Crested Butte Magazine - Winter 2020/21 by CrestedButteMagazine

Winter 2020-2021 Complimentary

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CONTENTS w20/21 SHORTIES

FIRST PERSON SINGULAR

10 The Mill Creek Kids go to print

92 Lessons from the back of the herd by Cara Guerrieri

A mother-daughter duo laughed their way through the pandemic by painting and writing a book about life on the Mill Creek Ranch.

12 Waste not… by Katherine Nettles

How your uneaten French fries might feed a Gunnison pig, and other ski area green strategies.

16 ‘Alive with energy and joy’ by Sandy Fails

Without the large audiences of pre-virus days, the Center for the Arts focuses on its role as the community’s home base for the arts.

97 When you crawl inside by Leath Tonino

Winter not deep enough for you? Try digging a backyard snow cave.

101 The menagerie by Polly Oberosler

The personalities of the four-leggeds make ranch life even quirkier.

105 Meltdown on ice by Matt Tredway

20 A good, long ride by John Norton

108 Nordic valley by Dane Bahr

Joe Fitzpatrick escorted Mt. Crested Butte through five decades of progress, hospitality and high jinx.

24 ‘Neighbors helping neighbors’ by Sandy Fails

In a high-anxiety time, CB State of Mind connects people to mental health resources and encourages the community to ‘shoulder the burden together.’

28 For education, science & nature by Katherine Nettles

The iconic Gothic townsite and its research facility join a local legacy of conservation.

32 Still kicking (and gliding) by Karen Janssen

Crested Butte’s Nordic Center adapted adroitly to virus protocols to keep people skiing. The result: a surge in Nordic fans, young and old.

Dusty Demerson

To a youngster dusty and tuckered from herding balky cows, “You done good” is a perfect sentence.

Winter camping tests the mettle of an adolescent adventurer.

We’re famous for downhill skiing, but our Nordic trails and skiers are quietly legendary.

FEATURES 38 Ahead of the avalanche by Than Acuff

66 Epic isolation, gone awry by Stephanie Maltarich

As the ski resort caps its daily skier numbers this winter, the Crested Butte Avalanche Center preps for a rush to the backcountry.

Kristi Haner and Alex Tiberio had spent five winters as snowbound caretakers in a remote Gothic cabin. When COVID hit Colorado last spring, it seemed the perfect way to dodge the pandemic. But, oops.

44 Pete Dunda’s toe-tapping life by Sandra Cortner

Despite ‘the Elvis effect,’ Pete and his accordion can still fill the floor with dancers.

74 Let ‘em run by Sandra Cortner

52 Catching (really big) air by Beth Buehler

84 A ski journal of the plague year by David J. Rothman

After flying high on skis or bikes as youngsters, these five Crested Butte alumni took to the skies as pilots.

The Crested Butte Mountain Heritage Museum’s revamped ski/winter sports exhibit traces our history of playing in the snow. Page 80 Journey of an Artifact

When the chairlifts closed last March, this writer’s backcountry quest began. 7 Editor’s Note | 60 Photo gallery | 110 Winter Life 114 Dining/lodging | 116 Photo finish

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Vol. XXXXII, No. 2 Published semi-annually by Crested Butte Publishing & Creative PUBLISHERS Steve Mabry & Chris Hanna EDITOR Sandy Fails ADVERTISING DIRECTOR MJ Vosburg LAYOUT AND DESIGN Chris Hanna ADVERTISING DESIGN Keitha Kostyk WRITERS Than Acuff Stephanie Maltarich Dane Bahr Katherine Nettles Beth Buehler John Norton Sandra Cortner Polly Oberosler Sandy Fails David Rothman Cara Guerrieri Leath Tonino Karen Janssen Matt Tredway PHOTOGRAPHERS Than Acuff Nathan Bilow Matt Berglund Trevor Bona Sophia Chudacoff Sandra Cortner Raynor Czerwinski Dusty Demerson Petar Dopchev Xavier Fané Burt Guerrieri

Chris Hanna John Holder Sandra Mabry Constance Mahoney Chris Miller Rebecca Ofstedahl Mark Robbins David Rothman Mary Schmidt Lydia Stern

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Editor’s note

John Holder

Rest and reprieve, and then… For me, autumn generally eases into winter with calm and cheery anticipation. Shining gold leaves fall, fade and succumb to early snowfall. We dig out the skis, stockpile the hot chocolate and firewood, and cuddle into flannel PJs. But it’s autumn 2020. National pandemic numbers are rising again, election day looms as either apocalypse or deliverance, and wildfire smoke veils our vivid blue skies. Even in snuggly-PJ season, the world feels as inflamed, clenched and edgy as a spasmy back. In this dis-ease, Crested Butte gives us a powerful antidote. Yes, I’ve occasionally been sad, anxious and weary, but I’ve weathered 2020 pretty well, thanks to a daily dose of mountain medicine. Here’s my treatment plan. Go outside. Move. See beauty. Nourish yourself (whether it’s kale or a hot toddy). Feed friendships. Notice goodness. Say thanks. Go inward. Connect to something that’s deeper and more timeless than the day’s blaring headlines. The world apparently needs this medicine. This year, my husband and I have hosted a record number of visitors desperate for rest and reprieve. My friend Jane arrived from Denver on an autumn evening while I was thinking about writing this editor’s note. As

we strolled around the little lake nearby, she stopped, released a big sigh and said, “I didn’t realize how much I needed this, just to lay everything down for a while and be in peace and beauty.” Jane is a Quaker, with a strong social conscience. Though she’s retired, she’d recently been pulled in many directions – taking care of neighbors, writing voter-reminder postcards, contacting senators. Her activism had started to feel like tossing thimbles of water on raging wildfires. Finally, she ran out of energy and joy. So she came to Crested Butte. She and her husband arrived during the Vinotok fall festival, which was pandemic-adapted into artful DIY scenarios around town. My urban friends didn’t strike me as Vinotokers, but it turned out to be a perfect fit for autumn 2020. We paced the Vinotok labyrinth and wrote thoughtful “grumps” to be burned in the ceremonial flames; we blew our cares onto little stones and flung them away; we placed feathers at altars reconnecting us to the earth and each other. Later we meandered through the woods. Then, from our deck, we watched the sinking sun set aglow the crags of Crested Butte Mountain. After bundling up for the dusk chill, we laughed and 7

Editor’s note confided and talked about these times and what will outlast these times. The next day, as Jane prepared to leave, and to re-engage with an agitated world, she looked lighter and brighter. She shared a realization: though there’s so much work to do in the world, not all of it is hers to do, and not all of it must be done this second. And an evening laughing on the deck can be as essential to the wellbeing of the planet as an afternoon carrying a banner. Her words caught my attention, because my ears seemed to be ringing with alarms sounding all around me: in so many ways we should be caring better for the earth and for each other. Should we address this in the Crested Butte Magazine, I’d been pondering, in a moment when the world was so overwrought and people so desperately seemed to need beauty, peace and respite? The following week, I watched Crested Butte’s Town Council decide to paint “Black Lives Matter” on Elk Avenue and empower committees to examine racism in our nation, the outdoor industry, our town and ourselves. I also watched as emotions flared: on one side, support for local people of color and outrage over the death of another Black man (this time to police in Minneapolis); on the other side, accusations that the national BLM movement was started by Marxists set on destroying the country. I wondered if hearts and minds could be opened in such a volatile exchange, and I admired the council for launching the effort. I so hope that over the next few months, in our country and in our community, fears will calm and we’ll regain some equilibrium. I hope we can talk with less anger, listen with less judgment and learn with more openness. So much good work awaits us, whenever and however we’re each called. Rescue a dog, join a committee, question your assumptions, email a Congresswoman…. And sometimes rest and replenish. In deference to those who are weary and worn, this issue of the Crested Butte Magazine is about the renewing part of that cycle. This issue is about dancing, playing outside, telling stories, connecting to life. No matter where 2021 takes us, the world needs us rested and at our best – shaping the future with our clarity, strength and heart. —Sandy Fails, editor 8

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The Mill Creek Kids go to print

Burt Guerrieri

Cara and Phyllis Guerrieri melding art and memory.

A mother-daughter duo laughed their way through the pandemic by painting and writing a book about life on the Mill Creek Ranch. In their new book, Mill Creek Kids Count to Ten, Cara and Phyllis Guerrieri introduce readers to life at Gunnison’s Mill Creek Ranch and to the five lively kids, including Cara, who grew up there. Readers will meet horses with personality and two special dogs, and they can help the kids count their way to an exciting event in the barn. Cara and Phyllis bring this true cattle ranch story to life with vibrant paintings and action-packed rhyming couplets. Phyllis and her daughter Cara (who writes for the Crested Butte Magazine) took on the project during the isolation of the pandemic, and they laughed their way through creating the book’s 15 paintings. The book has been so well received, the duo plans to finish a second book in the Mill Creek Kids series in 2022. Copies of Mill Creek Kids Count to Ten are available via local bookstores, GuerrieriWorks.com, the Gunnison Gallery and Amazon. com. To celebrate and promote the book during social-distancing times, Cara and Phyllis will be “traveling” in the form of life-sized cardboard cutouts that the public is invited to sign. This is the second book Cara and Phyllis have published together. Their first book, Pure Joy, features paintings by Phyllis and 10

humorous, poignant stories by Cara. Phyllis (Spann) Guerrieri was born in 1932 in Gunnison, where she’s lived her entire life. Before retiring, Phyllis and her husband of 69 years, Richard, ran their cattle ranch and raised five children. Her art reflects her humor and love of family, and her family’s five generations of ranch life in this valley. Phyllis’ work has been exhibited at the Gunnison Arts Center, Gunnison Gallery, Young At Heart Senior Center and the Gunnison County Public Library. Cara Guerrieri earned a Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Western Colorado University. With her father, Richard, she co-authored a memoir called The Spaghetti Gang, about growing up in mining-days Crested Butte. Cara and her husband live primarily in Blue Hill, Maine, but her Mill Creek Ranch roots reach deep.

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Waste not...

By Katherine Nettles Calder Farm pigs: happy fans of leftovers.

Courtesy photo

How your uneaten French fries might feed a Gunnison pig, and other ski area green strategies. When we enjoy eating out, it’s generally the result of many efforts: those who bring the ingredients up to 9,000 feet, the chefs who prepare the food, and the diners who’ve worked up an appetite while playing outside in the cold mountain air. Dining on the mountain during ski season requires even more effort, and businesses operating at both ends of the Gunnison Valley are going the extra mile to close the loop in the food production cycle. This winter, Crested Butte Mountain Resort (CBMR) has committed to delivering its guests’ uneaten morsels to feed livestock at a local Gunnison farm and providing other food-related waste to a nearby commercial composting facility in Olathe, Colorado. As CBMR addresses coronavirus safety protocols, it is serving the usual fare in its mountain lodges, with some adaptations to offer more packaged foods. In doing so, the resort is reducing its environmental impact by making careful selections on compostable packaging and finding nearby places to channel waste. The composting initiative at CBMR began in 2019 as part of Vail Resorts’ Commitment to Zero pledge, in which the company promised to reach a zero net operating footprint by 2030. That pledge includes zero waste to landfills and zero net operating impact on forests and habitat, and it applies to all Vail-owned resorts, including CBMR. 12

Last year Vail Resorts diverted 44 percent of its waste away from landfills, company-wide. This year the goal across the company is a 50-percent diversion rate. “We are planning for a major change to the composting program this winter which will allow the resort to greatly increase its waste diversion numbers,” explained Will Shoemaker, CBMR communications director. The company 3XM Grinding and Compost has teamed up with CBMR to haul all of the resort’s compost – including post-consumer food waste, green waste, eco-packaging products and shredded paper – to its Olathe facility to mix and sell locally. This will increase composting efforts across the resort. The majority of packaging, such as to-go containers, cups, bowls, straws, lids, napkins and cutlery, comes from Boulder-based Eco-Products and can be sent to 3XM.

FROM YOUR PLATE TO THE CALDER FARM PIGS Blaine and M.J. Pickett moved to the Gunnison Valley from Reno, Nevada, in 2016. The couple exchanged their nonprofit urban teaching farm in Reno for our rural mountain towns. They established Calder Farm in 2016 with the help of Blaine’s brother, Brett, and began with just two pigs grazing at pasture. Now they’re up to 40 swine. Calder Farm sells pasture-raised pork almost exclusively to local markets, but that is almost secondary to the Picketts’ true mission. “We do sell meat, but we are using pigs as a tool more than anything to rehabilitate land and to improve soil through rotational grazing,” said Blaine. “And the pork is a byproduct. The pork is exceptional because the pigs are on good land. It’s holistic

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management, rather than just thinking about the outcome of one enterprise. We look at how that enterprise is affecting the land as a whole, the community as a whole, the world as a whole.” The Picketts employ principles of regenerative farming and land management practices espoused by the Savory Institute, a non-profit in Boulder. “The impact pigs have on pastures can be destructive, but if managed in a productive way it can be very beneficial,” said Blaine. He explained, “As much as we can, we try to source all the pigs’ food within the valley. And we try to collect as much food waste as we can. That’s where our partnership with CBMR comes in.” CBMR partnered with Calder Farm beginning in summer 2019 to make good use of the food waste generated from the resort. “We want to maintain our relationship with Calder Farm and expect to continue sending them some pre-consumer food scraps to help feed the pigs through the winter,” said Will Shoemaker. Calder Farm also collects food scraps from The Sunflower restaurant in Crested Butte, the cafeteria at Western Colorado University, spent grain from Alpine Brewery in Gunnison and leftover bread from several local bread distributors. “It’s a little more work than just buying corn, but we don’t really believe that corn feed is sustainable,” said Blaine. “Sourcing their food from here provides a more diverse diet. We probably get about 95 percent of our food from the valley.” That equals about 100 gallons of food scraps per day for the 40 animals. COVID-19 did interrupt that cycle, said Blaine. “We had to feed corn for maybe two months.” But the pigs are back to enjoying the more interesting fare. Demand for the pork is quite high, said Blaine, but the farm has maintained the same production numbers for the last few years. “Farrow to finish is about seven to nine months, depending on the breed,” he said. “We would like to do more, to meet demand. But it’s hard to find the land. Our pigs pasture on private land around the valley, and we move them two to four times per summer, then once or twice in winter.” The farm also leases land from the City of Gunnison to produce its seasonal vegetables and cut flowers for local markets. “That’s a big part of our mission: local food for our community.”

