Ohhh Shit
I reach into my pocket to grab my phone and....
Nothing.
Nothing but an empty jacket pocket. Well to be more precise a jacket pocket filled with lint and air. But most certainly not filled with a phone.
A phone that was playing some rockin' tunes.
A phone that I'm relying on for my directions home.
A phone that you take for granted until it's gone.
Maybe I got crazy and put it in another pocket? I frantically pat myself down like I'm doing the Macarena at a minor league baseball game in 1997.
And a sinking realization sets in that I've probably lost it forever. Doomed to a snow covered grave on the Montezuma Bowl at Arapahoe basin.
My current predicament began a half hour ago at the loading station of the Zuma Chair. While waiting to board the tight three-part harmonies and twangy groove of an Americana string band tickled my eardrum. I look to the liftie whose speakers were guilty of the auditive allurement,
"Damn, these guys kick ass, who are they?"
"The Last Revel, my buddy just turned me on to them."
"Hell yeah! I'm gonna turn 'em on right now. Thanks boss."
And so I did.
Well at least I attempted to - the lower regions of the Montezuma Bowl are cellularly challenged so the jam sesh was postponed until higher elevations. At the top of the lift I swung left about a hundred yards with my new favorite band rocking in my ears. I clicked out of my skis for my third & final hike up to the Zuma Cornice. It's not an especially grueling hike, but with the 12,000'+ elevation and unsure footing it requires a deceptively high level of exertion.
The hike is totally worth it though, because the skiing is incredible. The terrain is challenging yet approachable, a steep, wide-open bowl with a melange of chutes ideal for sending. Perplexingly, the bowl is nearly devoid of other alpine athletes - I have to imagine the hike and intimidating heft of the massive crag brooding over the chair deter most skiers.
I drop into the Groswold Chute, swooping smooth arcs through the fresh Colorado snow. I'm on day 30 for the season - more than thrice my previous PR - and at the risk of immodesty I must say that I've developed an admirable alpine acumen. Somewhere in the middle of all those turns I hit the point of no cell reception and my headphones go dark.
Or at least I thought I hit the point of no cell reception.
I now realize it was actually my phone flying out of my pocket as I was flying down the hill. If the liftie had been playing Nickelback I wouldn't be in this position. I blame his good taste in music. Couldn't be my boneheaded carelessness. No way.
With the depth of the snow on the mountain my phone is almost surely buried under two feet of pillowy powder. However, I have a couple leads that give me a puncher's chance of finding it. First, I have a general idea on the mountain where the music cut out. Second, I have my headphones that should connect to the phone once I'm within a certain distance. Unfortunately, due to point #1, I'll have to make the hike again. Woof.
So I create a battle plan - retrace my steps and fire up the headphones every so often to see if they'll connect. Hell, it's worth a shot.
I slide off the lift and lethargically mope up the hiking trail once more, cursing myself for being so negligent with my pocket zipper. Eventually I find myself back atop Groswold and throw a Hail Mary. I turn the headphones on right here at the top to see if they'll connect.
No luck.
So I make a few turns down from the top & try again. Nothing.
A few more turns. No sir.
swoosh swoosh swoosh
Nada
swoosh swoosh swoosh
Zilch
swoosh swoosh swoosh
Nothin' doin'
swoosh swoosh swoosh
Noooooooope
Swoosh swoosh swoosh
Silence
Ok you get the picture. I do this most of the way down the chute. That is until I reach the bottom when, after turning on the headphones, I hear an angelic robotic voice,
--Boop-- Connected to Tiny Andy Dufresne.*
*Don't ask my why I named my phone Tiny Andy Dufresne**
**Don't ask because I have no idea why.
Connected! That's a Bingo!!!!
Now I just gotta find it.
Head on a swivel.
Searching.
Scanning.
And then I see it! About 20 yards down the hill, sitting on top of the snow flat as a pancake. Unbelievable. I've mentioned it multiple times on this trip but I have no idea what I did to deserve the ridiculous luck I've been afforded on my adventure but I'm not going to question it. I'm just going to trust the process.
