Small but mighty Snodgrass by Karen Janssen

By Karen Janssen

Our town is surrounded by sentinels. Crested Butte Mountain, Gothic, the Red Lady – noble-sounding peaks. We gaze up Paradise Divide, hike the striations of Teocalli and delight in the waters of Oh Be Joyful – names that spark a sense of awe and adventure. And then there’s Snodgrass. Snodgrass? This 11,145-foot mountain nestles among its more impressive neighbors. It shares a saddle with Gothic Mountain and seems a mere bump in comparison. It wasn’t officially labeled until the Gothic topographic quad of 1961. Later there was even a movement by Crested Butte Mountain Resort (CBMR) to change its moniker to something a bit more…alluring? But don’t let its awkward name, small stature or rounded slopes fool you. Its history is as multi-faceted as its terrain.

It’s easy to imagine the native Utes hunting the forests on Snodgrass Mountain, with fauna and flora thriving. Hardy early settlers eventually homesteaded its flanks, carving out a high-alpine existence. The mountain wasn’t a target for the early miners, though the trees must have provided timber for their structures. In 1896 Perry Snodgrass, our protagonist’s eventual namesake, first entered the Gunnison Valley.

Perry Snodgrass, originally hailing from Tennessee, must have experienced those peaceful glowing paths as he roamed the high country. He lived in Crested Butte for three years, then moved to Gunnison to serve as undersheriff until 1908. At that point, Perry joined the newly founded US Forest Service (formed on February 1, 1905), covering the district of Cement Creek, Crested Butte and Brush Creek. He and his wife Essie lived at the “Rangers’ Roost” up Cement Creek in

John Holder

the summers. In 1915, the well-loved and respected ranger was assigned to the Big Horn National Forest in Buffalo, Wyoming, where he met a gruesome death by lightning. (See side story.) The young man had spent a life of service to his community, and eventually Snodgrass Mountain was named in his honor.

In 1960, the Allen family, which has ranched in the Gunnison Valley since 1886, purchased roughly 1400 acres and began to run cattle on the slopes of Snodgrass in the fall. Numerous other small and large private parcel owners, Crested Butte Mountain Resort and the Forest Service all had varied parts in its increasingly complicated history of ownership and management. This really began to heat up in the mid-1970s.

At that time, Crested Butte was at a turning point. Disagreements had been mounting in the community between those who were more growth-minded and those who preferred the town remain on a less aggressive, slower track. The ski area had limped along since its formation in the early 1960s, and some felt change was necessary. Sure enough, it came. In December 1975, a large headline in the Crested Butte Chronicle read: “New Forest Service Plan Okays Snodgrass Expansion: To Be Second Ski Mountain.” A preliminary Forest Service plan, which had been developed over a long period of time with considerable community input, had recommended otherwise. Foul play was even suspected, though never proven, for Howard “Bo” Callaway, the chairperson of CBMR, was also U.S. Secretary of the Army. It seems several local Forest Service personnel who were opposed to the expansion had been transferred out of Gunnison County and soon thereafter the revised pro-expansion “East River Plan” was released. The new plan’s recommendations were diametrically opposed to the original.

The anti-expansion contingent argued that development would limit the public from use of public land. Numerous environmental concerns included Snodgrass’ prime elk habitat and the unstable nature of its slopes. This group insisted that an undeveloped Snodgrass had more long-term value for the valley than a new ski area would, and argued that the existing resort was underwhelming at best and in need of improvements. The Chronicle’s editor at the time, Myles Arber, was at the forefront of the conflicts. He pushed the issue of Callaway’s influence peddling all the way to the US Senate, garnering much publicity for the town and the area. However, Callaway refused to abandon his $45 million proposal. Eventually the Forest Service reconsidered and rejected this plan and it was tabled… temporarily. The resort revised it and tried again. And again. In 1982 the Forest Service finally granted permission to expand, but the permit expired without action being taken.

In 2004 Tim and Diane Mueller bought the resort and resumed work on permitting, insisting that the ski area needed more intermediate terrain to remain desirable as a destination. The community was split once

Nathan Bilow

again, as it was a time of economic downturn. Some saw a lift-served Snodgrass as the answer. Real estate agents loved the idea of more ski-in, ski-out terrain. Opponents insisted that the proposed four lift rides (45 minutes one-way to reach marginal terrain) were ridiculous. A far-reaching group named Friends of Snodgrass organized fiercely to defeat the proposal. Vehicles around town sported “Snodgrass Is for the Birds” bumper stickers. Letter-writing campaigns, marches, even croquet gatherings helped spread the mission to keep Snodgrass “Lift Free Forever.” The expansion was denied in 2009. In 2015 the Crested Butte Land Trust purchased and conserved 92 acres from CBMR, sealing the deal that Snodgrass truly is ‘for the birds’… and the elk, and the wildflowers, and the humans who prefer to power their own backcountry adventures.

Throughout the years, while controversy swirled around it, Snodgrass solidly continued to provide refuge for wildlife and adrenalin rushes for recreationalists. Its appeal is yearround. In winter, snowshoers traipse up the main road and create wide, odd-shaped tracks through meadows. Backcountry skiers seek powder on its steep, north-facing gullies. Folks of all ages stick skins on their skis and climb to the weather station near one of its summits. Locals walk their dogs on the road, and fat bikers churn upwards. Conditions depending, Nordic skiers skate or enjoy the rare experience of two ski tracks disappearing around a corner. It’s one of the first places people try out their new equipment in early season. In spring the well-used road holds snow for a long time, so diehard skiers still have a place to go, while walkers skirt the slush and get their hiking legs back.

