On the Road in the Rockies - Part 2

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3-  ASPEN TALES AND TRAILS

The town of Aspen has an intriguing history that dates back to 1879 when a group of dogged prospectors, defying a Ute uprising, struck silver and turned a grubby miner’s camp into a thriving town of thousands in a few short years.  Within a decade, there were several banks in town, a hospital, two theaters, an opera house and a hydroelectric plant that generated electricity.  Then the Sherman Act was repealed and the price of silver tanked.  The mines started closing; businesses went bust; people moved away.  By 1900, most of the buildings in town were shuttered.  Only a few hundred residents remained, scratching a living by raising cattle and growing sweet potatoes.  One of my grandmother’s uncles had a ranch here during this period.  But he lost it during the Great Depression when he couldn’t pay the taxes.

After WW2, a group of entrepreneurs had a crazy idea to build a ski resort in Aspen.  “Where the hell is Aspen,” investors asked.  It was deep in the Rockies, in the middle of nowhere, but still they pitched their money into the project and the rest is history.  Its heavenly locale in the Roaring Fork River Valley was the attraction.  The first to arrive were the avid skiers and outdoorsmen; a few movie actors; artists; poets.  Hollywood celebrities came next in the ‘70s.  Then the rock stars.  Then the CEOs of Corporate America.

With a median home price of $5 million, Aspen is too self important to allow a campground or RV park, and thus we found ourselves camping in the woods five miles outside the city limits, next to the Roaring Fork River, with lush meadows where deer and elk grazed in the evenings.  And this suited us fine.

The campground is called Difficult for some reason, though setting up camp was no sweat.  We used the shower for the first time and it worked terrific.  Then it began to sprinkle and we cooked supper and celebrated inside with a bottle of pinot noir.  At one point, while preparing our meal, I knocked over my wine glass and almost immediately the carbon monoxide alarm sounded.  How were we to know that it was also an intoxication alarm?  It certainly made a racket.  We tinkered and fiddled, trying to turn it off, and eventually it did turn off—though I’m not sure it was because of our fiddling.  Nevertheless, we monitored our alcohol consumption after that.

Come morning, my jaw felt 100 percent again and the skies were sapphire blue.  Time to go biking!  We broke camp after breakfast and drove to Snowmass for a day of downhill riding, stopping at a market in Aspen on the way.  One thing we noticed right away about the people of Aspen: Everybody is thin.  And I mean everybody.  Terry commented on it first, and then I concurred that, yes, she was right.  We saw plenty of people riding bicycles around town.  Maybe that had something to do with it?  Or possibly it’s because there are no fast food joints in town?  Or maybe there’s a disproportionate share of trust-fund kids with a coke habit?  But I digress.

At Snowmass Mountain, one can buy an all-day lift ticket and ride the gondola up to 11,000 feet, and then barrel down the singletracks to your heart’s content, through evergreen forests, aspen groves and alpine meadows.  Since it was a Monday, business was slow: rarely did we come across other riders.  The easiest trail is aptly called Easy Rider.  It was fast and challenging, with banked, compact turns and even some high-speed whoops for added excitement—not your average “beginner” trail, even though that was the Snowmass rating for it.  Even the kid in the resort’s bike shop confessed it was sandbagged, and that a number of novice riders had been complaining.  We rated it “not-your-typical-beginner” and gave it two thumbs up.

We ate lunch at a restaurant at the base of the mountain, sitting outside on the near-deserted patio.  The place had a serene ambiance to it, with only a few people milling about the plaza: enough people so that the resort didn’t feel deserted.  After our meal, we took the gondola back up to sample another trail: Valhalla.  This one is an advanced trail, a black diamond, much more technical than Easy Rider.  It was a fun ride, but we skipped the committing switchbacks that plunged down a wooded ridgeline.  It was over our heads (or I’m just getting older and wiser).  However, we did ride a segment of Government Trail, a Colorado cross-country classic that runs through Snowmass.