I slide right up to my phone, dust off the snow, and turn back on The Last Revel. Hell yeah.
I'm blasting tunes, I'm ripping lines, I'm feeling vibes.
But most importantly, now I won't get lost.
Where the Hell Am I?
I'm lost.
I thought I was headed for the Four Points Lodge for lunch and a mid-day brewski. So why in the world am I at the bottom of the Pony Express lift?
Ok, let's rewind about a week.
After forging East from Utah I stopped along the way for a couple days of skiing at Steamboat Springs. This is day 1. And I'm completely discombobulated.
Over the years I've heard myriad tales of Steamboat's "champagne powder," a snow so dry, light, and fluffy that powder hounds embark on pilgrimages to worship at the altar of the snow gods. So while it's been on my radar, it's mostly been aspirational due to its geographical isolation - it's about twice as far from Denver as the well-trod path of Breckenridge/Vail/Keystone/etc. But it fits perfectly into my itinerary this trip, right on the way from SLC. So I left Bob & LaGayle's early in the morning & rolled into Steamboat around lunchtime. How 'bout that lil deal?
As someone who takes pride in my bearing-keeping abilities today has been a humbling experience. I've been lost all. damn. day. How I got to the Pony Express chair I have no idea. What I do know is that I'm on chair #35 so I'm obligated to shoot my good friend Frank Dale a photo since everybody knows that was his number when he played boundary corner for the Cascia Hall Commandos.
My geographical confusion is confounded, at least in part, by the layout of the resort. Not content with a single peak or even a couple, Steamboat Ski Resort comprises 6 separate named peaks in a layout that'll make your internal compass spin. All runs emanate from a narrow runway adjacent to the base area, with two beginner lifts and the Steamboat Gondola providing conveyance to all points beyond. The 9 minute ride up the gondola drops you atop Thunderhead Peak, where the real fun begins. Behind Thunderhead lies a diabolical sea of peaks, valleys, and saddles that encircle each other in a metaphoric maelstrom of metamorphic schist. I have the utmost respect and admiration for legendary ski map trail painter James Niehues, but even his map is unable to accurately portray the labyrinthine layout of Steamboat. It's a ski resort fit for M.C. Escher.
So here I am on the Pony Express lift, but I really want to be at the lodge drinking a beer. On my way up the cableway I devour Mr Niehues's trail map like I'm studying for the bar exam.
May it Please the Court:
Off the chair I swing right, headed for Longhorn. Just as it goes right I go left and cruise down Wapiti's short piste aaaaaaaaand there's no chair. I look up to my left and the two seater is spinning about 200 yards up a side hill behind a copse of trees. You've GOT to be kidding me!!
My only option now is to ski the cat track all the way around Thunderhead Peak to the main base area. I curse under my breath and begin matriculating my way 'round the mountain to the gondola. I hop on the enclosed cableway and 9 agonizing minutes later I'm at Thunderhead Lodge, finally matched with my ever illusory pint of suds. I smugly enjoy a Penny's Pale Ale on the patio with blue skies & warm sun.
I still have a few more hours of daylight left so I suck down the beer and get back out there. I head over to the backside for a couple runs on the Morningside area. The top of the bowl is nice but it flattens out pretty quick and the juice just ain't worth the squeeze. But on my way back to the frontside I'll have a a chance to check out the Christmas Tree Bowl, a run that a fella on the chair recommended to me earlier in the day.
My next time up I shoot over the ridge into Christmas Tree Bowl and quickly realize that calling it Christmas Tree Bowl is a bit of a misnomer. When I hear the word "bowl" I think of an arboreally barren cirque shaped like, well, a bowl. It's the skiing equivalent of a painter's empty canvas. What I don't think of is a dense thicket of robust conifers standing guard over crusty mounds of rutty snow. That's not a bowl at all if you ask me. Unless you're some sort of psychotic doomsday prepper hoarding bowlfuls of toothpicks for the coming hors d'oeuvre crisis. I think a better name for this run would be Christmas Tree Forest. I'm not in the mood to Sonny Bono myself so I squirt out to skier's left towards The Chutes. These are some of the steepest runs on the mountain but lack the trees that deterred me from the "bowl".
