Living in Aspen

Merchant

Community

Property

Moving to Aspen

Gunnufson

The photographer's voyage through the snowy abstract world results in visual treasure. The scene portrays infinite patterns from range to range and from summit to summit, all silenced in soft, fluffy white crystals. As the photographer looks along the Continental Divide, it appears to be a grand succession of snowy ranges, stretching beyond the limits of perception. His eye searches through the camera's ground glass for a section of the scene that feels right. To him, the mountains offer a greater significance than just visual beauty or an opportunity to ski. The mountains are an essential part of his life. Being in the wilderness, and capturing it on film, brings a high that he can experience no other way. Just seeing the mountains from the windows of his home gives him a surge of energy and well-being that reinforces his perception that this is where he belongs.

# # #

Bruce decided to change careers during his junior year. Brooks Institute, a prestigious photography school on the West Coast, accepted his application for the following fall. He and his fiancée, Sue, spent the interval in Aspen. That spring, I went out to visit and to ski. Bruce showed me the town the way nobody else could have. He loved Aspen's way of life and his enthusiasm rubbed off on everyone around him. I left infected with a need to return to this unique Rocky Mountain ski community. Several years later, after graduating from college and marrying the woman of my dreams, we moved to Aspen that September to begin our life together.

The dogs seemed to have their way in Aspen.

Aspen lies along Colorado's upper Roaring Fork river nestled among several ski areas. In 1969, its growth hadn't peaked yet, and it was considered to be the epitome of mountain living. The town had real historical character and its own individual identity. We loved being surrounded by nature's majesty. The mountains, covered with lush green aspen, loomed all around us. Each season, winter, spring, summer and fall, had an entirely different look, but all were incredibly beautiful. Aspen was an island in the national forest and we liked this isolation. A fifteen minute walk in any direction took you into the wilderness. Not only did living here fulfill my dreams of living in the mountains, but it offered an opportunity to ski the finest slopes in North America.

Yet, there were grocery, hardware, lumber, sporting goods and other numerous stores available to supply all our civilized needs. The Center of the Eye had darkroom space available and workshops conducted by well-known photographers. A community college offered unique classes such as ski design, avalanche safety, telemark skiing, ice climbing or ski area management. Many writers, artists and photographers lived in Aspen year-round. And then, there was the mountain, impossible to ignore, looming over and dominating the town, affecting its economics and the lives of its residents, no matter what the season was.

We fell in love with the town immediately, swept away with excitement at the prospect of new things to see and places to go. Ghost towning provided endless hours of adventure and photographic pleasure that fall. We knew that exploring and hiking wouldn't be possible during the winter, and, all too soon, the aspen trees' magnificent golden leaves symbolized the end of warm weather. Life in Aspen, like other ski towns in the high Rockies, changed with the seasons. The summer and fall were over, and winter was suddenly upon us. Aspen blossomed into her glorious busy season. But before the winter started, we were forced to deal with the reality of having to find jobs in a town where they were few and far between until the skiers arrived.

"You mean I can't get a job `till winter?" I exclaimed as my hopes faded.

"That's when we need bus boys, cooks, and a maintenance man. We'll keep your name on file for hiring this season," said the restaurant owner hurriedly, already turning to talk to the next person in line.

It was what I would hear over and over again as I made the rounds, looking for something to support us through the summer and fall. I'd been certain that a business degree from CU and two years ski instructing experience qualified me for most job openings in a small ski town. But after filling out dozens of job application forms and receiving numerous rejections, I discovered that the job situation was not very promising. Everyone seemed to have some kind of advanced degree or experience. There were even two Ph.D.'s washing dishes at the Copper Kettle, one of the town's restaurants. While trying to get a job at the Aspen Color Lab, I met another job seeker who had a degree in photography and some professional experience. In Aspen, his background qualified him to drive the delivery van. Consoled by the fact others were in a similar situation to mine, didn't solve our problem. Rents were high and desirable jobs dear. We still needed to locate an apartment before winter. With so many looking for jobs and rooms, the competition was fierce. The process of weeding out the year's transitory work force was far from humane. If we were going to be able to stay in Aspen, I needed a job right away. Even if I waited, busing tables was seasonal work and wouldn't be enough to pay the rent.

In order to survive, I would have to do what I had promised myself I'd never have to do again -- construction. During the twelve years I worked with my father on his construction projects, I learned several trades. He'd always called it my "going-to-college incentive program." It had worked, and I'd graduated from college, swearing never to go back to it. But I had little choice. We needed the income, and other jobs wouldn't be available until the beginning of the ski season. I found a construction job the next day. How ironic that I came to the mountains to get away from construction work, and now it was the only way to ensure that we could stay there.

