make my first billion at least.