‘Alive with

energy and joy’

By Sandy Fails

Melissa Mason and Scott Palmer inside the new Center for the Arts.

Without the large audiences of pre-virus days, the Center for the Arts focuses on its role as the community’s home base for the arts. In this COVID-wary time, the Crested Butte Center for the Arts marquee no longer proclaims a constant lineup of concerts and gatherings. But inside, the Center bustles with masked-and-distanced activity, like dancers stepping lively, Trailhead Museum kids playing, writers discussing craft, and families watching films. “It brings me joy and hope to walk in the door every day and see the whole building alive with energy,” said Scott Palmer, who became the Center’s executive director in September. The coronavirus last spring sent arts organizations reeling across the globe, and the Center was particularly vulnerable, having just unveiled its beautiful – and costly-to-maintain – $21 million building. The sold-out events slated for March would have kept the Center on course financially, but the virus slammed the valley and prompted concert cancellations and huge loss of revenue. The Center’s board closed the building and cut more than ten staff positions and many more part-time and hourly employees, leaving just three full-time employees. “The board and staff made the very painful decisions early on for the long-term health of the organization,” Palmer said. “It was hard, but they did a remarkable job.” Melissa Mason, associate director who has worked for the Center for almost a decade, said, “It was terrible to lay off staff, to cancel 16

Lydia Stern

events, to have no Alpenglow concerts this summer. But it’s given us a chance to focus on the future. Our purpose is two-fold – to present performing, visual, literary and culinary arts programming, but also to make sure we’re solvent, to be here for everyone else who uses the building.” Mason noted that staff and board were focused last year on the fundraising needed to complete the facility, and, with the pressures of COVID-19 and the search for a new executive director, communication with the community was not as robust as the Center would have liked. She said, “We want everyone to know how grateful we are for how our donors, audiences and arts partners came together. Together we overcame some big hurdles, and we couldn’t have done it without the generosity and patience of people and groups that love Crested Butte and our arts community.” With the virus protocols in place going into the winter, the Center still can’t host large events (though the calendar is dotted with smaller offerings). That has shifted attention to its role of providing a venue for other community groups. Many assume the Center is quiet in the midst of the pandemic, Mason said, but ”the building is packed to the gills with community programming. Yoga, dance, movies, theater, the Crested Butte Music Festival, the fire department, the Town’s diversity training... The space is being used all the time.” Mason’s own kids (ages two, seven and nine) are typically at the Center four days a week for organized activities. “The building wasn’t just built for the Center,” she emphasized. “It has dance studios with sprung floors, but the Center isn’t the one doing dance classes. It’s acoustically tuned for classical music so it’s perfect for local classical music presenters, and there’s a high-end projector for organizations that present films. This is an arts center for the whole

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community.” Outside observers, she said, are often astounded that a small community built a $21 million arts facility – with major contributions from fans and property owners and countless donations from locals who gave as they could. The building is constructed on land owned by the Town of Crested Butte. “It’s mind-blowing that we get to have this.” Having built this arts facility, the Center now faces the worthy challenge of operating it. How? “Forty-seven spreadsheets and a lot of great conversations,” Palmer said in October. Organizations had been using the Center’s facilities at rates that weren’t sustainable for the Center. Rates needed to increase. “But every nonprofit on the planet is struggling right now,” Palmer said. “So how can we make the Center affordable for these organizations? How do we keep the doors open and the heat on? How do we help each other?” In the summer, Mason began meeting with leaders of the user groups to discuss what Palmer called “creative problem solving.” For example, to offset janitorial costs, the School of Dance staff and volunteers now clean and sanitize the spaces they use. Mason mentioned the possibility of fundraising specifically to help user groups pay rent. Meanwhile, the Center can also generate revenue from wedding receptions, special events and conferences (priced at for-profit rates). “We’re trying to be incredibly transparent and honest. We’re not playing poker; we’re all putting our cards on the table to see how we can work together,” Palmer said. Meanwhile, for this winter, Palmer said the Center staff is “working really hard to have events in this building in a way that is safe, following town and county guidelines. We’re 100% focused on keeping this building active, full of life, full of creativity.” The website (crestedbuttearts.org) lists the Center’s offerings. On a longer timeline, Palmer said, “We’re planning and getting ready for when our large audiences can return. We all know it’s coming; we just don’t know when.” In the meantime, he hopes donors and community members will continue to lend financial resources and vocal support to the Center. Palmer moved from Sun Valley, Idaho, to direct the Center because of its beautiful setting, its mission and its potential. “A remarkable collection of people and organizations support the Center, which speaks to its past and future success. Plus the building is stunning.”

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A good,

long ride

By John Norton

Nathan Bilow

Joe Fitzpatrick escorted Mt. Crested Butte through five decades of progress, hospitality and high jinx. This valley has long been shaped by the quiet care and ingenuity of Joe Fitzpatrick, who recently retired as town manager of Mt. Crested Butte on his 75th birthday. John Norton, former Crested Butte Mountain Resort marketing whiz in the 1990s and current director of Gunnison County’s Tourism and Prosperity Partnership, crossed paths with Joe after his retirement to share some highlight memories. Joe’s history in the valley spans five decades and includes coowning and running the largest property management company in the valley, stints as mayor and then town manager of Mt. Crested Butte, and for many years and hopefully many more to come, serving as deacon of Queen of All Saints Catholic Church. Joe recounted, “Clearly the most exciting time in our early years started in the winter of 1985-86, when David Leinsdorf and the other Gunnison County Commissioners extended the airport runway and we began marketing American Airlines nonstop flights from Houston, Dallas, Los Angeles and Chicago. There was a whole gang of us property managers who, with the ski area people, travelled the country to almost every American Airlines office in every city to promote the service. Lots of times we found that even some of the airline people weren’t aware of the flights, the first nonstops to any ski area ever. And although we had plenty of failures, we somehow made it all work. We started a growth trajectory from 290,000 skier-days to 540,000 skier-days in the early 1990s. It will be hard for people who weren’t 20

Joe Fitzpatrick after his recent retirement, and with Mayor Brother Mickey Cooper circa 1987.

Lydia Stern

here during that time period to believe that Mt. Crested Butte had more restaurants than Crested Butte. Aprés-ski was a booming thing, and it was common to see people dancing at the Rafters and still in their ski boots.” Joe and his wife Bev have plenty of lively memories from that era. “It was a really fun time of people pulling together, and most of us were still young enough to go, go and go. We built a huge ice sculpture of the Statue of Liberty to celebrate its centennial with American

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Airlines. Right before the big event weekend, the weather got warm and Lady Liberty’s extended arm fell off!” Boldness was the strategy, and it paid off. “A crazy ski area guy [who could he mean?] dunked his hands in gasoline and set them on fire at a media event that was hosted by Hot Fingers ski gloves,” Joe continued. “The X Games came here. The U.S. Alpine Championships, too. The Bee Gees, Allman Brothers, Roy Orbison, Gloria Estefan and Michael Bolton all played in Mt. Crested Butte. And when the North Face Lift and High Lift were built, the lid came off and we created and began hosting the North American Extreme Ski Championships.” Joe has always been a team player, and his election as Mt. Crested Butte mayor in 1986, along with the election downtown of the always-gregarious Mickey Cooper, offered the opportunity for the two of them to travel the country as The Mayor Brothers. This was a play on John Belushi’s and Dan Aykroyd’s movie characters – and also famed twin world champion skiers of the day Phil and Steve Mahre. “We took that show on the road, telling the world the wonders of our valley. That was at a time when the off-season lasted from the time the lifts closed in April until they began spinning again in November.” Always willing to pitch in and help, Joe promoted mountain biking and the increasingly popular Fat Tire Bike Week. He also supported the Pearl Pass Bike Tour. “Vince Rogalski and I were riding sweep on horseback for the tour. We came across a guy with a broken seat post. Luckily, Allen Cox was also working sweep with his Jeep. He took the guy. We packed the bike out.” So many things have changed during Joe’s life here. Twister used to be the expert ski lift on the mountain. We had no high school in the north valley. No Nordic tracks. No Adaptive Sports program. Winter was far busier than summer. Is the north valley better now than when he found it? “Yes!” Joe answered without hesitation. “We have pavement, doctors, dentists, summer business, year-round jobs, improved and more lifts, a beautiful golf course, frequent free bus service between the towns plus Gunnison, a recreation path connecting communities, K-12 school, Nordic Center and hockey. This is one of the most beautiful places in God’s creation we must continue to protect but also to share with our visitors and second homeowners as we provide the hospitality.” Spoken like a true hospitality guy and long-term town official!

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‘Neighbors

helping neighbors’

By Sandy Fails

Meghan Dougherty, executive director of Crested Butte State of Mind.

In a high-anxiety time, CB State of Mind connects people to mental health resources and encourages the community to ‘shoulder the burden together.’ People think of this valley as idyllic, with its friendly community, natural beauty and active lifestyle, low on stressors like crime and traffic. But statistics show a hidden side. In recent years, suicide numbers have remained disproportionately high in ski towns like Crested Butte, and the anxiety of the times has heightened concerns about mental health. “It’s pretty alarming how many people are struggling right now,” said Meghan Dougherty, executive director of Crested Butte State of Mind (CBSOM). “People are struggling because of COVID, and the state of the world, and financial and relationship stresses. Things that were manageable before are becoming unmanageable.” Crested Butte State of Mind, a new nonprofit, connects people to the mental health resources they need, offers therapy scholarships, and works to counter the stigma around seeking help during rough times. While many consider psychological wellbeing an individual issue, it’s a collective one as well, Dougherty said. The CBSOM website opens with the aspen-tree analogy: we see individual trees, but they actually rise from the same interconnected root system. The health of one impacts the health of the whole. CBSOM encourages community members to participate in the valley’s collective wellbeing by: initiating connections and earnest conversations, countering the sense that asking for help is ‘uncool,’ and lending time or financial support to 24

Rebecca Ofstedahl

local mental health organizations. After a rash of suicides in the county a couple of years ago, a social worker and therapist started grassroots suicide-prevention efforts under the name CB Hope. That faded after both eventually moved from the valley. But another concerned woman contacted local counselor Christine Osmundson, and with fellow volunteers they created Crested Butte State of Mind, set up a board of directors and hired Dougherty. CBSOM operated under the umbrella of the Community Foundation of the Gunnison Valley until recently receiving 501(c)3 nonprofit status. The organization partnered with ten local providers, began offering therapy scholarships in April 2020 and found immediate need. As of mid October, it had given 34 scholarships, covering 340 sessions, to people without insurance coverage. The average age of recipients is 35, though ages range widely. Dougherty said the recipients first appreciated the simple application process. When she followed up with them after their ten counseling sessions, she got great feedback. One couple described the therapy as “life changing.” “I’m the connector, not the provider, but from the testimonials of clients and of counselors, we’ve helped some people in real crisis situations,” Dougherty said. Why are suicide rates so high in ski towns like Crested Butte? “We’ve got a strong community, but it’s hard to plug in and feel connected if you’re new here,” Dougherty said. “Young people often connect via the bar scene, so there’s high-risk behavior and substance abuse.” When she moved to the valley 17 years ago, before getting her masters in social work and starting a family, Dougherty was a waitress and “ski bum.” So she understands that “young adults in the service industry are not being supported.”

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Crested Butte’s reputation for hearty people, extreme sports and competitive attitudes also “makes it seem weak or un-fun to show you’re not doing well,” Dougherty said. “The social scene can be about who’s the most fun, happiest person, who’s done the most extreme thing. We need to normalize the conversation about needing support. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s like physical health; sometimes you need to get help.” On a video posted on the CBSOM website (cbstateofmind.org), former crosscountry/track competitor Alyssa Wendt talks about getting past the “athlete mentality” in which asking for help is seen as weakness. “I’ve actually come to view it as one of the biggest strengths,” Wendt said. “Going to counseling is a safe, nonjudgmental environment to address the challenges you’re facing.” CBSOM has received funds from the Community Foundation of the Gunnison Valley, Town of Crested Butte, COVID Recovery Fund and the Katz Amsterdam Foundation, which also provided organizational guidance and information. Dougherty has been reaching out to local businesses and individuals as well, seeking funds to meet the intense demand. CB State of Mind is coordinating with Western Colorado University, Gunnison Valley Health, the Center for Mental Health and other organizations in the valley. “We’re looking at how to address the overall system, and who’s addressing which part,” Dougherty said. “We’re figuring out our role, our niche.” In addition to connecting people to resources and providing therapy scholarships, CBSOM is focused on educating the community, normalizing the conversation around mental health, and generating support – “getting neighbors to help neighbors.” Dougherty, who worked in juvenile services for the county for a decade, said, “I accepted this job as a challenge. I love this community, and I think a lot needs to be addressed. I’m intrigued by the mission, and it’s been rewarding already.” She again emphasized the community aspect of psychological wellbeing, quoting author/speaker Gail Lynne Goodwin on the aspen-tree metaphor: “There is peace in knowing we are not alone. Peace in knowing that even when the winds of life are cold and blowing hard, all we need to do is turn our leaves and allow the colony – our community – to shoulder the burden with us, for we are all connected.”

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For education, science and nature

By Katherine Nettles

Photos Raynor Czerwinski

The ski toward Gothic Mountain and the old townsite at its base.