As I pull up to The Chutes I find a group of high school/college aged kids gathering their nerves to take the plunge. After 5 minutes of will-they-won't-they most of the group chickens out & rides the ridge around to more modestly pitched terrain. Two brave souls muster the courage to petition the Gods of Send for safe passage before throwing themselves over the cornice. They both successfully navigate the chute and exchange enthusiastic high-5s at the bottom. I creep up to the lip of the chute and drop in. The top of the chute is the most challenging section, which I deftly navigate (arguable) with a few jump turns then send it through the bottom section. I let out a quick WOOOO to my chute buddies as I pass them headed for the groomed pistes of Storm Peak.
By this point the rays of our noble star have become rather oblique, signaling the end of the day is nigh. I take another couple laps off Storm Peak Express before calling it a day. 15k vert on a half day, not too shabby.
I pack up my gear and head into Steamboat proper, a nice little Colorado mountain town straddling a bubbling stream. A bubbling stream, sure, but certainly nothing a steamboat could navigate. Hold up, what's all this Steamboat business about?
I decide to investigate atop a barstool at the Barley Tap and Tavern right on the main drag. According to the tale, early 19th century trappers in the area heard a chugging sound and incorrectly presumed that a steamboat was rollicking down a nearby river. However, when they correctly diagnosed the cause of the auditory emissions, they discovered that it was coming from a hot spring, which they named Steamboat Spring.
Yawn.
I catch the bartender & order myself a flight that will hopefully add some excitement to my day after that boring story. It was a fairly typical flight situation - I wrote down the barley sammiches I'd like to try out and the fella brought em to me. Well, partner, during the interim period between scribbling my selections and the barkeep fulfilling those selections this ol boy plops down in the stool next to me who seemingly woke up to whiskey in his coffee and hasn't looked back.
So when the bartender brought back my mini wooden ski of small offerings of delightful ale this dude lost his damn mind. Not only is he shithouse drunk he apparently has never seen a flight of beer before, the combination of which seems impossible.
"Whoaaa dude.. what's that??"
"Huh?"
"What did you get? How many beers is that? I didn't even know you could do that!!??"
"Uhh yeah it's a flight, you've never gotten a flight before?"
- I should mention here that this man appears to have aged to a ripe old mid-30s, an age where you'd expect someone to have at the very least seen a flight of beer. If he was 22 I'd give him a pass but come on.
"Naw man, I normally only get Coors"
"Oh well they definitely don't have that here, what the hell are you doing in a craft brewery then?"
"Well it started snowin' outside and it said beer on the sign so I just dove in here"
I really can't fault him there.
"So what do you do, just tell them you want 4 beers and they bring them to you or what?"
"Yeah," I deadpan as I look outside to see champagne powder piling up on the sidewalks. I pull out my phone to check for lodging options seeing as the Uncle Andy Inn will be quite uncomfortable in this weather. It seems I'm the last person within 200 miles to get the weather report because every hotel, airbnb, campsite, & RV park in town is fully booked up for the night. The closest thing I can find is the Travelodge in Yampa, about 30 miles south of town.
I do my best to ignore the drunkard next to me and he mercifully (for me) begins to badger the bartender. As I sip my suds the snow really begins to fly. I better scoot. I throw back the last of the beers, wish my new friend the best of luck on... whatever the hell he's got going on... and point my rig due south. Luckily the only place the roads get a little squirrely is the pass around Thorpe Mountain, but even there it ain't terrible. Nothin' the ol' trusty Pathfinder can't handle.
I arrive at the Travelodge under the cover of darkness. I bundle up and trundle over to the inn where I see a sign so preposterous I belt out a belly laugh so loud and spontaneous that it surprises even me.