Dark, foreboding clouds amassed as the afternoon progressed, and occasionally a rouge raindrop would smack me in the face.  We retrieved the windbreakers from our Camelbacks and kept riding, though the sprinkles turned out to be a hollow threat, nothing to worry about.  The end of the day found us back on Easy Rider, where I found the romps through the Hobbit-like forest especially cool.  When the lifts closed at 4 o’clock, we were tuckered out and content.  In all, we covered about sixteen miles, descending 7,000 feet. It had been a good day.

4-  THE GHOST OF HUNTER

In the heart of Aspen, at the corner of Main and Mill Streets, stands the Hotel Jerome.  Though it was built long ago, during the glory days of the Colorado Silver Boom, it still retains its Victorian splendor, meticulously refurbished and operated as a five-star hotel.  It wasn’t always this swanky, however: during the “bust years”, you could rent a room for $15 a month.  And it was still a modest establishment when my grandparents stayed here on their wedding night in 1930.

Our vacation was to be primarily a “camping trip.”  But there are always exceptions to the rule.  A few weeks before our departure, I reserved a room at the Jerome for one night: an early-anniversary treat for my darling wife (it was 17 days away).  The fact that my grandparents had spent their wedding night here made it even more special.

Hotel guests of the Jerome don’t park their cars: you simply pull up to the street curb, where attendants in crisp green uniforms handle it from there.  It was late afternoon when we rolled up.  We had just come off the mountain at Snowmass, grimy and disheveled and in need of showers.  A valet came out to greet us and waited patiently while we sorted through the baggage, trying to decide what to take up to the room.  I had to hand it to the guy: he didn’t bat an eye at our condition, or our dusty ol’ van with the grungy mountain bikes hanging off the back, or the carnage of gear piled inside, or the carbon monoxide alarm that was virtually possessed.

From the outside, the Jerome looks stately and functional: a brick, three-story building that serves a purpose.  But on the inside, it is thoroughly opulent, with Victorian-era furnishings, flawless décor, and service that was impeccable.  We checked in; got cleaned up.  Terry wore a chic but casual ensemble she had packed for the occasion (and all I had was a Hawaiian shirt—oops).  The concierge down in the lobby presented an assortment of dinner choices, and we ended up at Steak House 316 on Hopkins Avenue—which came highly recommended—sitting out front on the patio, under the stars.  The atmosphere was romantic, the wine was top drawer, the food was excellent… and the service was awful.

We strolled back to the Jerome after dinner, taking a circuitous route past art galleries and swanky boutiques (there’s a lot of bling in this town), and landed at the J-Bar for a few nightcaps.  The J-Bar is a hotel saloon with a rich history.  Nineteenth-century silver miners bellied up to the bar here.  So did lumberjacks and trappers; ski bums; cowboys; jet-set celebrities; authors and poets—heck, it’s possible my grandparents had a nip of moonshine here on their wedding night.  I also knew that the late great Hunter S. Thompson had frequented the J-Bar in his day, and that alone, I felt, was reason to pay homage.  A photograph of the legendary gonzo journalist hangs on the wall at the end of the bar, alongside a framed “Thompson for Sheriff” poster, and the pen and ink illustration used for the cover of his immortal Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

It was a Monday night, only a few patrons in the bar.  We were on our second round when Sean, the bar manager, came by to share some history of the establishment.  He nodded to the end of the bar, where Hunter Thompson would perch every the afternoon to sort through his mail.  Thompson also ran his 1970 election campaign for County Sherriff from the J-Bar.  The sheriff at the time had vowed to rid Aspen of all the long-haired hippies, so Thompson shaved his head and referred to the incumbent as his the “long-haired opponent”.  He also promised to decriminalize pot and peyote if elected—and he almost won.  Then there was the time when he bound his good friend, Bill Murray, to a chase lounge and tossed him into the hotel pool.  Those were the rollicking Seventies and Eighties, when celebrity locals like Jack Nicolson, Don Johnson or Don Henley might drop in with Hunter.