The iconic Gothic townsite and its research facility join a local legacy of conservation. The Gothic townsite sits eight miles north of Crested Butte, named for the mountain rising in dramatic spires above it. The area is mostly a quiet oasis of wildlife, biological research, and in winter, deep snow. It becomes a bustling coffee, souvenir and sundry stop along a scenic corridor during summer months, but the crowds recede each night, and season after season Gothic is left peaceful once again. That will be its fate for generations, thanks to a conservation easement that Colorado Open Lands completed last summer. The private non-profit land trust has protected 69 other properties totaling more than 25,000 acres throughout Gunnison County. Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory (RMBL – fondly pronounced “Rumble”), established in Gothic in 1928, will be protected as well. RMBL identifies itself as one of the largest, oldest and most productive sites for field research in the world, having produced more than 1,900 published studies and repeatedly influenced national environmental policy. The conservation contract requires that RMBL uphold its mission for research and science, and in turn protects the area from development beyond those purposes. The conservation easement prevents subdivision or development 28

of the land within Gothic, and as RMBL Executive Director Dr. Ian Billick phrased it, “The community can know that the Gothic townsite is dedicated to research and education in perpetuity.” Tony Caligiuri, president of Colorado Open Lands, added, “This is a unique opportunity for a land trust to conserve an entire town, and knowing that the space will be used in perpetuity to advance critical research makes it even more meaningful.” The conservation easement will also protect RMBL’s nonconsumptive water rights, among the first in the state of Colorado to “establish the value of leaving water in streams to support wildlife and recreation,” according to Billick. In the lab’s 92-year existence, more than 9,000 people have studied, worked, lived and conducted research at RMBL on topics of

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pollination, climate change and high-altitude ecosystems. A well-known resident of Gothic, billy barr (he uses no capitals), has likely contributed the most to the long-term data sets compiled at Gothic. barr lives onsite year-round at RMBL and has kept daily logs for almost 50 years, recording precipitation, avalanches, temperatures and arrival and departure of flora and fauna. barr is considered invaluable to the scientists that descend upon RMBL each spring and summer. “RMBL makes science accessible not only for researchers but also for student scientists from around the globe, some of whom have never spent any time outside of a city. Through its informal science education program, RMBL invites the public to participate in and learn from its research. By protecting the site under easement, these opportunities to use science to manage the world, and to actively engage the public in research, will endure for the long term,” said Billick. With this easement, and in collaboration with Colorado Open Lands, Billick said, “RMBL commits in perpetuity to the power of place, demonstrating how a sustained commitment by generations of scientists to understanding a single location can transform our understanding of the world.” The townsite joins a collective legacy of other conserved spaces that have become a signature of the Gunnison Valley. Many of those spaces are multi-generational ranches and provide the unobstructed views and uncommon recreational trail access that so many enjoy here. “We appreciate how thoughtful the ranching community has been in terms of thinking about the larger landscape, and we are pleased to join with them in limiting backcountry development. We hope that the county and public lands agencies will continue to think creatively about connecting people to these landscapes while also ensuring they are managed sustainably given the growing impacts of recreation,” concluded Billick. As skiers pass through Gothic this winter, when only human-powered modes of transport are allowed into the snowy wild, or as summer hikers traipse among its wildflowers and scampering marmots, they can breathe deep and calm, knowing for certain that this place will remain. For a related story on Gothic and its winter caretakers, see page 66.

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Still kicking

(and gliding)

By Karen Janssen

Photos: Xavier Fané

Crested Butte’s Nordic Center has adapted adroitly to coronavirus protocols to keep the community skiing. The result has been a surge in Nordic skiers, young and old. Last winter, if you happened to pass by the Crested Butte Nordic Center in the afternoon, you most likely heard lots of laughter and activity. Hordes of young skiers, skinny skis strapped to their feet, darted about, engaged in all kinds of lively drills and games to build agility, speed and camaraderie. Figure eights, red light/green light…everything was more fun on skis. One obstacle course challenge required the skiers to sprint to a line, stop, turn 180 degrees and then continue to the finish line by skiing backwards. Not easy, but the kids tackled the test with good humor and determination. As the Nordic Center staff prepared for this winter’s ski season, they, too, executed a version of this drill: go, stop, turn around, keep going backwards. “We’re changing the way we do every single thing this winter,” commented Director Christie Hicks. Here are a few examples. Whereas kids and members of the adult Masters groups used to gather at the Nordic Center before 32

heading out for classes, they’ll meet this winter in small groups at various trailheads. Equipment rentals used to be doled out with a smile in the cozy lobby of the Center, but this winter skiers will book their rentals online and pick up gear outside. The staff is now scheduled so that groomers don’t overlap with other employees, so if someone in one group gets sick, others aren’t exposed. The goal is

to keep operations running smoothly while Gunnison County’s “coronameter” is in the lower (“blue” or “yellow”) levels. A jump to “orange” (indicating a moderate level of coronavirus in the county) would mean discontinued programming, but the Center hopes the groomers would still be able to keep the amazing network of Nordic trails open for the community to utilize. This is exactly what happened last spring, when basically everyone’s world shut down in a matter of a few days. “The wonderful thing about last spring,” stated Laura Puckett Daniels, director of marketing and development, “was that by simply sticking to our mission, we were able to serve the community in what felt like an unprecedented way.” When Crested Butte Mountain Resort closed its chairlifts, folks took to the Nordic trails in droves. Many had never Nordic skied before or never realized the extent and importance of the trail system. Crested Butte’s summer trail network is taken for granted, but in the winter it takes intense work to create and maintain routes where individuals of all abilities can safely enjoy the snow. The Nordic Center’s champion grooming crew made that a possibility for the entire community. The trails were a lifeline during a time of huge stress. Whole families used gear for free and set off to learn something new together. Friends stopped to click poles (the perfect socialdistanced greeting!) as they moved across the pristine ribbons of snow. All gave thanks for the open air and sunshine, knowing the plight of so many in the world. The surge in Nordic skiing last spring appears to be continuing for this winter. By early October, season pass sales had almost doubled from the previous year. When registration opened for the children’s program, spots sold out in one hour. “Our heart and soul are the same; we’ve just come into the spotlight,” continued Laura. “It seems that the traits that make Nordic skiing a less glamorous sport than downhill skiing are the same traits that make it so wonderful.” Indeed. Nordic skiing is easy to learn, inexpensive and less risky (in terms of speed, close contact with others and investment in equipment). Any age can participate at any time of day. It can be social (with naturally built-in physical distancing) or solitary. Even before the coronavirus shifted our perspectives, the Nordic Center was working to expand the ways in which it

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served the community. The Community Outreach program allowed underserved populations to get out on the tracks and experience the joy of sliding around on snow. The Nordic Center has partnered with the Town of Gunnison, Gunnison Nordic, the Multicultural and Senior centers, the Rotary Club and the Gunnison County Metropolitan Recreation District to grow this program and others. One long-anticipated objective is the purchase of a trailer that will travel, full of Nordic ski gear, to various trailheads in the valley. The Nordic Center staff and board hope that with a more regular and accessible presence, the sport will reach a more varied population. As evidenced by booming season pass sales and the number of giggling youngsters on skinny skis, plenty of folks are already on the bandwagon. The trails are there for everyone: on classic cross-country gear, skate skis or snowshoes. The curious can buy a day pass or season pass and give it a try. And maybe just for fun: stop, turn around and try a little backwards skiing. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always good to stay flexible and gain new perspectives.

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AHEAD OF THE 38

Forecaster Ian Havlick inspects an explosively triggered persistent slab avalanche on a west-facing slope near treeline off Kebler Pass

As the ski resort caps its daily skier numbers this winter, the Crested Butte Avalanche Center preps for a rush to the backcountry. By Than Acuff

I remember when it hit me. It had snowed, the skiing was going to be good, and some friends and I decided to ski in a backcountry area that had a solid climb, a decent amount of vertical and great snow. As we broke trail into the trees and up, the snow fluffed around our knees; clearly it would be flying up into our chests when we pointed the skis back downhill. But something else caught my attention. While it was midweek, typically a rather quiet time in the backcountry, this was also early in the coronavirus outbreak. The ski area had shut down, pushing skiers, snowboarders, snowmobilers – pretty much anyone who enjoys the snow -- into the hills looking for some corona-monotony relief. Our early start had us in front breaking trail, but we could hear other groups lower down on the skin track and could see snowmobiles headed to park at the other ascent track to the coveted powder paradise. Then chaos ensued as the ‘common’ practices of backcountry travel were abandoned and parties of skiers and snowboarders descended alongside and on 39

top of each other in a powder frenzy. I’d never witnessed such a sight in 20-plus years of skiing in the surrounding valleys, and when I shared the experience with others, they had similar tales. As I shuffled back to the parking lot, it hit me, as the executive director of the Crested Butte Avalanche Center (CBAC), that COVID was going to have a profound effect on backcountry travel and our avalanche-related operations. After doing what we do for 20 years, the CBAC would, once again, have to shift gears to get ahead of the tsunami of backcountry travelers expected to head into the mountains during the 2020-2021 winter. “All signs point to a ramp-up in backcountry users and backcountry activity,” said Kirk Haskell, owner of KNS Reps,

from people who live there.” So Alan and friends, all trained in avalanche education, worked as volunteers in his basement to put out a daily weather and avalanche forecast that quickly gained the support of the community. Not only did local business owners help fund the center with donations (earning a spot for their logo on the coveted CBAC t-shirt), but local skiers, snowboarders and snowmobilers began to contact the CBAC to report what they were seeing out in the hills, helping to maintain the flow of vital information. The CBAC gained non-profit status in 2002. As the years passed, Alan moved on, but the avalanche center remained and continued to improve its product with the advent of technology and advances in snow science and avalanche education.

University. Zach started his avalancheforecasting career at the CBAC and evolved into the lead forecaster role before taking a job directing Montana’s Flathead Avalanche Center, a government-run avalanche center. Now, after three years, Zach is back at the CBAC as the lead forecaster. “When I first started as a forecaster in Crested Butte, I was impressed by the general sense of community and people sharing information in an effort to look out for each other,” said Zach. “I came back because I missed the community, the access to great skiing and great snow. And I value the philosophy of the CBAC and its ability to generate forecasts as a non-profit.” Zach joins the CBAC staff of Evan Ross, Eric Murrow, Ian Havlick and Zach Kinler. Together they’ll expand the center’s

Top: Forecaster Eric Murrow checking the snowpack on a typical field day in the mountains. Bottom right: A skier-triggered avalanche on the south face of Baldy. An example of the inherent risks when traveling through the mountains. Bottom left: After a three-year stint in Montana, CBAC lead forecaster Zach Guy is happy to return to the higher elevations of Crested Butte.

an independent sales agency representing products in the outdoor and ski industry. The Crested Butte Avalanche Center had a modest start. The Colorado Avalanche Information Center (CAIC) approached local guide and avid backcountry skier Alan Bernholtz around 1998, cognizant of both Alan’s knowledge and the fervent, snowsavvy collection of backcountry travelers in the Gunnison Valley. Snowpack and avalanche observations were typically shared among friends at Butte Bagels or in casual conversations at trailheads, so the CAIC asked Alan to start an avalanche center in Crested Butte to facilitate a more formal and consistent stream of snow, weather and avalanche information for the state. They told him: “Forecasting for Crested Butte is like a black hole for us; we need information 40

Meanwhile, improvements in ski gear, beacons, backpacks and snowmobiles, plus the splash of social media, started to push more people into the mountains, and farther into the mountains. The CBAC has been diligent in staying ahead of the curve, but this new curveball, COVID, has the CBAC stepping up its game once again. Fortunately, thanks to continued support from the local business community, individuals, grants and municipalities, the CBAC is able to retain a professional staff despite the lure of bigger paychecks and health benefits at government avalanche agencies. Case in point: Zach Guy. Not only does Zach have all of the avalanche education credentials, but he also has a master’s degree in snow science from Montana State

outreach to serve the COVID-inspired surge of backcountry users expected this winter. Ian started Fireside Chats, a free public speaker series, two winters ago. The idea was to get backcountry enthusiasts and newcomers in a room one evening a month for an update on the snowpack, an open discussion of what people were seeing out in the mountains and, oftentimes, a presentation from an avalanche professional. After nine years of forecasting, Ian will take on a new CBAC position as the education and outreach director. Ian is tasked with expanding the Fireside Chats, creating a robust trailhead presence throughout the winter to interact directly with people headed into the mountains, and furthering outreach and communication with local and visiting users, including local

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youth groups. “Given the influx of backcountry users this summer, we’re expecting that wave to continue in the winter,” said Ian. “The more present we are with all users, the better our message will be accepted and acknowledged. We need to be prepared for stronger and wider-reaching messaging.” Ian points out that with daily skier numbers capped at Crested Butte Mountain Resort and other resorts throughout the state, there could be a spike in backcountry travelers at times when avalanche hazard is also spiked. “We could see this massive influx of people when avalanche conditions are most dangerous during powder cycles and/or in January and February,” he said. “That’s when the CBAC will be even more important. That’s when we’ll be in overdrive.” Zach echoed that sentiment. “We may see more numbers of people who are less experienced than we traditionally see. Our mission is to save lives, and the call will be on the CBAC to promote backcountry safety through awareness and outreach.” Through proposed partnerships with local municipalities, the CBAC will increase messaging to users, but there is a significant hurdle – funding. “Our local business community and local users have been incredible in supporting us over the years, but we all know this year is quite unique and we don’t want to lean on them any more than we already have,” said CBAC Board President Keitha Kostyk. “We know our efforts will have to ramp up. One goal is to reach users before they get here and to make our product more robust. Our efforts the last few years have paid off in our ability to attract and retain some of the best forecasters in the industry, but now we’re in need of funding to help get the message to the people coming here to share respect and love for this special place.” This winter, the CBAC will provide daily weather and avalanche forecasts. To see the forecast, find information regarding snowpack history, get info on upcoming events, or support the center, go to cbavalanchecenter.org. “We’re not trying to promote the backcountry; we’re trying to promote safety,” said Zach. “We want to make sure that once people are out there, they’re considering their safety and the safety of others.”