I have to say that registering at a diner is an altogether new experience for me. I've stayed in some shithole lodgings before but never one where you have to check in at a diner. It's like something out of a Taylor Sheridan movie.
I shuffle over to Penny's Diner, fully expecting to see an old woman perched behind the counter, chewin' the fat over the sound of some unrecognizable animal tissue sizzling on the griddle, the stale smell of rancid grease, and the perplexing phenomenon that you can only find in a diner where every surface is equally sticky and slippery at the same time.
I was not disappointed.
Candy, after finishing her thought to the gentleman at the counter.. Then another.. And another... Exasperatedly shuffles my way.
"Checkin' in?"
"Uhh yeah"
"Credit card & license"
I hand over the required documents and Candy begins a charade where she has to say out loud every step of the process like it's her first time doing it. Mind you, the Travelodge is 3 stories tall with what I'd guess are around 20 rooms per floor, she must have done this dozens of times today.
Of course there's the obligatory, "These damn computers, I can't never figure 'em out"
Candy's sanctuary is the 3' alley between Penny's griddle and Penny's counter. There she feels at home. There she feels safe. There the world makes sense. Once she steps foot outside the comfortable confines of the griddle the demons return. The office a dungeon of Promethian misery. The computer a demonic gargoyle that slowly sucks her life force with every click of its tail and tap of its scales. The hotel a bottomless chasm of pure evil that exists solely to strip Candy of her joy.
"Here's your key, you're in room 312. Take a right outside these doors and your keycard will get you into the building. The elevator's on your left, take it to the third floor and your room is halfway down the hall on your right."
"Thank you Candy."
And Candy dies just a little more inside.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
Penny's Diner is rated a 3.5 stars out of 5 on Tripadvisor. A mediocre rating, sure, but it slots them in as the #2 restaurant in Yampa, Colorado.
Out of 2.
One particularly entertaining review of Penny's Diner of dubious helpfulness is simply entitled "Customer Service". The opening line of this screed is a true literary gem: "Me and my family came here after putting our dog to sleep, we mainly just wanted milkshakes."
Brilliance.
I stroll into the second best restaurant in Yampa, Colorado the next morning for some stale coffee & greasy eggs. Nothing more, nothing less. Penny's provided me exactly that. And for that, Penny, I thank you. After brekky I head back to Steamboat for another half day on the hill before my drive to Denver. It's a lot more of the same, getting lost, checking the map, getting lost..er, asking someone for directions, going up so I can go down, going down so I can go up. Aimless wanderings with no idea which way to turn.
Left at the Next Light!
I know exactly where I'm going.
It's St. Paddy's Day and I'm on my way to the Fainting Goat Irish Pub in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Denver. Tagging along is a new group of friends I just met today at my hostel. I've been elected navigator for this roving band of miscreants due to my geographical knowledge of the area. Earlier this afternoon while waiting for my bed at the hostel to be readied I made acquaintance with a malted beverage or two at the Goat.
While bellied up to the bar I heard one inebriated fella tell nobody and everybody at the bar all at once, "I LOVE Prague! The thing about Prague is that so many historical buildings survived the war because Hitler wanted to move his headquarters there after the war!"
Which of course led me to the internet to test the veracity of such a claim when I stumbled upon a 5-star Tripadvisor review of Prague by a middle aged Canadian woman simply entitled "Prague--A City so Beautiful it was Spared by Hitler"
Her review begins, in her own translation of Kampf 3:16,
It is incredible to think the black heart of an evil dictator holds space for such reflection, Is it possible in some still moment he allowed the city's mysterious beauty to pause his disdain for humanity?
Later on in her review she writes whimsically,
Before I'm fully sucked into the delusionary scribblings of an unhinged and likely unmedicated Canadian woman I remember my delicious Guiness stout ale sitting before me and put my phone back in my pocket to enjoy the ramblings of the unhinged boomers in my own presence.