“But things have mellowed out over the years,” Sean asserted, almost sadly.  From his age (35?), I knew that he didn’t bear witness to those Glory Days.  And from the pining expression on his face, I got the feeling that to be able to say you partied at the J-Bar during that time would be like saying you were at Woodstock.

I commented on the antique back bar, which was a gorgeous, floor-to-ceiling work of fine craftsmanship, asking Sean if it was the original.  He nodded.  Then he said: “Let me show you something that very few people have seen.”  He went over to the back bar, pulled out a large drawer and brought it to our table.  It was empty.  He explained that he was cleaning out all of the cabinets and drawers, and in this particular drawer, we’d be able to see the signatures of those who had tended bar here since its founding.  And sure enough, etched into the sides and bottom of the drawer, inside and out, were scores of names.  Sean pointed to one which was clearly dated 1894.

While Ter and I marveled at all the names and dates, Sean suggested we stop by the following night: all drinks would be only a dollar.  We declined, as we’d be pressing deeper into the Rockies the next day, but I asked him what the special occasion was.

“We’re closing down,” he said.

What?!!

Not forever, he assured me.  But the entire hotel would be undergoing a major renovation.  Gone would be the Victorian motif, replaced with a stylish, Western theme from an Ed Weston photograph, or some story like that.  The plan was to re-open in December, before the jet-setters arrived for the holidays.

We finished our drinks and retired to our room soon after, and on the way upstairs, I found myself dwelling on the renovation plans again: out with the old, in with the new.  Would the hotel lose its connection to the rich times of yore?  They say it is haunted, and though I’m not one for ghost-hunting antics, I do know one thing.  When Hunter Thompson tragically took his life in 2005, his beloved friends packed the Jerome for the memorial service, by far the largest gathering the hotel had ever seen.  This place was his home away from home (his ranch is out on Woody Creek).  And the J-Bar would’ve been especially sacred.  That said, heaven help us if the ghost of Hunter doesn’t like the remodel.

5-  FEAR & LOATHING ON INDEPENDENCE PASS

My wife exceeds her fair share behind the wheel on road trips.  She says it’s because I spend so much time driving to work each day, she just wants to give me break from it.  And this is fine by me: driving isn’t what it used to be.  But honestly, when it comes to driving the Sportsmobile, she’s in road hog heaven.  She is all smiles and glowing, rolling down the highway wearing her cowboy hat, Tom Petty on the stereo.  Once she’s in the groove, she can go for miles.

Naturally this gives me opportune time to sightsee and take a cat nap if the mood presents.  I make a good DJ, too: keeping those groovy tunes coming.  I’m also a navigator of the first order, and I can serve my sweetie an iced mocha coffee on demand.  In short, we are the supreme Road Trip team (except when we take a wrong turn, then the finger-pointing starts).

So there was nothing unusual that morning at the Jerome when Terry offered to drive.  Sure, honey, sounds great.  But first, we took the shuttle bus up Maroon Creek, past Jack Nicolson’s hidden compound, and hiked around Maroon Lake, soaking up those stunning vistas of the Bells.  When we got back to the van, it was early afternoon.  Ter got behind the wheel; started the engine; adjusted the mirrors.  I slid into the passenger seat; searched for the road map; couldn’t find it.  Then we departed tony Aspen and headed up Highway 82, towards Independence Pass.

Straddling the Continental Divide at 12,095 feet, Independence Pass is one of the few natural east-west passages through the Colorado Rockies.  The Utes in the Roaring Fork Valley had used it for generations before the white man arrived.  And when the white man did arrive, it became the line of demarcation that separated the two.  That demarcation was short-lived, however—once silver was discovered in Aspen, prospectors stampeded over it in droves.  This led to the construction of a wagon road, chipped and carved out of the steep mountainside, a desperate but crucial endeavor to haul supplies into Aspen, and silver ore out of Aspen.  With copious amounts of dynamite, the present alignment of Highway 82 was established in 1927, though another forty years would pass before a bed of asphalt graced its surface.  Today it ranks as the highest paved road over the Continental Divide.