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Despite ‘the Elvis effect,’ Pete and his accordion can still fill the floor with dancers.

Why is the Pete Dunda Polka Band the only one of its kind in this part of Colorado? Well, you can blame that on Elvis Presley. At least that’s Pete Dunda’s opinion. And Pete (now 80) should know; he mastered the accordion in its heyday many decades ago, and his lively music still rouses dancers to polka or waltz or swing. Like many people of Eastern European descent, Pete was started on an instrument at an early age. Pete’s dad, a secondgeneration American with Russian roots, knew four songs on the accordion; he taught Pete to play them at age five on his family’s small 24 bass accordion. “I could play okay with the right hand, but I couldn’t quite get the left,” recalled Pete ruefully. Still, his parents saw his talent and scraped together money for him to start formal accordion lessons at age seven. 44

By Sandra Cortner

“My dad was a steelworker in the mill in Pueblo, where I was born in 1939. He was one of nine children; my mom was half Yugoslavian and one of 11 kids. They never had much money to spare, so it was a great sacrifice for them to pay for music lessons with one of the best teachers in town.” In that era before computers, smart phones and endless television, music and dancing were the family entertainment. Wanting their son to have a better life than they did, Pete’s parents paid for nine years of classical musical education. Eventually Pete graduated to a 96 bass accordion (with 96 buttons on the left side). Supported by leather shoulder straps, the instrument has buttons that play chords in majors, minors and sevenths of the keys, supplemented by the black and white keys on the right side. This allows all ten fingers to play at once. Behind each button or key are reeds, operated by

Lydia Stern

air pulled in through the bellows. Some accordions can weigh as much as 35 pounds, and the musician traditionally plays standing up. When he was nine or ten, Pete, who was called Pat as a young boy, walked two blocks to the bus carrying his instrument in its case, then another half block to his lesson. Like many kids, he hated his three hours of daily practice. When his dad arrived home from work, Pete had to show him what he’d learned. “My dad was strict. I couldn’t play ball with the kids outside,” he lamented. He must have found some time for sports, however, because he eventually attended two years of Pueblo Junior College on a baseball scholarship. Practice paid off when Pete placed second in a city-wide talent contest put on by the Slovenian Lodge. “I lost to a

seven-year-old girl tap dancer. But I still have the trophy,” he said with a smile. The fifties were “the heyday of accordions,” Pete recalled. “In 1952, when I was 13, my folks paid $950 to buy an Accordiana model Excelsior accordion — the top name brand — and I made three or four appearances on KGHF Radio during The Slovenian Radio Hour.” At high school assemblies, he played “Lady of Spain” (a romantic piece performed by famous accordionist and singer Dick Contino on “The Ed Sullivan Show”), “Tico, Tico” and “12th Street Rag.” During the era of the famous “King of the Polka” Frankie Yankovic (who played twice in Crested Butte), Pete started learning and playing polkas in addition to his classical studies. He performed for Lions Club, Rotary and Kiwanis luncheons and dinners. “The service organizations didn’t pay 45

Lydia Stern

me, but I got exposure and recognition. Later I was playing dinner music strolling around the tables. And I won another talent show sponsored by the Elks Club. Three times in a row!” And yes, he still has the trophies. Raised in the Russian Orthodox Church in Pueblo, where the Serbians sat on one side of the aisle and the Slavs and Russians sat on the other, Pete was in demand for the basement dinners, where he played polkas and waltzes for the congregants’ dancing. The custom at the time was to buy the musicians a drink, explained Pete. After three hours of playing, multiple shots of liquor might be lined up on the piano. His mother, on beholding that spectacle, almost nipped young Pete’s musical career in the bud. Through the 1950s, when Pete’s idol was Polka King Frankie Yankovic, many young people began swooning over swivel-hipped Elvis Presley, the King of Rock and Roll. Attendance in accordion schools gradually dropped because youngsters wanted to learn to play the guitar instead. “Elvis was the death knell of accordion,” concluded Pete. In the meantime, Pete persevered. “I realized the accordion is a chick magnet,” he said with a huge grin. His first date with his future wife, Susan, came during his senior year in high school. “I’d take her to different clubs and dances in taverns where bands were playing. Once at the Starlight Club, her dad, an attorney who later became president of the Colorado bar, stuck his head in to check it out.” Evidently he didn’t see any shots on the table. Pete filled in with some of the bands to get experience and exposure and met a married couple who were excellent dancers. They danced to records but preferred live music, so they traded Pete dance lessons for his tangos, Vienna waltzes, polkas and swing music. “I then taught Susan down in her basement this fancy Arthur Murray stuff until the couple invited Susan to come to the dance lessons so she and I could learn together. That’s when I realized dancing and playing is a double chick magnet.” At some point, 46

The Pete Dunda Band celebrates Flauschink (top), and Joe Saya greets Pete at the Memorial Day parade.

Sandra Cortner

realizing what a gift he’d been given, Pete wrote a letter to his parents thanking them for their sacrifice and for making him practice. In 1960, Pete got his Air Force wings and in 1962 married Susan before being posted to McClellan Air Force base in Sacramento. Later, he flew F101 fighters and spent three years with the Canadians on a pilot exchange. All that time, he continued to play. “Sometimes we carried the accordion in the bomb bay of the aircraft. The French Canadians loved it. Once I played ‘Malaguena’ in a hotel room so crowded I could only sit in a sink basin.” During his stint at James Connally Air Force Base in Waco, Texas,

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Pete playing in his home out Taylor Canyon

where the huge Czechoslovakian population enjoyed their Saturday night polka dances, Pete occasionally sat in with the bands. He also provided dinner music at the Raleigh Hotel, until one day he was instructed to report to the base commander. “He said, ‘Sit down, son.’ I knew I was in trouble then. He said, ‘We like to keep good relations with the community.’ Turns out I was taking the place of the union-affiliated musicians, who expressed their dissatisfaction to my superior. No more Raleigh.” Pete and Susan ended up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, from 1976 until 1982. Pete earned a degree in laser physics to work in the Air Force’s top-secret weapons program. When he retired in 1985 at age 46, he started his own company. In 1997 he retired for good, aside from his musical gigs. Like many, Pete had visited this valley as a fisherman, and he found his dream property halfway between Gunnison and Crested Butte. The Dundas spent two years building their Taylor Canyon home, where Pete has a 48

Sandra Cortner

studio/office at the top of the stairs over the garage. Sheets and books of music balance atop the furniture. His nine piano-style and one button-box accordions, including the Accordiana, are safely stored in their cases against the wall. Pete’s boyhood trophies, slightly tarnished but still treasured, sit on the shelf. While I took a photo, Pete couldn’t resist playing a melody and singing along in his baritone voice. Pete and Susan have been dancing all their married life. Back in 1988, they drove from Albuquerque to dance to Frankie Yankovic’s polka music when he performed in Crested Butte at Rozman’s Motor Inn. “The place was packed, and we ended up dancing through the kitchen. Then we caravanned with our Albuquerque square dance club to Frankie’s next gig at the Paonia Legion Hall.” Now they travel yearly to polka festivals in Las Vegas or Chicago — not for Pete to play, but for them to dance. Pete and Susan also attend the International Classical Accordion Symposium.

While she shops, he enjoys classes with prominent instructors and the featured concerts. One year he listened to the world champion, a 25-year-old from Australia. “I’m humbled by how good the contestants are.” Pete enjoys performing polka, waltz, fox trot, swing and, if you beg him like I do, classical pieces. He used to do monthly gigs at the Moose Club in Grand Junction and at the Paonia American Legion. He has also entertained at Oktoberfest for the Gunnison Bank and Trust, open house days at the Gunnison Savings and Loan, Community Foundation of the Gunnison Valley events, luncheons for PEO women’s organization, and gatherings at the Willows Assisted Living Center, where he loves to see elders tapping a foot or hand. He and retired Western Colorado University professor Duane Vandenbusche have collaborated on historical lectures paired with polka dancing—staged anywhere from the Silver Queen lift at Crested Butte’s ski area to the Monarch Pass parking lot to tours through Ouray and Silverton. “I played ‘Flight of the Angels’ at the Christ of the Mines Shrine in Silverton and you could have heard a pin drop.” On typical years, fans can find Pete playing in Crested Butte at the Flauschink ball and the Memorial Day polka (after he marches to the cemetery with other veterans) and at the Almont Pavilion on the Fourth of July. He usually plays for an hour and a half before his 15-minute break. If the crowd is having a really good time, he’s been known to play the entire four hours with only one break. Two autumns ago, during Vinotok at the Crested Butte Mountain Heritage Museum, Pete showed the audience his antique accordions and soon had everyone up dancing to his music. In the audience, smiling as always, was his greatest fan, Susan. “I’m happy with what I do—weddings and anniversaries—and I don’t advertise. In my eighties, it’s getting harder to move the equipment, especially after several back surgeries.” The other members of Pete’s band live in Grand Junction and Denver. “We’ve never once rehearsed,” he said. That’s how talented they all are. Sadly, Pete explained, attendance at polka dances is down, except for Polish ethnic groups who play high-volume brass instruments. Elvis is long gone, yet the accordion has never recovered in America, despite fans like Pete. “I want to keep the tradition going as long as I can,” he said.

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By Beth Buehler

Liam Rose, en route to his commercial pilotâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s license and air time in Alaska. 52

AJ Matyk and Lane Griffin flying side by side over central Colorado.

An adventuresome spirit lives within even the youngest of Crested Butte souls, shaping their unfolding lives. In the case of five recent Crested Butte Community School (CBCS) graduates, from the classes of 2016 and 2017, that has fueled a passion for aviation. Most have completed or nearly completed their commercial pilot’s licenses, and two already own planes. And the oldest among them is a mere 23! “I’m not sure why Crested Butte has the five of us who became pilots,” said Will Johnson. “It’s so hugely unique in the grand scheme of things.” AJ Matyk, who learned to fly along with Crested Butte buddies Liam Rose and

Lane Griffin, said, “Growing up in Crested Butte, you’re really free as a kid and get to do all kinds of things. There is the adrenaline, skiing big lines and all that, but the freedom is really what contributes to being a pilot.” His longtime classmate Taylor Tyzzer had a slightly different spin on the connection between Crested Butte and piloting. “Flying gives me a different point of view versus being on the ground all the time. Being from Crested Butte, we are curious people, and flying is a curious thing.”

GOING BIG The thought of being a pilot hadn’t even surfaced a few years ago when Tyzzer boarded

a plane headed for Long Beach, California, to attend a dance convention and visit the dance program at California State University Long Beach. On the flights there and back, she had an epiphany. “I went from touring a school for a dance program to looking for a flight school,” she said. CBCS counselor Jennifer Read helped Tyzzer find Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Prescott, Arizona. A scholarship there, along with a lot of grit and hard work, sealed Tyzzer’s dream to become airborne. Heading into graduation with a bachelor’s degree in aeronautical science in May 2020, she landed a sweet job flying for a small charter company in Bakersfield, 53

Taylor Tyzzer

Will Johnson

California—until COVID-19 derailed the opportunity. Fortunately, she has a full-time job teaching all the elements of flight at Embry-Riddle. After that contract is up, she foresees “odds-and-ends jobs” to get more flight hours. “I think the end goal is cargo operations, but I don’t see that happening in the near future [due to COVID-19],” she said. COVID-19 also has slowed Lane Griffin’s goal to pilot large jets around the world, but he is only a check ride away from getting a commercial license. “I’m taking it one step at a time; this industry is based on experience. Once I’m done working on my commercial license, I probably want to instruct for the college in Rangely [Colorado Northwestern Community College] or a flight school in Grand Junction, be a private instructor or fly sky-diving planes to get more hours before going on and flying bigger jets,” said Griffin, now a Grand Junction resident. His love of flying runs deep, with two grandfathers flying in the Vietnam War and 54

AJ Matyk & Lane Griffin

AJ Matyk

then working for United Airlines and NASA. His dad, Todd, also attended flight school at Colorado Northwestern Community College and flew for the Navy before becoming a pilot for United Parcel Service. Father and son share a Cessna 182. “I have 200 hours in this plane alone the last few years and have used it for traveling to see family in Texas and as far as Florida,” he said. “It’s also fun to fly to Moab or Gunnison to have lunch and see my mom.” Adventure prompted the younger Griffin to take up flying, as did the spectacular views and the ability to travel quickly. “People in mountain towns are drawn to nature and scenery. It’s nice to see that from a bird’s perspective—Mt. Crested Butte from 15,000 feet instead of 8,000 feet.” Griffin’s family moved to Crested Butte in 2003, when he was in third grade, and he soon made friends with AJ Matyk and Liam Rose. Becoming pilots wasn’t necessarily on their individual or collective radars. As Griffin approached high school graduation, he

Rebuilding AJ’s rescued plane.

considered going to an underwater welding school. When he changed his mind and decided to attend flight school in Rangely, Matyk joined him, while Rose learned to fly in Gunnison. “I think the three of us can agree that it was a rash decision. It wasn’t a plan; we just all did it!”