Once my room is ready I amble over to the Ember Hostel to check in. Tracy behind the desk cheerily helps me get settled in and informs me of all the rules and regulations of the place. Most importantly she fills me in on the St Paddys party they are throwing this evening. Beer pong, jello shots, flip cup, all the hits. I am DOWN.
I mosey up to my room & situate my luggage and take a quick nap before the festivities begin.
At a quarter after 5 I stumble down to the common area to find a dozen or so guests & staff mulling around with a couple cases of Modelo. I introduce myself and proceed to forget nearly everyone's name instantly. One of the staffers tells us they've hidden gold coins around the hostel and each lucky sleuth who finds one is entitled to a jello shot. I have a distinct altitude advantage compared to most of the guests, which allows me to parlay my lofty perch into a few jello shots before the beer pong begins.
It's quickly evident that everyone's beer pong peak has long since passed. Grab any random two students from CU up in Boulder and they would easily dispatch every competitor present. But we're having fun despite the pitiful attempts at unsanctioned collegiate athletics. I actually manage to win a couple games before we all matriculate outside for the more inclusive beer sport of flip cup.
Outside I start chatting with a fella by the name of Allen who says he's been living out of his van the past 5 years, traveling around the country and exploring nature. Whenever he needs a few bucks he'll take an odd job here and there fixing cars, delivering pizzas, delivering weed.
Speaking of weed, the whole time we've been outside an Okie by the name of Cody busies himself by rolling an assembly line of joints around the firepit. He works for a weed distributor in Oklahoma and comes out to Colorado every few months for "research". I shouldn't have to tell you that Cody is a popular man at the Ember Hostel.
Around 9 PM the group starts to get restless and begins making plans to take the party to the bar. The question is posed if there's an Irish pub nearby & I swoop in with the intel that there is, in fact, an Irish pub less than half a mile away. This is the point I'm elected group leader by a silent vote that's unanimously agreed upon and acknowledged as binding.
Everyone finishes their beers and we set out for the Fainting Goat with a thirst for green beer & Guinness. Miraculously the crowded pub can accommodate our group of strangers a dozen deep. Once inside everyone fans out looking for the shortest queue for refreshments. I found a spot on the second floor bar where I snag a pitcher of green beer and 3 Guinnesses because that's all I can carry.
I find most of the crew up on the rooftop balcony gathered around a rickety table near the bar. I offer my gifts and they are eagerly accepted by the council. The next two hours are spent on the roof with sporadic bursts of green beer, Guinness, and Jameson shots.
The night begins to get a little fuzzy and we all straggle out of the bar in waves back to the hostel for some much needed shuteye.
You Go Left, I'll Go Right
I didn't realize I was slightly lost until my youngest brother Johnny sprays me with snow as he skids to a stop. Johnny is sweating bullets. Johnny is not happy.
"What the fuck??"
"Huh?"
"Why the hell did you tell me to go left? That was the hardest run I've ever skied in my life!"
gulp
"Really? I thought that way was the easy way."
"Y'know what? It wasn't fucking easy! It was steep and full of big ass moguls. I fell 4 times and didn't think I was ever gonna get down... Fuck you."
"Damn, that's my bad I really did think that was the easy way down"
"Well it wasn't... but I made it... let's go get on the lift... fuck you"
I sheepishly accept my well-deserved reprimand and we hop back on the Super Bee chair. We're enjoying our first of two bluebird days at Copper Mountain. This is the first Johnny has skied in 10 years and I've been impressed with his skiing chops. The next time down I venture out to see how waywardly I steered him and it was, indeed, a real kick in the knackers. I was able to get down it somewhat smoothly but I was drenched in sweat by the time I reached the bottom. It reminded me of the frontside of Revelstoke. I'm really amazed that Johnny was able to make it to the bottom, considering his alpine hiatus. The young man is tough as nails.
