Aspen Peak - Niche Media - Aspen living at its peak
Issue link: http://digital.greengale.com/i/417540
illustration by daniel o'leary You arrive in pain: dizzy, discombobulated. This is the rebirthing process for an Aspenite. When the altitude sickness subsides, a new world opens. 1971: As a longhaired University of Arizona freshman, I barrel out of Tucson to drive all night to Aspen for the first time. To celebrate upon arrival, a buddy and I have stocked my racy Formula 400 Firebird with then-illegal Panama Red marijuana. But at midnight, we're entangled in a bizarre wreck. BAM! Forget about Aspen. We're lucky to be alive. Flash forward to the 1980s. I'm a writer from Dallas, finally landing in Aspen, and the town lifts her skirt to give me a glimpse of her glories. I recall parties on Red Mountain: Andy Warhol. Donald Trump. All humbled by the staggering natural beauty beyond the party's windows. Someday, I pray, and in 1992, my wife, Laura, and I move here part-time. First hike: Aspen to Crested Butte in brand-new hiking boots and a tenderfoot's naiveté. Early snow. Socks substitute as gloves. Humiliation. Hypoxia. Today, a full-time resident since 2006, I have acclimated enough to know: I stand in a sacred place, a silver boom town with history and a heart, now a cultural mecca where pilgrims arrive by both Birkenstock sandals and private jets. It's a paradox, a little town with everything, defying easy explanation. In 2005, I attempt to write about Aspen for Vanity Fair magazine. After interviewing endless residents, from Kevin Costner to Hunter S. Thompson, I sit surrounded by tapes, notebooks, and absolute panic: How to capture the place on paper? Finally, around 3:30 am, after weeks of wrestling, I remember a line: "What would you do if the engine stopped now?" The question, which came from a flight instructor, was put to Domenico De Sole, part-time Aspenite and chairman of Tom Ford International, as he piloted a tiny plane over the mountains with me riding shotgun. For most everyone, this was the key question: What would you do if the engine stopped now? If you had only a finite number of days to live? If you could go any- where? If you could do anything? The answer was (and is) Aspen. The world comes here. In summer, the Food & Wine worshippers are followed by intellectuals, speakers, and musicians from all corners of the globe. In fall, when the trees turn gold and the town is entwined by a sense of jaw-dropping awe, they come. In winter, when the world converges to ski, they come. Then the spring arrives and the snow melts, the rivers rise, and everything blooms anew. This October, I biked up Maroon Bells; the aspen trees blazed yellow, the wind gusted, and the leaves f lew—great swarms of them. The next day, it snowed: big, fat, feathery f lakes. And the day after that, Indian summer brief ly returned. How many seasons do I have left to spend in this magical place? Well, I'm not going to think about that. I just feel blessed to have the next one. AP A MIDWINTER DAY'S DREAMING For journalist and author Ma seal, aspen is a liFelong love aFFair-Fantasy come true. 248 aspenpeak-magazine.com Aspen InspIred...