I had paid little concern to the sign back in Aspen that stipulated vehicles over thirty-five feet in length were strictly prohibited on the road to Independence Pass.  But as we ascended, more signs appeared: “Slow Curves Ahead;” “Steep Grade Ahead;” “Narrow Road Ahead.”  As I would soon discover, they could’ve combined all those warnings into a single, all-inclusive sign: “Scary Shit Ahead.”  The 35-foot length limit was insanely generous—if we came upon a rig that size, we would all perish.

Further up the valley, at around 9,500 feet, the highway narrowed considerably as it cut through a series of cliff bands, the road bed itself blasted out of solid rock.  No longer were there any roadside shoulders.  I peered out the passenger window, straight down, two hundred feet to the frothing rapids of the Roaring Fork River.  Sometimes there was a guardrail, but frequently there was not.  I could look out and watch the right front tire roll along the edge of the pavement, a mere foot or two from disaster.  Yikes!  To help assuage my anxiety, I fetched a beer from the ice box.

Meanwhile, Terry was as calm and focused as a big-rig trucker, navigating through the twists and bends, dropping into low gear when the grade demanded.  She was in the zone.  When I commented on the mortal situation on my side of the van, she responded that everything was under control.  No problemo.  But at around 10,000 feet, the double-yellow stripe down the middle of the highway disappeared—it squandered too much valuable road space, so it was eliminated.  Now if you passed a car coming in the opposite direction, you could get your side mirror torn off.  This was Road Warrior, Rocky Mountain style, and I began to vocally lament that our choices now were to: 1) sideswipe an oncoming RV, or; 2) tumble down the slope, end over end, to our demise.

“You need to relax,” she told me. So I took her at her word. I made my way aft and fished a Vicodin out of my duffel; popped it into my mouth; washed it down with Fat Tire ale.

Not that it helped.  At 11,000 feet, Terry abruptly said: “Uh-oh.”

What’s wrong?

“The ‘Check Engine’ light just came on.”

Crap!  Now I was holding my breath, listening to the engine, which was working extremely hard, but nothing sounded dire or apocalyptic.  I leaned over and scanned the instrument panel—temperature and oil gauges reported normal.  At one point, I caught a whiff of something burning.  Our transmission?  No.  It was coming from an RV that had passed us in the opposite direction, the driver riding his brakes the entire way down from the pass, roasting them to cinders.  This made me feel somewhat better, knowing that it wasn’t us that would be going down in flames.  Yes, we’d be okay.  There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

But at 11,500 feet, the carbon monoxide alarm went off.  The shrillness of it was piercing to the senses and I expected oxygen masks to pop down any moment from overhead.  And since we were above timberline, there were no trees to hide the precipitous drop to the valley floor.  I remember thinking: If I had a parachute, I could bail out right now.

Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the alarm stopped.  Ter and I exchanged a quick “WTF?” look, but never said a word.  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as my grandmother used to say—and she was not that crazy about horses.

We motored up the final mile without uttering a word, the van straining the entire way.  Upon gaining the pass, Ter stopped in the pullout and shut off the engine.  I immediately jumped out, fell to the ground and kissed the earth, looking like Mohammad praying to Mecca.  It was a beautiful afternoon and a few other people were milling about.  The air was alpine crisp.  Cotton-ball clouds floated overhead in a turquoise, iridescent sky, and angels were singing in harmony.  At that moment, that very singular moment, I knew I’d live to see another day.

After a short hike out to an overlook, we returned to the parking lot and asked a Harley biker dude to snap a photo of us in front of the Independence Pass sign.  Then we climbed in the van and started down the other side of the pass.  Ter double-insisted that she drive, and that was groovy with me.  She was in her groove, and I was in my groove.  And then I saw the yellow road sign up ahead…

WARNING

STEEP GRADE

CHECK BRAKES

TO BE CONTINUED…