This is my first time to ski Copper Mountain, a resort just to the west of the North-South spine that forms the Tenmile Range. Just on the other side of the spine lies Breckenridge, I reckon Josh Allen could launch a pigskin from here to the Imperial Express chair.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The day started when I picked up Johnny from his friend's apartment in Denver. We grabbed a quick cup o' joe and made for I-70 West, probably the most maligned stretch of ski-resort-bound pavement in the country. The same demographic pressures that have overwhelmed Utah's Canyon roads have swamped I-70 from Denver up to the Colorado Plateau. The list of causes for I-70 logjams is long and ever growing: ballooning numbers of skiers, inclement weather, Texans who don't know how to drive in the snow, construction, wildlife, truckers, all-you-can-ski packages like the one I'm on. Did I mention Texans? It's become such a problem that it has its own Instagram account:
Luckily for us the typical Waffle-House-after-midnight level of chaos has temporarily ebbed and we are afforded smooth passage to Copper.
Awaiting us at the hill is my buddy Cameron, who has been working from his parents' house in Pueblo, CO the past few months. He has a local ski pass at a few Colorado mountains, and Copper just so happens to overlap with mine. He's already taken a few spins by the time we get Johnny outfitted with some rental gear and the Three Sendketeers hop on the American Eagle chair.
We lap American Eagle a couple times to get a feel for the mountain while Johnny gets his ski legs under him. The layout of Copper is perfectly set up for first-timers, the easiest runs are to looker's right and progressively get tougher as you go left. Early on in the day we get stymied off the Timberline Express over to the right with an enormous line of families on spring break. We brave the crowd and make sure not to make that mistake again.
Johnny quickly gains confidence & we start working our way left. By the end of the day he's bombing down black groomers off Super Bee like he's a local. After lunch, the trio starts some adventures above the treeline. I peel off from Johnny & Cam and dive into the Spaulding Bowl for a few runs to get the blood pumping. These are my favorite runs of the day, outstanding wide-open steeps with great snow. The only downside is the slow fixed-grip lift that feels like it takes an eternity, probably because I'm so eagerly awaiting my next run.
After we meet back up we work up the gumption for a run in the Copper Bowl, the spot with the toughest runs on the mountain. We ride the Three Bears chair to the peak of Tucker Mountain and split up again. They rode the ridge around to Summit Stash and I drop into a chute called The Taco, a steep saddle flanked by high granite walls that help it hold the snow better than anywhere I've found on the mountain. I'm able to navigate the chute in one continuous run, fending off the leg burn with pure adrenaline and likely an unhealthy level of dopamine.
I meet up with Cam & Johnny at the bottom and we head back to the front side for some more Super Bee bombers to close out the day with a respectable 25k vert.
We load up the gear and head to Silverheels Tavern just down the road in Frisco for a few cold ones and a big plate of nachos. I compliment Johnny's impressive skiing prowess after such a protracted absence from the sport. He says it felt a little squirrely to start but it's just like riding a bike. We talk about our favorite runs and I have say that Copper is one of my favorite mountains I've ever skied. It has acres of above-treeline terrain that's easily accessible and challenging but not daredevil level stuff.
Post-après we make the 30 mile drive south to Leadville, the highest incorporated city in the US at 10,152' elevation. Leadville, unsurprisingly, is an old mining town that was the site of one of the richest silver mining camps of the late 19th century. Doc Holliday briefly called Leadville home in 1883 shortly after the gunfight at the OK Corral. He moved in to deal faro at the plentiful gambling houses & saloons around town and we all know Doc says that poker's an honest trade. He stayed until an old enemy came to town and threatened his life over a \$5 debt. So Doc shot him. And got away with it - a jury of his peers acquitted him of the shooting.
We don't plan to get into as much trouble as Doc, but who knows when it comes to Leadville, right? Our accommodation for the evening, the Delaware Hotel, broke ground in 1883 just about a year after Doc shot that man like a dog in the street. It was completed in 1886 just in time for the silver rush of 1887 that brought prospectors, gamblers, gunslingers, lawmen, bankers, con men, prostitutes, and tens of thousands of people trying to strike it rich or simply scratch out a living. A stately 3-story Victorian with 50 guest rooms, the Delaware Hotel is still known as the "Crown Jewel of Leadville."