Despite growing up with a mom and dad who fly airplanes as a hobby, Matyk didn’t initially consider the idea of becoming a pilot. “I wasn’t going to go to college because I didn’t know what I wanted to do,” he said. “Then I got up in an airplane and never looked back.” The sheer independence of being a pilot made it a done deal…almost. Matyk completed most of the required hours for a private license in Rangely and finished in Gunnison. Like Griffin and Rose, he’s nearly ready to take the check ride for a commercial license, which allows pilots to get paid for flying. Based in Anchorage, Alaska, Matyk is geared toward being a bush pilot, an interest that developed after four years working with Rose at Devil’s Mountain Lodge in Nabesna, on the north side of the massive Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. With hunting among his favorite hobbies, he has worked as a seasonal packer. “At the lodge, we drop hunters, fishers and backpackers into the Alaskan wilderness, landing on river bars and little strips that look like four-wheeler trails using Piper Super Cubs,” Matyk said. “With Super Cubs you just need a flat spot to land on and can go anywhere you want. Especially since I like to hunt and fish, it gives me access to places people haven’t been or rarely go to.” Kirk Ellis, owner of the Devil’s Mountain Lodge who has become Matyk’s mentor, also rebuilds Super Cubs. “We came across an airplane that wrecked in Birchwood last summer and the owner couldn’t afford to rebuild it,” Matyk said. “I threw out an offer, he took it, and we dragged it back to a hangar in Birchwood.” After spending last winter in Crested Butte and then returning to Alaska in April and finding full-time work, Matyk watched and assisted as Ellis tore apart the plane, then got it up and running again. “It was stripped all the way down to the fuselage and barely looked like an airplane,” he recalled. Staying in Crested Butte longer than planned due to COVID-19, Matyk accumulated big hours flying the Piper Arrow owned by his parents, Chris and Joe. “I never

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needed to find a copilot for a long flight, because I could just ask Mom or Dad,” he said. “I also flew a lot with Lane, which was really fun.” The third of the flying friends, Liam Rose has been around planes since age two, since his dad, Jess, has been guiding for the Devil’s Mountain Lodge from August to October for years. “When I figured out I didn’t want to go to college, I decided to fly. I can go to college later, and it doesn’t hurt to have my pilot’s license,” he said. Rose learned how to fly through On The Fly Aviation in Gunnison. A few months after earning a private pilot’s license, he returned to Alaska in 2016 for his tail wheel endorsement, guided hunting that fall and bought a Super Cub. Since then, Rose has completed the 250 hours required to obtain a commercial license and should be done with the rest of the process by winter, enabling him to fly for the lodge. Super Cubs are handy planes in the

bush as they can land with a runway length of 100-300 feet and take off in that amount of space, too. “It’s like driving a side-by-side off-road vehicle. They are workhorses,” he explained. “There are only seven main roads in Alaska, and access to wilderness is by plane.” When not based at the lodge, Rose spends the rest of the year in Anchorage, where he has worked in construction and enjoyed skiing at Kirkwood, about 30 minutes away. “I like the wide-open space of flying and not having to stick to two lanes,” noted Rose. “It’s a nice lifestyle if you’re willing to put in the effort.”

A FAMILY LEGACY A grade younger than the four other young fliers, Will Johnson is the third generation of pilots on his mom Sally’s side. His grandfather had a Super Cub, and his great-grandfather was a World War II pilot. Johnson grew up loving airplanes and all things mechanical. “When we went on vacations, I loved the ride more than the vacation.” His first flying lesson, in his teens, was in Gunnison, and then he spent nearly every Saturday of his senior year driving to Montrose for instruction. In 2017, Johnson entered the professional flying program at Arizona State University, where he has since switched to getting an aviation degree in unmanned aerial systems. “I love flying but didn’t want to be a professional pilot my whole life, have a set schedule and know where I am spending each day. I like the spontaneity of flying, so take that out and it would be just a job or chore. I didn’t want to take away my love for it,” Johnson explained. “I see flying as being a hobby for me, and it’s an absolute dream to own my own plane some day.” On track to graduate in May 2021 and nearing completion of a real estate license as well, Johnson embraces the freedom and peacefulness of being a pilot. “There isn’t much that’s cooler than getting up before the sun is up and flying to Los Angeles or Long Beach to have breakfast and fly back.” The impact of looking at the mountains from the air was a huge factor in his desire to fly airplanes. “I just wanted to see what everything is like from the air,” he said. “Growing up skiing, mountain biking and summiting peaks translates well into seeking out experiences that might be discomforting.”

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Kristi Haner and Alex Tiberio, commuters of a different sort.

Last spring when COVID-19 hit Crested Butte and ‘social distancing’ became an everyday term, Kristi Haner and Alex Tiberio assumed they had it made. Living in the remote townsite of Gothic, Colorado – where the four seasonal residents must ski eight miles roundtrip on their rare forays to civilization – seemed like an epic form of social isolation. Of course they’d be safe. For the past five winters, Kristi and Alex have resided in snowbound Gothic (eight miles north of Crested Butte), where they take care of cabins and various buildings for the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. When they aren’t caretaking, you can find them digging snowpits and gathering data for local avalanche centers and for NASA (the National Aeronautics and Space Administration); silversmithing for their company, Gothic Mountain Jewelers; and skiing. So much skiing. When COVID-19 began to turn the Gunnison Valley into a hot spot last March,

“It didn’t seem like things would change for us,” said Kristi. “The shutdown didn’t affect us, and we’re isolated from society anyway.” On March 13, Alex posted a photo on Instagram of a ski outing in fresh powder, with a caption that read, “I might not be going into town any time soon, but luckily I can keep my same old routine.” Soon after came a day visit from their supervisor (and frequent ski partner), who resides in Crested Butte. Kristi and Alex worked alongside their supervisor for the day, along with another Gothic caretaker. They dug snowpits and completed various chores around the property, coupled with some office work. Then the supervisor skied back to town, pleased with their accomplishments.

UNTIL THE NEXT DAY, WHEN HIS SYMPTOMS BEGAN. Almost exactly a week later, Kristi, Alex and the third caretaker came down with 67

Alex Tiberio at work on a Gothic Mountain Jewelry creation. Opposite: Alex and Kristi at home: snowy outside, cozy inside. 68

symptoms resembling those of COVID-19. It felt like a simple cold at first, but kept them bedridden for the next two weeks. The cold turned into an uncomfortable burning sensation in their lungs that lasted for a month. Like many in the Gunnison Valley at that time, they were unable to get tested for the virus. In March, even with limited testing available, Gunnison County was one of four counties leading the country in confirmed COVID-19 cases per capita. County officials worried about stressing local healthcare facilities (the county’s only hospital has no intensive care unit). Crested Butte Mountain Resort shut down its ski operations at the peak of spring break, and Colorado Governor Jared Polis advised visitors and residents of hot-spot counties – Gunnison, Eagle, Pitkin and Summit – to return home and minimize social contact. In mid March, Gunnison County closed short-term lodging, restaurants and retail stores and instructed visitors to depart. The County set up a COVID-19 website and staffed a call center and testing sites. Volunteers delivered groceries to those infected or at risk. Joni Reynolds, executive director of Health and Human Services for the County, said a shortage of available tests, coupled with the high infection rate locally, required health officials to be very selective. The few tests (averaging about 20 per day early on) went mostly to those with both serious symptoms and high risk. Otherwise, symptomatic people were told to quarantine and self-isolate. Much like Kristi and Alex. Self-isolating wasn’t difficult for two people who live in a cabin in the snowy backcountry. Not to mention they could barely get out of bed. “We tried to go out once after two weeks,” recalled Kristi, “but we turned around a mile from the house.” They did their best to shelter in place like everyone else. This type of social isolation was different from what they were used to. Instead of skiing, they watched movies and bad shows like Ninety-Day Fiancé. They baked. Kristi made jewelry, but Alex’s intense chest pain didn’t allow him to lean over the worktable. Many people, including Kristi and Alex, were surprised they fell ill to the virus. “You’d think we’d be the last people to get it,” said Alex. “But in a small community, it spreads fast.” In hindsight, they admit it was 69

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somewhat scary knowing they might not have been able to ski out if their health took a turn for the worse. They believe the cold air and altitude further complicated their issues. If they’d known then what they know now, they would have chosen to ski back to town, to rest at a lower altitude. Kristi and Alex are originally from upstate New York, but they moved out west to Boulder to be closer to the mountains. Boulder wasn’t quite what they were looking for, so when they came across a Craigslist ad for the caretaking position in Gothic, they jumped on the opportunity, even though they’d never been to Gothic or Crested Butte. Kristi remembers they didn’t know what to expect, but they were ready for anything. They’ve seen quite the spectrum of snowfall during their five winters. Their first year was pretty lean, with marginal snowfall. But during the historic storms of 2019, they were subject to avalanches releasing on the slopes above them; some even hit their cabin. The first year, they skied less because they were still learning new skills to stay safe while backcountry skiing. That’s when their company, Gothic Mountain Jewelers, was born. After several failed attempts at various hobbies, jewelry making stuck. When the snow melted last spring, Kristi and Alex returned to their land in the small town of Pitkin, an hour southeast of Crested Butte. They spent the summer building a 576-square-foot “tiny home” they designed with the help of friends and family. And they did recover. Mostly. Kristi had to carry an inhaler on her bike rides. Alex faced issues with construction dust agitating his lungs. Still, they were able to maintain their routine: building their home, riding bikes and selling jewelry at the Gunnison Farmers Market. The couple began their sixth season as Gothic caretakers on October 1. They drove in supplies for the winter: enough dry food to stock the larder, along with three cords of wood. They learned after their first winter that two cords just isn’t enough. They’ll remain in Gothic until June 1 – or until the snow melts. As they settled in for the winter, they looked forward to slowing down and renewing their life of natural social distancing.

Follow Kristi and Alex on Instagram: @gothicmtnjewelers @our.pitkin.home. 70

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Gothic: social distancing capital of Colorado?

Raynor Czerwinski

Gothic Mountain soars above its namesake townsite, a cluster of cabins and lab buildings at 9,485 feet elevation. This land was originally inhabited by the Uncompahgre, traditionally known as the Tabeguache, Band of Utes; the earliest archaeological evidence of their ancestors dates back over 10,000 years. Colorado State Historian Duane Vandenbusche estimates 500-700 Utes lived in the areas surrounding Gothic around 1600. Following their seasonal rounds, the Uncompahgre passed through the area only during warmer months to harvest animals and collect plants, as the harsh winters were too difficult to survive. After they fought against the encroachment of Euro-Americans to protect their lifeways and families, the U.S. Government removed the Uncompahgre and other Northern Ute Bands to Utah in 1881. The silver mining boom in Gothic began in 1879. While nobody knows the exact population of Gothic during that time, Vandenbusche estimates at its peak, there

were around 3,000 people. This number takes into account miners living up various gulches and ravines surrounding Gothic. Like the Utes, miners didn’t live there during winter like Kristi and Alex do today. The boom was short, ending when the price of silver plummeted in 1893. The incentive to mine diminished, and few people remained in the region in the following decades. In the early 1920s, a biology professor from Western State College (now Western Colorado University) in Gunnison recognized the area had “rare and rich ecology.” The professor took students on summer field trips to study the area’s diverse plant and animal life. The Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory (RMBL) was established in 1928. Today it owns and maintains 70 buildings and hosts approximately 200 research scientists each summer, mostly closing down in the fall. Researchers study topics focused on high-alpine ecosystems, flora and fauna and climate change.

Ian Billick, the executive director of RMBL, noted how COVID-19 impacted 2020 summer research operations. RMBL hosted 110 people, which was 60% of its maximum capacity. The lab altered its day-to-day operations: there were no shared bedrooms; researchers picked up meals at the dining hall; and everyone was required to quarantine for seven days upon arrival. The lab recorded no positive cases of the virus in summer 2020. Stories on social isolation during winter in Gothic aren’t new. The only fulltime, year-round resident, billy barr, has lived in Gothic for nearly 50 winters. He was profiled in a film, The Snow Guardian, chronicling his meticulous documentation of snowfall in the area dating back to the 1970s. His thorough record-keeping and anecdotal observations have informed many scientists on issues relating to climate change. This spring, barr offered five tips on social distancing for a National Public Radio article. After all, he has nearly a half-century of experience.

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Racers following a snowshoe (ski) race. In front is the winner, 16-year-old Charlie Baney of Crested Butte. To the right with a prominent mustache is famed mail carrier Al Johnson of Crystal, who took second place. The Gunnison Daily News-Democrat wrote on January 9, 1883, “Those who think that life in a mining camp must necessarily be dull at this season of the year have only to read the news from Irwin this morning to be convinced of their error. With balls, parties, suppers and snowshoe races following each other in rapid succession, the winter, instead of being dull, is really one of the pleasantest seasons of the year.”

Courtesy of Crested Butte Mountain Heritage Museum

rested Butte was a mining town before it became a ski town. However, skiing (or snowshoeing, as it was once called) was a part of life from the town’s early days. Starting in the 1880s, at least 15 ski hills or areas dotted the Gunnison Country, from Monarch to Marble, before today’s Crested Butte ski area opened in 1961. The Crested Butte Mountain Heritage Museum’s newly revamped snow sports exhibit displays a two- by three-foot map of these 15 areas. Alongside the map, a timeline of skiing in the valley begins with “1857: First recorded use of snowshoes in the Gunnison Country by a group of neophytes, lost and looking for Cochetopa Pass.” This section of the ski exhibit combines the skills of Mike Pelletier, head of the mapping department for Gunnison County, and local historians Dave Primus and Duane Vandenbusche. Although the museum has featured a ski exhibit since opening in 2003, it recently

By Sandra Cortner

The Crested Butte Mountain Heritage Museum’s revamped ski/winter sports exhibit traces our history of playing in the snow.

Donald “Tuck” Tucker holding a perfect telemark turn in a race at the Crested Butte ski area. Telemark skiing originated in the Telemark region of Norway, developed by Sondre Norheim in the mid-1800s. In the late 1970s, Crested Butte ski patrollers used the revived telemark turn on skinny Nordic skis to reach backcountry areas where they needed to set off avalanches. This style of skiing grew in popularity in Crested Butte and beyond because it allowed access to terrain beyond lift lines and resorts.

