Aspen Peak - Niche Media - Aspen living at its peak
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view opens into a high-mountain, Eden-like amphitheater. Wildflowers are starting to unfurl their colors and a vibrant green sprawls everywhere. The basin is perfectly rimmed by a deep maroon crest of rock. I stop. Trail running and endorphins are great—so is a fitness challenge—but this place deserves a quiet, motionless moment of reverence. It cries out, "Relax, slow down, take a nap." I listen and do all but nap. After a moment of silence soaking up the surroundings, I walk a few hun- dred yards and find my mother, "Moutie." Apparently this same view beckoned her to pause as well. She's enjoying a snack of dried fruit while relax- ing on a grassy patch off the trail. I pull up next to her, sit down, and say, "Fancy meeting you here." She smiles, her eyes sparkling with delight. "It is so beautiful; I never get over it," she says, beaming. Growing up in the Aspen area, I went to Crested Butte a lot—mostly by car and bus. We used to compete in ski races there, and I dreaded the 110-mile, five-hour drive in winter. It was the windiest, curviest, carsick-iest excursion to any sporting event we attended. I recall one coach saying, "We could walk there faster in the summer." I didn't believe him completely until years later, when my buddies and I staged a race of sorts. We rode old-school mountain bikes, the back route, from the mining town of Crystal above Carbondale over Schofield Pass to downtown CB. My dad drove around via Paonia to the west. We teenage mountain bikers, with our suspension-free forks and cockiness, took the title by 28 minutes. Of course, it poured rain, and we arrived looking like drowned rats, but we laughed every mile of the way. That trip would be the beginning of an annual trek to Crested Butte by anything but car or bus. On a map, the shortcut is obvious. As the crow flies, Crested Butte is a mere NO MATTER HOW I TR AVEL THROUGH, FOR ME THE TR AIL IS ALWAYS THE DESTINATION. HOWEVER, BY FOOT REMAINS MY FAVORITE MODE. PERHAPS IT'S BECAUSE I CAN SOAK IT IN MORE." 11 miles of trail south—via a variety of mountain pass options. West Maroon is the shortest route, but its pass is 700 feet higher, topping out at 12,500 feet. East Maroon, behind Pyramid Peak, is longer, but its pass is gentler at 11,800 feet. Many people go out one pass and return by the other. I generally prefer the views of West Maroon Trail and the quiet of East. By small plane, the trip takes all of 10 minutes. By foot, the average fit hiker (slower than my speedster mother) takes five to six hours. By bike or horse: four to five hours depending on your propensity to stop and let your steed smell the flowers. By car, following pavement and driving the speed limit: five to six hours. If the conditions are icy, it can be even longer. As one who loves flying, the short hop to the Butte offers stunning views and quick convenience, but there is nothing like the trail—especially those dedi- cated to nonmotorized traffic. In late July during a blue-sky weather window, wildflowers erupt into a symphony of painted meadows. At times it's hard to believe high-mountain fields can look so perfect—proof that Mother Nature is the original master gardener. For many, a dose of solitude on these trails can be captivating: It is the tonic of choice to accompany the cacophony of silence. During such reveries, I've almost expected to hear a song from The Sound of Music. Friendliness is king out here. I've met and made friends from multiple continents on the trail, and we've kept in touch for years. And don't rule out romance. One Aspenite friend met his wife atop West Maroon Pass. Historically, the trails between these two mining towns-turned-premier ski spots have been tramped as much or even more than today. I've heard tales of stagecoaches making runs. And in the late 1880s, a mailman named Al Johnson traversed these passes year-round, delivering parcels on a 17-mile route that connected the remote mining towns to the world. Carrying 25-pound mail sacks across avalanche-prone slopes at 9,000 feet and above, Johnson might as well have created the unofficial USPS motto: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…" All of which the mail had to get through. Today, Crested Butteans celebrate Johnson's intrepidness with a costumed telemark ski race (uphill and down) named after their courageous mailman. Hikers often opt for the shortest route, West Maroon, which tops out at 12,500 feet. The summit calls for a moment of respite, a brief picnic, and a photo opp. 54 ASPENPEAK-MAGAZINE.COM LIVING THE LIFE 050-056_AP_FOB_LivingTheLife_SUM_FALL_14.indd 54 5/6/14 2:40 PM