When the ski areas opened for the season, we got jobs at Aspen Highland's Restaurant. Christmas week was the peak of the season, the busiest time of the winter. The demand for seasonal help was at its greatest, but housing was nonexistent. Those who had to leave their temporary off-season housing and couldn't find a replacement, left for the lowlands. Skiers have always placed a premium on Christmas week and every available bed was utilized. Numerous off-season rentals increased their daily rates during ski season to what they rented as a monthly rate in the summer. Some locals even moved out of their homes into their basements or into friends' houses in order to rent out their space during those golden weeks. Others went on an extended vacation while they rented out their homes. During the Christmas season, the town was jammed with people. There were few places to park, constant traffic jams, and frustratingly long lines at stores, restaurants and the post office. But the town's economy depended on the success of these weeks and everyone worked hard.

Rugby tackle frees ball, Aspen, 1969.

Not only was there no time for skiing, the lines for the lifts seemed to stretch for miles, no matter what time of day it was. Aspenites, then and now, don't get a Christmas vacation, or even a holiday break -- making enough money to last for the rest of the year is far too important. We hadn't expected this, and our first Christmas in Aspen was disillusioning, as we worked in the ski area restaurant while others played on the slopes.

However, after the first of the year, the crowds disappeared and work slowed. Powder snow fell nearly every day and we had plenty of time off to make up for the skiing we hadn't been able to do earlier. Day after day, Beth and I snaked down through the feathery light snow. We played and frolicked, crossing our tracks to weave figure eights in the trackless snow. Those were special times we'd look back to later, remembering how young and carefree we were then.

All winter, I wanted to see my solo tracks in powder from the chair above. Though there were plenty of untracked runs all year from which to choose, those directly beneath the chairlift were always cut up. Even though I'm usually the first up the lift, the opportunity to be first down eluded me, because the ski patrol was supposed to test the snow's stability, and they always seemed to test the same runs just under the lift. More than once, I heard them boasting about how they always got to make the first run down the unmarked slope.

I decided that retaliation was in order, and came up with an idea, which would allow a group of us to beat the patrol at their own game. Our employee passes allowed us to get on the lifts even before the ski patrol. Four of us go off the top of the chairlift early one morning before the ski patrol had gone up, but we had no intention of working the early shift. A few minutes later, halfway down the mountain, while we were cutting a series of `S' turns in ten inches of new powder, we heard cries of disbelief from the chairs overhead. "How did you get on the chair? Stop where you are!" We continued marking "S" turns in the powder with an added sense of satisfaction. Sometimes revenge, or at least retaliation, can be very sweet.

Near Maroon Bells, 1969.

During the early part of the year, work slowed down, and I was cut back to three hours a day, so I had plenty of time to ski. But the weather had turned severely cold, sometimes getting down to thirty-six degrees below zero. At night we covered the engine of our Chevy van with a blanket, and put a light bulb under it to facilitate starting in the morning. But in spite of our precautions, one morning the van wouldn't start. I spent five hours trying to revive it, but my attempts were fruitless. Even though my fingers were numb from the cold, I hesitated using a mechanic, because of the expense it would involve. I continued to work on the van during several more days of severely cold weather, hoping to get it going, but eventually we had it towed off to be fixed.

As a result, the lost two weeks of work, combined with the cutbacks in hours, left us with virtually no cash. Though we had some back pay coming, we didn't have enough cash to cover our current expenses. Our bank account balanced at rock bottom and the change in our pockets totaled just over three dollars. After carefully considering our alternatives, we took the last of our funds and went to the movies at the Wheeler Opera House to temporarily forget our problems. At least we still had a sense of humor.

Like many transient residents, we weren't prepared to survive the economic and physical rigors of the high country. There may have been several options, but we could see only the one easiest for us -- relocating to a region where wages were higher and cost of living lower. We gave a week's notice at work and then planned to head out to California.

On our last run down the mountain, my mind wasn't on skiing, but rather on our life in the Roaring Fork Valley. We were leaving an important part of our lives. I felt the wind rush by without any sense of speed. I let my skis go and didn't feel like making my usual playful turns. As I gained speed my skis reached smoothly from mogul top to mogul top. I searched the tranquil valley below and saw smoke lazily rise from a cozy log cabin. How I longed to live in this picturesque and idealistic setting.

At first I hadn't paid attention to the voices, then I realized several people from the chairlift above were yelling at me:

"Go for it!"

"All right!"

"Wow, do you believe that!"

Unintentionally, I had schussed Cloud Nine just as Andreas Molterer had four years earlier. The ultimate ski performance, which had so greatly impressed me on my first visit to Aspen, now seemed like no more than a contemplative stroll in the woods. Even after feeling good about the level of skiing I had finally achieved, there was one challenge I needed to face before I left.

I ducked under the ropes closing off Stein Erickson. Even after all the snow that year, Stein Erickson had never opened. The snow looked deep and heavy, but there wouldn't be another chance. Skiing here took more than technique. Every turn needed a power turn. The snow seemed to cling, pull and hold onto the skis. I was scared, but hesitation meant failure. I wrestled, fought, and scratched to survive. The mountain showed me its tough side and fought to win this last match. I couldn't falter now and needed to leave this last challenge victorious. Every muscle in my body fought beyond their individual capacities. Relief, combined with exhilaration, overcame me as I skied into the "run-out" at the bottom. Exhausted and trembling, I walked slowly to the van and turned for one last look. "Goodbye Aspen, you've been the best."