Courtesy of Crested Butte Mountain Heritage Museum

expanded the displays. Newly added artifacts range from an early racer’s wooden skis with leather bindings to local half-pipe specialist Aaron Blunck’s skis on which he competed during the Sochi Olympics in 2014. Nel Burkett, who worked as a museum volunteer, intern and assistant curator starting in 2010, became the full-time curator in 2016. With an undergraduate degree in history from Western Colorado University, and headed toward a masters degree in gallery and museum management, she always has a lot of irons in the fire. Recently she organized exhibits on Crested Butte in the 1960s and ‘70s, and she is currently working on conserving the mining maps contributed by Rudy Rozman. The semi-permanent snow sports exhibit, one of Nel’s biggest projects yet, opened November 2019 with a party and slide show by Duane Vandenbusche. Adept at reaching out to local communities for information and historic objects, Nel drew together a plethora of artifacts for the ski exhibit. The 30-year-old often found herself getting an education from those who had experienced the events of the 1960s and ‘70s. “People here care so much about local history and want to share it,” she said. For example, former competitors Jeff Pike and Jim Dirksen came upstairs to Nel’s office to tell her about their experiences in gelande (ski jumping) and show her photos and newspaper clippings from the mid1970s. Cathy Frank, former Nordic Center director, and Nordic skier Keith Austin contributed expertise and Nordic-related items. Craig Hall and Angie Hornbrook donated documents and photos of the U.S. Extreme Skiing Championships. Sue Navy gave telemark skins that she made herself. Don Cook helped with designs and ideas and made sure the essential topics were covered. The exhibit benefited greatly from Paul and Kathy Hooge’s private 76

Sandra Cortner

1959 WSC Women’s Ski Team. In 1923, Western State College (now Western Colorado University) earned the reputation of being Colorado’s “Ski U,” boasting programs such as “ski for sport” credits. Students Betty Sweitzer, Christina Sweitzer, Joan Sweitzer, Ray Homan and Curtis Dixon organized a ski club in 1940, creating teams for men and women. Photo courtesy of Archive of Winter.

ski museum, the Winter Archive. The Mt. Crested Butte residents have been collecting ski memorabilia for 56 years. Ski history buffs can call them for private tours or to do research. “I spent about two hours with Paul,” said Nel. “He was so helpful with Western State College (now Western Colorado University) history. Western was once a powerhouse of ski racing, both alpine and Nordic. He loaned us Rick Woods’ Head skis on which he competed as an aerialist [1969-1974] when Western was at its height.” Paul also loaned the museum wooden skis with three-pin bindings worn by John Somrak, a retired coal miner who worked for the ski area in the 1960s, instructing ski patrolmen about explosives they used for avalanche control work. Nel’s favorites are the long wooden skis with leather bindings worn by mail carrier Nesbitt, who skied the mail between Tin Cup and Pitkin in the early 1900s. From his collections, Paul also shared gelande and X Games photos and helped update the text for the museum exhibit. Red Lady Productions loaned a video of Tuck (Don Tucker) discussing telemark skiing. Early telemark skis with names like Trucker, Phoenix, Kazama and Bonna, plus bamboo poles with oversize baskets, adorn the walls along with an ‘ooh la la’ black and white photo of a young Craig Hall telemarking in shorts. The 1973 movie Ghost Town Skiers plays on the video machine. If you’ve ever wanted to sit on a chair lift but don’t ski or snowboard, try wedging yourself with two friends inside the colorful three-person gondola car from the ski area’s early days. Or sit in a chair from the Teocalli Chairlift that was dismantled in 2019. “The text accompanying the artifacts was edited so many times,” said Nel. “And every time, someone caught something new. Nine people looked over the text, some multiple times.” 78

Sandra Cortner

She marveled: “During the opening celebration last fall, we had more skis ‘walk in.’ Duane Vandenbusche brought a Pioneer Ski Area poster and Paul Hooge brought more photos.” Nel recently added an audio component for Mike Callihan’s “Let ‘Em Run, the Great Races of 1886,” which he wrote for a readers theater. “KBUT Radio donated time for us to record a section, using local voice actors, where Al Johnson and his brother Ben are talking about the ski races,” she said. The exhibit also includes the film Romp Ski by Matchstick Productions, as well as footage of the Grand Traverse and Alley Loop. Locals continue to bring Nel artifacts and ideas to expand the snow sports exhibit. “People were excited to help, and through the process we were able to collect more for our records and future researchers,” she said. “Any time we’re doing an exhibit and reaching out to the public, we can expand what we know about our history.”

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Curator Nel Burkett explains how a donation becomes part of the museum’s collection.

How do you donate an artifact to Crested Butte’s museum? What happens to it afterward? Why don’t you see it on the wall? Curator Nel Burkett explained the process. As an example, let’s say Jo Sedmak Laird offers to donate an old telephone. The telephone needs to be in good condition and something the museum doesn’t already have. This is an old phone, made between 1927 and 1930, from the M.J. Verzuh Insurance Office, which was in operation in the 1940s. The emblem on it says so. I request a photo of the phone and information on how Jo came by it. I ask: Does it tell a story significant to the Gunnison Valley? Since we already have a Verzuh collection (much contributed by Rudy Verzuh’s daughter Nancy Speedy), it may be accepted. Jo will need to have an appraisal 80

done before she gives it to the museum, as it is a tax-deductible donation for her. Jo will fill out a “deed of gift” which transfers ownership to the museum. This deed gives us a place to record its history. It’s a paper trail. We photograph the telephone from every angle and catalogue it in the digital database. We put it in a “home” location, where we store it in an archival box. It is wrapped in archival tissue paper and given a catalogue number so we can find it in the database. We use the best archival practices. Will a donated item be on display? Not always. First, we have limited space. Second, items on constant display can fade or be damaged by people touching them. Rubber and leather can rapidly deteriorate, as can paper documents.

Sandra Cortner

As a precaution, we have the highest sun-protection rating on our windows. This is also why we have rotating exhibits. We change the front display window once a month. And we have pop-up exhibits, such as our booth in front of the museum at the Peoples Fair in September. Artifacts have to tell a story and be relevant to our area in context. We make a story out of our exhibits, and each artifact becomes part of that. Examples are the snow sports and Flauschink exhibits. We are always seeking diverse stories from all voices.

The museum, at the corner of Elk Avenue and Fourth Street, is open daily 11 a.m.-5 p.m., with extended hours during the holidays, from November through the second week in April (when the ski area closes).

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A ski journal of the plague year

By David J. Rothman

On March 13, 2020 – Friday the 13th – I quit my Wyoming job and began driving the ten hours home, my car stuffed with the detritus of a challenging year. Months earlier I’d left Crested Butte, yet again, to try to make a splash and to earn a good salary, but now it was time to come home. My wife was fighting stage IV cancer, my younger son was flunking four out of five courses in the final semester of his senior year at the Crested Butte Community School, and COVID was descending upon our town like a starving raptor. I arrived Sunday evening, March 15, the day things got serious. Town was buttoning up: the ski resort was closing, restaurants and hotels were going into hibernation,

visitors were being asked in no uncertain terms to depart, and everyone was trying to figure out a new code of behavior that had not been in place for at least a hundred years. My world looked like a burning pig farm in the middle of an F5 tornado. Well, at least the political landscape was calm and orderly. One has to be grateful for little things. Returning was the right thing to do in an uncertain time. My family needed me and my job was to show up. The story of how that turned out is for another day. In short: Noah finished high school strong and earned a scholarship to study film at Emerson College in Boston. My older son Jacob stayed a difficult course and

Chris Miller

4-19-20

A visual ski journal: from bliss to, well, at least we’re in the mountains.

4-18-20

earned his Master’s in the Social Science program at the University of Chicago, writing a superb thesis on the diaries, letters and memoirs of British soldiers during the American Revolutionary War. And Emily, brave and beautiful Emily, continued to savor life as much as anyone could, given the circumstances. But this is not the story of their courageous choices and work, but rather of what sustained me and so many others in the madness – and why so many of us live here in the first place. Because almost every day, after dealing with the crises, I turned for a few hours to the landscape we all love, gave praise that I wasn’t living in Manhattan or Chicago or LA, suited up for a few hours and went skiing. I went classic Nordic skiing, I skate skied, I climbed for turns, I did low-angle tours. I skied powder and breakable crust and roads packed out by snowmobiles and corn and mush and mank, in sun and snowstorms and wind, almost always alone, filled with anger and sorrow and fear and heartache and love and awe and determination and praise, 33 days in total from March 17 to May 16. Much of the skiing was, shall we say, variable, because that’s how it goes when you go all the time, but all of it mattered. In fact, some of it was great skiing and all of it was at the very least good skiing, because as the noted guide Reudi Beglinger says, there are only three kinds of skiing: great skiing, good skiing and a bad attitude. I’ve always kept a record of my days in the mountains: the terrain, the route, the events, the snow, who came along, what we did, what the conditions were like. It has proved useful and surprisingly inspiring, refreshing the memory of many of the best days of life. In the year of plague, it became like a beacon for my soul, a north star that sparkled in the daily darkness. I climbed the mountains and got their good tidings. In 1722, Daniel Defoe published the granddaddy of all modern plague accounts, something of a cross between a chronicle and a novel titled A Journal of the Plague Year, which he based on detailed documents that his uncle, Henry Foe, wrote and collected of the great London plague of 1665. Why not, then, a ski journal of the plague year? It may not be a template for the ages, rather just the record of solace in troubled times, but perhaps it can memorialize the inhuman beauty that holds steady in the midst of our mortal struggles. Forthwith, excerpts, one record of how we live now.

5-16-20

3-19-20

4-3-20

7-2-20

Tuesday, March 17: One slow lap, classic skiing, to clear my head of ubiquitous disasters, around the flat track of the Town Ranch. Thursday, March 19: Climbed to the top of the Silver Queen and skied The Peel solo in about 15 inches of fresh, light, dry snow. The first two pitches were the stuff of dreams, but then the deceptive cover of this year’s early spring melt drew me in the gully choke onto several powder-dusted boulders, potential hip-crackers, and the lower pitches on that western aspect might be best described as surf and turf.

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Saturday, March 21: A beautiful climb on the southern aspect of Snodgrass via the Meridian Lake easement. That southern aspect of Snodgrass is rarely skied, yet has several long, consistent gullies that end with low-angle cruises through mature aspen glades. Today, the snow was crusted except for solid corn on southern faces, which could only be finessed with careful double fall lines followed by traverses back up onto the gully shoulder. But the woods were lovely and light, and the view down the almost-empty valley was like gazing into a crystal. Wednesday, March 25: A classic ski out the Town Ranch, then up the gully toward the ski hill, emerging onto the Rec Path and gliding back to the car at the high school. Ran into my old friend Torrey Carroll, who could probably Nordic ski faster on one leg than I do on two, and in the gathering dusk we had a long talk about our jobs, and our kids, and our lives. Torrey is an amazing guy. The year he was 40 and living in Reno, he decided, for fun, to compete in the NORBA off-road biking series, and he went on to win the sport division national title for his age group. That still makes me happy – because it liberates me from humiliation when he crushes me. “See?” I can say. “That’s my friend Torrey. He could crush you, too.” Please, if you’re moving here now, use your head and don’t talk about how good you are. You’ll get schooled. Saturday, March 28: If you’re a backcountry skier, you look at mountains in a particular way. Over time, you come to see potential ski lines where perhaps others haven’t. Today I climbed the southern aspect of Snodgrass again and found a new line in a gully I’d been eyeing for decades. Perfect corn in

arcs from the top to the car. I gambled on an aspen grove being more open than it appeared, and won. A keeper. No, I’m not going to tell you which one. Keep looking. Friday, April 3: This was the first day of pure crust cruising, a ski variation as rare and as beautiful as the deepest, lightest untracked snow. As the snow on the valley floor melts and freezes, eventually it becomes as smooth and crisp as ice, though it is an aerated lattice of crystals. When skiing alpine corn, you want to catch it as it’s beginning to melt. To skate it on the flat, however, you have to catch it at dawn, while it’s still frozen. It only happens a few days a year, when there’s a hard freeze, a clear, windless dawn, and the coverage is still good; and then for an hour or two you find yourself floating across the valley floor at 25 m.p.h. in any direction as if it were an immense white lake.

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Saturday, April 18: Skiing powder is all about being in the right place at the right time. On this day I climbed and climbed at the tail end of a storm and wound up, late in the day, at the top of the Headwall. The storm cleared, the air was crisp, and as happens so often in the high Rockies, the best turns of the year came well after the lifts would have closed in even a normal year. I dropped down through a couple of feet of stable, light untracked snow in about 90 seconds of pure grace, the light of a spring afternoon glittering in the swirling crystals. Sunday, April 19: The previous day was so good that the next day I did it again, on the north side of Snodgrass. The first pitch was divine and the rest was melted mank. Too low. Thursday, April 23: The last crust cruise of the year, bumpy and knobby with grass starting to stick through, but still fast and true. Saturday, April 25: The Big Chute on Mt. CB. Always a test piece, but this time filled with refrozen breakable crust: jump turns all the way, followed by the smoothest corn imaginable on the lower pitches. What a joy to dance down the side of a mountain. May 16: The final alpine ski near the valley floor, from the top of Monument: surprisingly good, though I had to pick my way down the final pitch, jumping over mud, sinking through to ground on warm patches of rotting snow, surfing rivulets (lean back), 89

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green shoots starting to poke through. And that was that, though there were many more in between. I look at the list and remember all the suffering and challenges, and then I recall the beauty, too. But then, how can such a project ever end? That is part of its beauty, for, as the great coach Otto Schniebs once said, skiing is not a sport, but rather a way of life. And for those of us who can never get enough, there is summer, when skiing becomes a wonderful excuse to go into the mountains in a rather eccentric way. Thursday, July 2: One of the best days of the year. My older son Jacob and I drove to Paradise Divide, hiked up to about 12,800 feet on the shoulder of Treasury and skied a melting skein of spindrift that dropped 1,500 vertical feet into Paradise Basin. The sun was intense, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, flowers were blooming all around us, water was running, and the skiing was, well, easier and more fun than walking downhill. Wednesday, September 9: The first substantial snow came early this year – the earliest I’ve ever seen in almost 30 years – depositing over a foot of much-needed liquid cement on our deck in the second week of September. And yes, I skied it, hiking up a meadow to make turns in the weeds. And so it begins again. In the end, my little journal is not, like Defoe’s, the journal of a plague year. Rather it is a testimony as to how some of us lived through it. Notice I don’t say how we survived it, but rather how we lived. It would be absurd to say there was not suffering and grief and loss in our community, and in my own life, during the plague year. But at the same time, there was joy and renewal. After the passage from The Mountains of California in which John Muir talks about going to the mountains to get their good tidings, he writes, “Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.” And maybe, with a little luck, you will come through the plague with love in your heart and “gratitude” the word on the tip of your tongue. Editor’s note: Shortly before press time family and friends said their final farewell to Emily Rothman. We offer our condolences and shared fond memories of a beloved community member.

