I hiked over to Crested Butte from Aspen this past weekend. Climbing up and over West Maroon Pass, the altitude at 12,500 feet hit me. I felt lightheaded and my footsteps suddenly felt as though I had ten pound weights strapped to my feet.
At the top, surrounded by stone pinnacles, we stopped and sat in the sun. Looking back toward Aspen were the Maroon Bells and Pyramid Peak above the long, deep glacial valley we had just climbed through. Looking toward Crested Butte, the landscape opened into the lush, sweeping alpine basin of Schofield Park, and all of my anxiety dissipated as the energy from the mountains seeped in.
After coming off the trail, we hopped onto Dolly’s shuttle with a pack of other people who had also hiked over from Aspen. We all started talking as we bumped our way down a sketchy dirt road that felt as though we could have been traveling over some rudimentary mountain pass in another country.
They turned out to be a group of young parents who lived right near me. By the time we got into town we had all connected, and then we kept running into one another throughout our stay.
At one point, I took my journal and found a park bench in the sun on Elk Ave, kicked off my flip flops, and began writing. I can honestly say I've never felt compelled to do this in Aspen ... although, I have been known to be found inside the Hotel Jerome writing wherever the sun shines in.
At almost 9,000 feet Crested Butte feels as Aspen must have felt back in the early 70’s, with not one chain private club or hotel buyout-only luxury property in sight. Only sweet colorful Victorians, original "false front" western-style buildings, and retro town bikes littering the street, unlocked, and many a local walking by in flowing clothes and floral wreaths in their hair in honor of Vinotok, a celebration of the autumn equinox and European heritage.
The many restaurants all felt inviting and still affordable, and the bars I glanced into left my imagination reeling with images of horses hitched outside and many a rowdy crowd inside. This is what I love about mountain towns, the casualness revealing people who appear as thought they've been playing all day in the mountains, not in the yoga studio, mixed with visitors who come for that mountainy vibe.
I don't mean this as an Aspen versus Crested Butte comparison. I couldn't live in Crested Butte. I need more culture and diversity, and I definitely need a few more months of summer, instead of less. Aspen is my home. I've spent most of my adult life here, raised my boys here, and created a business around connecting and supporting the people who make our valley what it is. But I’m not gonna lie. I had tears in my eyes for what is, what was, and what’s to come. Our mountain towns are changing. Development comes in, rents rise, and the businesses that can afford to move in are the chains, while the small locally owned shops that gave a town its personality struggle to stay. And once they're gone, it is very hard to recreate what was there.
What I know is that we must never take anything for granted for it could be gone tomorrow, and we need to spend more time visiting the places we love. Sitting there, I relished the feeling that Crested Butte still seemed to know exactly what it was, a Western mountain town, with carrying remnants of its late nineteenth century mining days.
We talk a lot about protecting our open spaces and our mountain views. Maybe we need to think just as much about protecting our precious towns from Corporate takeovers where you can come off a mountain dusty and tired, meet your neighbors on a shuttle, kick off your shoes in the middle of town, put some flowers in your hair, and feel completely at home.