In early summer, the opening of the bike trail, with access graciously granted by the Allen family, is much anticipated. Countless tires have rolled up and over to (or from) Washington Gulch, through majestic aspen forests and lupine-filled meadows. Last summer, while I paused for a water-and-view break, a unicyclist rolled past me. There are runners and hikers and amblers, from octogenarians to toddlers. The wranglers at Fantasy Ranch horse rental establishment

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have led trail rides through Snodgrass’ winding trail network since 2001. When the aspens drop their leaves in the fall, those trails turn from ordinary dirt to golden routes snaking through the forest.

I’ve roamed that mountain in all seasons for more than three decades, and it has yet to lose its draw. It’s a go-to when visitors come to town, when time is short, or when weather is horrendous. I’ve wandered through wildflowers after memorial services, powered up the skin track to blow off steam, followed friends’ bike tires winding over the golden carpet. I hug my favorite grandfather aspen most every trip. During Covid I escaped the quarantine of my home and found myself at the trailhead, the only car in the parking lot, seemingly the only human on the mountain.

That day I wrote a tiny Covid story: 4/21/20: I barely make it out the door…the house is a black hole, escape! Boots on, pre-skinned skis, poles, water, the same clothes as always. Make it to the trailhead, climb the well-known path to the well-known destination. Fresh air. Deep breaths. Slow down. More deep breaths. I climb through the aspens’ silent gaze. More than fifty shades of grey, white, taupe. Spruce forest; shadowy, cool. I stray from the track, lured by the meadow’s smooth, undulating perfection. I create my own parallel lines. Step, breathe, step, breathe. Listen. I sit cross-legged on newly exposed earth beneath a pine, where I watch tiny green shoots emerge from the moist ground and reach for the sky. I close my eyes and let the sun’s rays, low in the sky, gently wash my face. A solitary bird calls. The stillness is absolute. My heart beats. I know this place… but not like this.

Indeed, absolute solitude isn’t the norm. At the height of summer or winter, parking at the trailhead can be a challenge. Mountain Express runs an hourly bus from the ski area to help mitigate the problem during peak times. Fortunately a portable toilet was installed a few years ago, and the parking areas are continually evolving. It can be quite a scene, with dogs running around and recreationalists donning boots and backpacks while cars flow through headed to the Gothic townsite. Once out of the parking lot, uphillers huff and puff while downhillers whoosh by. Yet when that’s all left behind, the mountain works its subtle magic. It’s been worth championing...a community treasure. Change and development will occur around it, but thanks to decades of work by many different factions of the community, the unassuming mountain sits as a refuge amid its grander neighbors. Perry would be proud. b

This is excerpted from a Gunnison News-Champion article in 1915, entitled, “Perry Snodgrass Succumbs to Lightning: Popular Forestry Officer Dies After Brave Struggle Against Dreadful Burns.” Warning: This account contains graphic descriptions of his injuries.

July 16, 1915: After several messages which raised hopes that Perry Snodgrass would pull through the dreadful lightning stroke, Gunnison people were shocked Sunday morning to hear that he had died, at Buffalo, Wyoming, Saturday night. As to the circumstances of the accident, we quote from a letter received from Mrs. Snodgrass:

“Perry had to go to Hazelton seven miles from where we are camped. He had made arrangements to go with Roy Fobian, the forest guard at Muddy Station. The black clouds commenced to roll up about 11:00 and it thundered and lightened and sprinkled some. After dinner it kept looking worse, but he laughed at my fear of lightning as he always does and left me with a kiss. (Soon) a terrible crash and flash came. My head snapped like a gun and the lightning hit less than a quarter mile from the tents. I heard (Mr. Hulse) say, ‘Snodgrass! Snodgrass! My God, Perry’s horse has been killed under him and he is badly hurt.’ I simply turned to stone, I could not move…

“We later heard the first particulars from Roy. (They) had started from the station when it began raining. They were riding along putting on their slickers when Roy’s horse started to stagger and then fell. When he came to, almost immediately, Perry’s horse was dead and had thrown Perry over his head, and Perry was stark naked, excepting for one sock and the sleeves and ragged portions of his coat and shirt across his chest. The fellows at a nearby sheep camp came running and picked Perry up. He said, ‘What happened, boys?’ and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

“(Eventually) they got Perry in a roadhouse in Hazelton, but they would not let me see him until they had him cleaned up a little. They prepared me for the worst but the sight I beheld was dozens of times worse than I imagined. The lightning struck on his forehead, just over his left eye, and came out in the left calf – just like a bullet hole in both places. His forehead and nose and mouth are horribly burned. It jumped his chin and started on his throat and his whole torso in front and legs to the knees are worse burned than anything you could imagine – just thick, yellow, cooked flesh. His hair is all singed off…. He soon commenced to vomit blood and kept it up until the doctor came at six o’clock. He got so weak and such sinking spells and could not breathe. I thought I would go crazy before the doctor got there.”

Essie Snodgrass’ letter continued: the doctor, fearing a skull fracture, had Perry Snodgrass transported to the hospital – an agonizingly long and jarring trip. There an exam revealed no fracture, and Snodgrass survived a rough night. His wife’s letter was written late the next day as Snodgrass still clung to life: “He knew me tonight and drank a little milk through a tube. He is very deaf, eyesight very badly blurred, and his right arm is partially paralyzed. The doctor thinks it will leave as the electricity leaves his body. Dr. Lewis says it is nothing but a miracle and not one in a million would have lived. They found his watch and belt buckle a hundred yards from where he fell, and where the horse had stood were big holes.” bChris Hanna

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Chris Miller

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Nathan Bilow

Nathan Bilow