Nathan Bilow

LESSONS FROM THE BACK OF THE HERD By Cara Guerrieri

“Come on, bossy! Come along,” I whooped in my nine-year-old voice, but the old bald-faced cow paid almost zero attention to me. She’d take two steps and stop. The cattle on my left and right did the same thing. I turned my horse Skeeter back and forth, back and forth, cow by cow, urging them along. On a hot summer day, those cattle had no desire to hike up a steep hill. I was stuck at the back of the herd with my little sister Ruth, who wasn’t much help. She had her own struggles with her horse, High Pockets, who knew his primary job was to plod along and keep Ruth safe. Getting cattle up the hill was secondary. Meanwhile,

my legs got more and more tired as I did my best to keep the cows going. Left, right, left, right I went across the rear of the herd, like a cowpunching soldier. I hollered, I waved my rope around, I slapped the reins against my leather chaps with loud pops, but nothing made those cows move any faster than they wanted to go. Normally I loved cattle drives. There’s a sense of purpose and caregiving as you bring the cattle to fresh new feed, though I’m not sure that was my true motivation as a kid. Back then, around 1968, I sought out any excuse to ride FAST—after a stray calf, bringing in an ornery bull, heading off a wild steer. With the high-mountain wind on my 93

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face, riding fast was as close to flying as I could get. But that day, when I was assigned to the slowest, least glamorous, dustiest job of all, flying wasn’t on my mind. We’d gathered the herd from way down in the Ohio Creek riverbed that morning to move them ‘Up On Top,’ as we called our big high-plains meadow. Even the gather wasn’t easy. The cattle had congregated in thick willows we had to fight through to get them out. The whole area had old barbed wire laying in unexpected places like a minefield. Ominous echoes of “Watch for wire” passed rider to rider, and I peeled my eyes. The last thing I wanted was for Skeeter’s legs to get tangled up. She’d panic, no doubt, and not only throw me off but cut herself up good. When the last cow finally came out of the willows, we started up the rugged hillside. For a while all the riders stayed at the back, then as the slope got steeper and steeper the other wranglers, all family members, peeled off one by one to flank the herd and prevent the cows from circling back downhill. Dad made his way to the front of the herd to open gates. In the end, Ruth and I were the only ones left at the rear, and my struggles with Old Baldy began. It was a slow, slow slog. One of my brothers looked back and hollered, “Keep ‘em coming. Bring ‘em on,” and gestured with a wide sweep of his arm. “I’m trying,” I muttered between gritted teeth as I spurred Skeeter at Old Baldy again. “Hiya!” I yelled. She advanced another two steps and stopped. The sun beat down on my head, burning the part in my hair where mom had stretched my French braids tight so it would be easy for her to look for ticks that night. The minutes went by, it was already late morning, and we made sluggish progress. My stomach growled, but for lunch that day all I ate was dust and frustration. When we finally reached the crest of the hill, Dad was up ahead with the open gate and counting the herd through. Old Baldy, who’d acted like she could barely move all morning, charged through the gate with a buck and kicked up her heels in my direction, one last spit in my eye. She buried her head in the high grass along with the others, while tired calves scurried around, found their mothers and nursed as if they hadn’t eaten for days. As for me, I took a deep breath and slumped, ‘plumb wore out,’ in my saddle. We waited until all the cows and calves got paired up, which felt like hours, before closing the gate and heading for home. We

were serenaded on the muted ride back with the soft pad of horses’ hooves on fine dirt, the squeak of saddle leather and rustling aspen leaves. Those rhythmic, post-cattle-drive times were the most contemplative of my young life. In our family of seven, quiet times were rare. But that day, the only thing running through my head was how unfair it was to be stuck with Old Baldy all morning. That night over a supper of fried elk steak, green beans, mashed potatoes and cowboy gravy, Dad, a man of spare words and rare compliments, turned to me and said, “It was hell getting them cows up the hill today. You done good.” I ducked my head and smiled, and the conversation moved on. I haven’t been on a cattle drive for many years now; my life’s gone in another direction. But I’ve never forgotten that in life and on cattle drives, only one cowboy is needed at the front of the herd to open the gate; it’s good to have a lot of flank riders guiding the herd up a steep hill; and those at the back who keep the whole shebang moving are working damn hard. I also know that sometimes “You done good,” if spoken from the heart and to those who most need the praise, is a perfect sentence.

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WHEN YOU CRAWL INSIDE Winter not deep enough for you? Try digging a backyard snow cave. By Leath Tonino

Hands and knees, Carhartts soaked through, sweaty shirt clinging, toes raw in their boots, achy back, achy neck, squirming, worming, pawing and kicking, gouging and giggling, cussing, happy, exhausted, sipping a PBR on my side, no rest for the weary, c’mon hoss, giddyup, we’re only halfway there: this is how it begins. The snow cave, I mean. The snow cave that I annually excavate from my so-called yard, i.e. the heaped white chaos pressing against my house come January (earlier on a good year). It’s a small house, a typical Crested Butte alley shack, and it’s a small yard. Accordingly, it’s a small cave, even when complete. For my purposes, snug is best. My purposes? We’ll get to them in a moment. First, more physical description. While I haven’t officially measured, I’d estimate the cave at three feet high by eight feet long by five feet wide, with a roundish entrance that would admit an obese beaver, maybe a belly-down German shepherd, but definitely refuse a rotund human in puffy coat and earmuffs (I’m a rather slim fellow). Glossy-walled and glossy-ceilinged, borderline silky, the aesthetic motif shuns hard edges—zero right angles!—and thus the cave bears a family resemblance to those awesome adobes you encounter in Taos and Santa Fe. Of course, instead of tan clay we’re talking crushed and compacted crystals fallen from the sky: bluish, silvery, all aglitter once a tea candle has been lit. Some folks—not my girlfriend, obviously not my sweet supportive keeps-the-thermostat-cranked girlfriend—deem it a dim, clammy, claustrophobic coffin, a veritable cryogenic torture chamber, and cite the following as evidence of its architect’s innate weirdness. 1) Collapse is probable, nay, imminent. 2) You can’t unkink your lumbar, never mind sit upright and draw a true breath. 3) There are no windows, hence no sunshine. 4) There are no buddies, no family, no sociable vibes. 5) Thermostat, Google it. To which I respond: different strokes. Since the soggy gray Vermont afternoons of my earliest tykehood, I’ve been sculpting driveway plow piles—with shovel, plastic bucket, Mom’s garden tools and mittened fists—into tubes and tunnels, egg-shaped hollows and bean-shaped hideouts, secret sprawling subnivean lairs (think mice, voles, shrews). As a teenager, inspired by tales of hardcore alpinism in the Greater Ranges, I applied my skills to the construction of backcountry shelters, everything from quinzhees (bury your gear, pull it out, set up shop in the negative space) to old-fashioned suffer-holes (self-explanatory). Nights in these hovels were indeed a tad damp and a touch cramped, but they were also happy, enriching, almost thrilling experiences. Shy of sleeping in a mineshaft or naked in a rotten tree’s trunk, I can’t conceive of a better technique for making, as Thoreau famously trumpeted, “Contact! Contact!” Snow caves, in other words, have for me been a surefire means of getting close to—getting intimate with—The Place Itself. Pardon that grandiose capitalization. Let me explain. A certifiable Photos Sophia Chudacoff

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nature nerd, I’m constantly scheming creative ways to engage the landscape—stringing hammocks high in aspen groves, pitching tents on precarious (read: inadvisable) ledges, etc. However, despite the intensity and commitment of these quirky, gear-intensive forays into the Colorado wilds, there remains some border or boundary that I always fail to traverse. Fundamentally, I desire adrenaline and epic scenery less than immersion, a literal and figurative immersion in the basic humming elemental mood of…hmm, what to name it? The Place Itself? Immersion. That’s not inaccurate, but hug is actually a preferable term for what I want and what my snow cave delivers. Honestly, that’s how it feels in there, like the season has wrapped its cold, silent, ancient arms around my body, has pulled me into its deepest, purest embrace. Given that burial by avalanche is a legit concern in our community, it might seem strange that I willfully embrace, well, being embraced. Appreciated from a certain angle, though, lots of classic winter activities—snowboarding pow, touring between wilderness huts, playing

Parcheesi in your cozy home as a new storm’s winds rasp the mudroom door—are versions of the immersive hug, aren’t they? My cave hobby is merely an idiosyncratic attempt at safely and simply exposing myself to this season that many of us dearly love. Exposing myself by, paradoxically, hiding myself away. And so, friends, when you’re shredding the gnar, gliding the Poop Loop, pursuing your pleasure and pursuing it heartily, pause and consider that a “weird” gentleman is scrunching himself into a nearby drift, practicing the art of doing nothing—nothing but The Place Itself. He is adjusting a ratty foam pad beneath his butt. He is nibbling cheese and crackers. He is flicking a Bic, lighting a tea candle. He is spacing, dreaming, dazedly gazing into the all-aglitter cosmos of crushed and compacted crystals, of curving crystal surfaces. Under spring’s increased radiation, its hot melty hours, these sparkly stars will fall, the cave disappear, and he will be forced outside to discover other angles on inexhaustible Crested Butte. Meantime, here he is: ensconced, enfolded, enrapt, enthralled.

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THE MENAGERIE The personalities of the four-leggeds make ranch life even quirkier. By Polly Oberosler

Two dogs, four cats, six horses, ten pigs — and that’s as we are paring down. Seriously, we used to have three dogs and nine horses along with the cats and the pigs. We collect horses, it seems; in fact we have two more ‘buns in the oven.’ We aren’t possessed. We just enjoy them all, with their varying personalities and crazy habits. We moved south and a bit east 15 years ago, when Dave retired from the ski area after 43 years of valiantly keeping the lifts turning, against all odds. The two of us wanted a place of our own where we could keep our horses, so we poured huge amounts of sweat into cleaning up what is now our barn area, learning all over again how to put up hay and making a piece of an old ranch into a functioning ranch again.

Erin Blair

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Naturally, since we had plenty of hay on normal years, our collection of horses began, and with room to roam, we kept our canine companions always as a selfentertaining duo. At the time we moved from Mt. Crested Butte to our land near Doyleville, we happened to be out of cats, but the rats and ground squirrels had a good grip on our new place, so we got two kittens. Many years later, we still have one of them – Edna. Edna is nearly blind, but as she showed our two yearling littermate kittens, she can still catch a mouse in the house using the Braille technique to complement her remaining bit of sight. Edna doesn’t go out much, but when she does, it’s with Dave, me or a dog as she walks the 40 feet of familiar real estate behind the house. She also has the garage for an escape if needed. Pete-dog is usually the one who goes with her, for he is vigilant. Annie-dog, at 14, could scarcely care less about the cats and in fact grumps at them continually. They give her a wide berth but often take pleasure in jumping over her from behind, just to tease her a bit. However, they don’t sit still to see what she’ll do when she walks in the room. Annie even yells at Pete if he dares touch her in the car. One of the greatest personalities among the animals is Thunder the barn kitty. She is her own girl but will not pass up a chance for a hug from her human friends, particularly Dave. Thunder rarely leaves the barn area, having the hay barn where she can hide or sleep the day away high above any potential threats. She can scale the ten-foot barn wall, and she often sits in the high window soaking up the morning sun. It is her barn, and I watched her run the neighbor’s Australian shepherd down the road a few years ago because he entered her space. I can’t say for sure what the pigs think of a given situation, unless of course they are angry. But I do know they love the cool evenings – running full speed, skidding around corners and twisting their fat bodies from one end of their pen to another, their ears flopping in time with their steps. I look forward to watching this display every evening. They seem to love it when I take them veggie scraps, apple cores and bananas sliced into one-inch chunks, and they especially like the peels. Who would have thought pigs and bananas would be a thing? 102

Until recently, we had two horses, both mares, that were 100% on the fight with the others. One broke her leg by getting it caught in a stout fence while kicking at another horse; her temper cost the mare her life and cost me my best ride. The other is now fully in charge of the pecking order of our equine charges, and they know it. Horses give obvious signs of discontent, such as laying their ears back, biting and kicking, and we humans had best not be in the way. That mare cost me a broken rib not long ago because the horse she chased slammed into me. It’s not all survival of the fittest in the pasture. The male geldings play on the cold mornings, rearing in mock fights as if they’re vying for breeding rights to a herd of mustang mares – when in reality they have no tools for such an endeavor. True to their role in the wild, the mares don’t play much, for they are on watch 24/7. Follow a mare’s gaze and you’ll find something out of place. The young cats are wary of the horses, as they should be, but they don’t seem to have that caution with the pigs. This puzzles me, because a pig would likely view a cat as an easy meal if it decided to walk into the pen. The pigs are really curious about dogs, following them from one side of the pen to the other. No member of our menagerie has total trust of the others, but they all trust us. They treat us in different ways. The cats talk to us in greeting or squawk abruptly if we tease them. Except in fighting or warning, cats don’t talk among themselves. They converse almost exclusively with us humans. The pigs grunt with excitement and crowd around the feeder when I show up with veggies. The horses nuzzle our backs; one of our mares used to smell our ears. That mare was a funny girl, climbing in the water trough to give herself baths, and she loved kids more than any horse I’ve ever seen. We love to watch the animals as they run and play or catch an imaginary mouse while mock hunting on the living room floor. It’s beautiful to see a herd of horses race with the wind or the pigs enjoy the coolness of a summer evening. The cats have neighborhood friends, as do the dogs, but all are vigilant for the marauding foxes or coyotes; they work in concert for the good of the ‘hood. Our menagerie ebbs and flows like a kaleidoscope. Some of our companions grow old and some die young. It’s hard for us to grasp as humans, but death is a part of life. We have buried three dogs, two horses and a cat here. What a great place to rest in peace.

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MELTDOWN ON ICE Winter camping tests the mettle of an adolescent adventurer, circa 1970. By Matt Tredway

After growing up in this valley on Nordic and alpine skis and doing my first solo backpacking trip when I was 12, I decided I was ready to take my overnight adventuring into the snowy winter. Confident and armed with a few equipment practice runs in the yard, having digested all the print I could find on winter camping, I targeted Mill Creek for the first overnighter. A beautiful valley, only 25 minutes from my home, it boasts wildness and vistas of the Castles, fantastic rock outcroppings like the turrets of a medieval castle. A classmate joined me for the outing. My parents, with an unexplainable trust, dropped us at the snowy trailhead, wished us luck and drove away. Little did they, or I, know this adventure would prove a pivotal rite of passage. We skied into the pine forest. Outfitted with wooden Army Surplus skis, a woolen outfit, new down sleeping bag and small shovel, I felt unstoppable. My trusty backpack screamed at the seams with all the gathered equipment carefully packed inside. We had planned for weeks and covered all the bases. Skiing in with the loaded pack was easier than anticipated; exhilaration fueled our pace. Still not breaking the 90-pound mark on the bathroom scale, I

A little more sophisticated than the author’s winter-camping debut.

moved smoothly – though my pack weighed a good percent of that 90 pounds. Soon we were miles from the trailhead, giddy with our independence. It was a clear, nippy day, and winter seemed perfect for being outside: no dirt, no bugs, and all the animals that worried me in summer excursions were gone or asleep. Trial and error followed. Setting up the tent presented the first unanticipated problem. In the deep, soft snow, we might as well have been pitching the tent in a pond. Panic. Then we realized the ski trail was solid, just from the ski traffic. For an hour we tested our patience stomping an area of snow with our skis until the snow finally set up into a walkable platform, where we erected our Frostline shelter. The next problem: securing the guy lines. Stakes got no purchase in the soft snow. Another wave of doubt drifted through. The tent was critical. A mistake proved to be our salvation, when we noticed a stake we’d stomped into the soft snow earlier had set up solid. So we secured the other stakes as well, then stomped branches into the ground to wrap the guy lines around. Success. With camp organized, and nothing more to accomplish, we crawled into our shelter in the late afternoon. Confidence and congratulations surrounded us in our nylon mansion. We were doing

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the outlandish. We lasted ten minutes in the tent before we piled out again. We hadn’t gone through all this to hide inside. We put the skis back on and toured farther up the valley before returning to our home base. We knew a fire would melt itself down into the snow and be of little use. So we used a gas stove I’d tested out that summer and fall. It was light, clean and fun! That small Svea Stove, with its little pot set, became our focus. We heated water and melted snow, and soon the smell of damp nylon and Coleman fuel was overwhelmed by the aroma of endless hot chocolate. A large flashlight hanging from the tent center cast lazy circles of light around the tent and illuminated our breath. We whiled away the evening telling stories and sharing dreams, as the light went from white to soft yellow. Then early sunset, dying flashlight batteries and the oppressive cold shoved us deep into our sleeping bags for the night. Coats still on and balaclavas pulled snugly over our heads, we were insulated from the cold, and the world. Reality hit hard in the morning. A surprisingly peaceful night in my down bag had only been interrupted twice when I slid off my foam pad to wake on the icy tent floor. But in the night a thick layer of frost had formed on the tent walls, and patches started to fall each time the tent was jostled. As we stirred to life, the frost began to cover everything. With the dawn it fell even more steadily. No matter how hard we tried to get out of this indoor snowstorm, it followed us, and our down bags grew ever wetter. Inexperienced though we were, we understood this meant death to the insulation value, and panic surged through us. All the confidence we had gained the night before vanished. We then discovered that some hot chocolate had been knocked over in the night. The sticky brown fluid was now a frozen smear, effectively bonding the tent with my sleeping bag. Bundling up and crawling out of our bags, we were smacked with the cold of the day. Our catalog of mistakes unfolded. First, our boots were frozen solid. We added a layer of socks and tried in vain to cram our feet into the rigid leather traps. The chill gained purchase in our feet and hands. Thinking a hot drink might be the answer, we turned to our little stove. But with match after match, the stove refused to light. With growing frustration, my fumbling-cold fingers caused a little fuel spill, and flames briefly ignited

Matt Tredway (right) grew up to teach outdoor skills to the next generation of adventurers.

everything but the stove. I faced a struggle of risk and reward. If I removed a mitten to free up a hand to wrestle with the stove, my hand froze to the point that it required several minutes to warm back up. In the tussle, a fuel-soaked mitten caught on fire, releasing a small cloud of singed feathers. The tent now reeked of wet and burned wool, nylon, feathers and fuel. At this point, we also discovered that our water bottles were frozen solid. Complete destruction seemed inevitable as we watched the unintended flames tickle everything in the vicinity before putting themselves out. We gave up on the stove. The rising sun lifted our spirits a little. The cold, however, did not relinquish its grip. Realizing we should have remained in our bags, we peeked back into the tent. The condensation and sloppy camping practices had taken their toll, and our icy shelter offered no refuge. At that moment, had I not been trying to save face in front of my partner, I might have cracked. Every alarm in my system was blaring. Tears welled behind my sunburn. Painfully cold fingers and toes slowed every motion. Retreat seemed the best option, but packing up again was impossible. Everything had grown, soaked up water, and frozen. Perhaps we could outrun the creeping chill by skiing up the valley while our gear thawed? Unfortunately, our wooden skis were in the same shape as our boots and tent. They too had soaked up water. Long hunks of frozen snow were welded to their bases. That would require maximum effort to scrape away. In the glacial morning, the only thing melting was last night’s self-congratulations. Our one option was to wait it out. After dragging the sleeping bags from the sagging tent, we found a sunny spot, bundled up and climbed in. Hungry and shivering, we waited, our sleeping bags just holding the crippling chill at bay. Hours later, the sun had made all things pliable, and we could pack our belongings for a retreat. Surveying our gear, strewn about

the snow like a yard sale, I understood that I had lots to learn. My buddy understood that he never wanted to do this again. Given the state of our gear, a second night out was no longer an option, even if we’d been willing. We hurriedly packed as things warmed up, but the clean, organized look of our backpacks was long gone. On our way at last, we were a haphazard-looking pair. Skiing down the cross-country track with heavy packs proved to be the ultimate challenge for my friend. He hadn’t spent so much time practicing at our local mountain, and he crashed several times during the descent. Those falls added exponentially to his unhappy impression of our experience. Miles later, we encountered a couple skiing up the valley on a morning tour. We scared them off the trail as we flew down on the brink of control. Their question as we zoomed by stays with me today: “Are there any more like you up there?” l like to think the answer then would be the same today: ”No, nobody like us!” Returning to town and school, we were heralded as young adventurers by some and as idiots by others. I was reluctant to share the gory details with those who held us in high regard, worried about eroding our newly found status. Even with the emotional and physical wear and tear of adolescent adventures like that, it never occurred to me to quit (though I took a brief hiatus in deference to organized sports and the dawning awareness that half the world was girls). I just needed better gear, better technique, more practice. And gradually the ragged adventures of a boy created the framework for a life spent mostly outside.

Matt Tredway knows it was a gift to grow up in Gunnison, surrounded by world-class outdoor possibilities. He attended Western Colorado University, which launched him into a 30-year math/outdooreducation teaching career in Steamboat. 107

NORDIC VALLEY We’re famous for downhill skiing, but our Nordic trails and skiers are quietly legendary. By Dane Bahr

We left Denver in the morning, driving west, leaving the cities and towns of the plains behind. I was travelling with friends who could not remember a time in their lives before skiing. The latest among us had started when she was four. The most vague of memories. Days of winter, days of cold. Days at midwestern ski areas: Wild Mountain, Trollhaugen, Afton Alps, Buck Hill, names few people know. We travelled in an old station wagon, midwinter. West of Denver the mountains hid in clouds. It was snowing in the city. All week storms were predicted to hit Crested Butte. Kenosha Pass was down to one lane; it would close by the end of the day, the storm strengthening. Past the wind-swept plateau of Fairplay, we hit Johnson Village and ate lunch at a small café on the banks of a frozen river. There were towns with reverent names: Buena Vista, Salida. The Collegiate Range loomed, the tallest in Colorado. We heard rumors of a federal prison somewhere nearby. We reached Gunnison in the snowy dusk, and by the time we got to Crested Butte, the sky was dark. The yellow lights of houses shone warm through the falling snowflakes. The streets were plowed but icy. Feet of snow had already fallen. Snow filled alleyways, parking lots, the entrances of small hotels. We walked to a bar with the flakes coming down through the aspens, the padded sidewalks silent under our feet. On the dark avenue of Sopris, an old man shoveled the steps of the house he’d owned since before the outside world had even heard of Crested Butte. Occasionally a pickup truck 108

passed with the driver leaning against the wheel, straining to see the road. We watched the snow layer itself across this newly discovered little world, delighted, because we were here to ski. That was years ago. We’ve come again. We’ve traded the mountains for the valleys, so to speak. Our skis are skinnier. Our poles longer. The sport of Nordic skiing is a kind of dance, and like dancing a world unto itself. The exertion and punishment are overwhelming, but its glories are unrivaled. My first humiliations in the sport occurred in Crested Butte. Colorado seems to produce Olympic-class skiers like France does wine, and nowhere was the product more prominent, I quickly discovered, than in the Gunnison Valley. Geographically, Crested Butte is a Nordic ideal: cold, brilliant days, with just enough variation in the terrain to contrast the endless straight-aways of the valley. But the isolation, more than anything, creates commitment. At around 9,000 feet, the town – situated among very tall peaks – is an outpost. One doesn’t simply wander into it. There’s a great sense of purpose here. It seems marked on every face. The town of Crested Butte has a dedicated, robust Nordic Center, with miles of well-manicured track. The men and women seem perfectly adapted for life here. So many of them lean and equally graceful on skis – ranchers, carpenters, farmers, school teachers – it seems they all ski well. You see them from a distance, the white mountains towering behind. They’re skiing alone or there’s Mary Schmidt

a line like a peloton, but they ski as if racing. They ski as if in a hurry to leave, and then in a hurry to return. Their form is beautiful, effortless. Later, you start to hear them, the poles with each pull creaking in the cold snow, the barely-audible hush of the skis over the frozen white. Soon they’re upon you; it’s someone you know. They smile and hug, maybe a kiss on the cheek, their teeth a little stained, but it seems perfect, a kind of badge for those who shun vanity. They’ve been out all morning, they say. Twenty, thirty kilometers. They are skiing back; they have to shower before work. Plans for drinks are made, plans for dinner. Plans for another ski tomorrow. Take care, they say, and within seconds they’re already a mile down the track. You emulate them, you want to be them, and maybe one day you will. There are two kinds of Nordic skiers here: the strong kind and the gifted. I’ve seen strong skiers with poor form – perhaps a little impatient on the glide or simply unbalanced – muscle up a hill and power down a straight section in V2, a technique of poling and skating simultaneously. If you’re competitive and/or good, you follow these skiers like a wolf might a deer. You wait for the strength to eventually leave them. It’s only a matter of time. They falter, they make a single move – a bad glide, a misplaced pull or something as subtle as a labored breath – and you pass them without the slightest effort. You look over your shoulder and already see them far behind, and you know they’re beaten, not only physically but mentally, too. I know because I’ve been the deer. The gifted ones are different. They’re talked about in restaurants, in the bars, like history. Everybody claims to know one of them well. Their names are thrown out casually in conversation. They have odd habits, beautiful features. They click into their skis at the trailhead in silence and within seconds are double-poling up a rise far down the trail. Everything is known about them, of course. Their successes have been written about, televised, yet they stand beside you at a party, dressed like you, talking about things you know about, and only later, right before they leave, they say: How about a ski tomorrow? A glimmer flashes in their eyes, and you know they’ve already begun the hunt. Dane Bahr lives with his wife, Crested Butte native Madeline Mancini, and their sons east of Bellingham, Washington.

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Winter life

Constance Mahoney

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Petar Dopchev

Matt Berglund

Trevor Bona

Sandra Mabry

Xavier FanĂŠ

FOR WINTER EVENTS INFORMATION, see gunnisoncrestedbutte.com/events or gunnisonvalleycalendar.com.

Chris Hanna

111

Winter life

Constance Mahoney

112

Sandra Mabry

Dusty Demerson

Trevor Bona

Chris Miller Mark Robbins

Mary Schmidt

113

BREAKFAST • LUNCH SODA FOUNTAIN LIBATIONS TO GO Available Homemade Comfort Food Private Parties Breakfast All Day

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228 ELK AVENUE

Downtown Crested Butte Open 7 am Daily

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970.349.5240

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303 elk avenue

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tequila bar + mexican restaurant

130 Elk Avenue | 970.349.5118 | bonez.co 114

For Reservations 970.349.5326 • 800.824.7899 CristianaGuesthaus.com

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970.349.7007

208 Elk Avenue, Crested Butte 115

PHOTO FINISH

Dusty Demerson

116

Celebrating 16 Years in Crested Butte

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*Indicates an Epic Pass resort

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