Through all the years, the booms, the busts, and changes of ownership, the hotel has managed to maintain all of its Victorian charm. The current owners purchased the hotel in 2021 and are in the beginning stages of extensive renovations. As we navigate the high-ceilinged lobby we stroll past stacks of drywall, tools, tarps, and lumber prepared to give the hotel a face lift. Our room is up up the well-worn creaky stairs in a room that was once occupied by one Charles Boettcher. The hotel's most famous resident, Mary Coffey, was shot dead by her husband in 1889 in a fit of jealous rage. Hotel legend has it that she still roams the halls, looking to avenge her untimely demise.
The hotel is unique and charming. I can only hope the new owners plan to retain the quaint magic that makes this place such a delight, the authentic Victorian furniture, the original marble floors, the ornate woodwork, the stairs worn down in grooves by footsteps, the four post beds, the kooky hallway sinks.
We turn in early and get a well-deserved restful, uninterrupted night's sleep. I was kinda hoping at least for one ghost. Alas, the ephemeral spirits of dead guys will have to wait for another day.
Are You Going To Frozen Dead Guy Days?
A local named Jason asks me on the lift. I'd never heard of it so he begins to explain the weekend of debaucherous nonsense that takes place every spring in Nederland, CO, a town in the foothills of the Front Range. The tale of how it began is just as batty as the name.
In 1989 a Norwegian fella by the name of Bredo Morstøl took a heart attack and departed this mortal existence to spend the rest of his days in the resplendent halls of Valhalla with Odin and his valkyries. His grandson, Trygve Bauge, however, had other ideas. Trygve packed grandpa in a trunk full of dry ice and shipped him to the Trans Time cryonics facility in San Leandro, CA.
I'm sure everyone has at least heard of cryonics, knowledge of the actual term notwithstanding (a dead rose by any other name would smell just as rotten). It's the fanciful thought someone who has (ostensibly) died can be frozen for an indeterminate period of time in the hopes that a thawing and resurrection will follow. I think I'm going to have to defer to Wikipedia on this one, "it is generally viewed as a pseudoscience, and its practice has been characterized as quackery."
But sometimes quackery can be fun. Especially when it doesn't hurt anyone. Grandpa Bredo is dead. Keeping him frozen isn't hurting anyone.
While Popsicle grandpa chilled (sorry) at Trans Time for 3 years, Trygve was developing grand plans for his own cryonics facility. In 1992 he petitioned the Nederland government for permission to build such a facility. They resoundingly turned him down. So he began building the facility.
Wait.. What?
Trygve, which roughly translates to "Never to be Deterred" in Norwegian*, used the money from the the sale of his deceased grandfather's summer cabin to fund the construction of his state-of-the-art cryogenic palace. By the fall of 1993 Trygve was ready to bring grandpa to the palace. In what must be a matter of mis-translation the "ice palace" was actually a "shed behind the house."
*probably
Somewhere along the line Trygve got into a bind and found himself on the wrong end of deportation proceedings. After he was unceremoniously booted from the North American landmass, he poetically claimed that "life extension and longevity go hand in hand with Jeffersonian liberty." And I honestly have no objection to that sentiment. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Immortality.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The drive to Nederland is about 15 miles up the Boulder Canyon, where I find myself a parking space outside the stone building of the Nederland Mining Museum. The town, if you can imagine this, traces its roots to mining. Shocking, I know. The most notorious historical era for the town occurred during WWI, a period of wild speculation known locally as the "tungsten boom".
Up till that point tungsten was considered an impurity, thrown upon slag heaps during the steelmaking process. The Germans were the first to realize the strategic value of the element, building vast stockpiles in the years leading up to the Great War. Tungsten boasts the highest melting point and tensile strength among all the metals and is nearly twice as dense as lead. A block of tungsten the size of a microwave oven would weigh as much as the entire Arizona Cardinals offensive line. As the Germans discovered, a bit of tungsten sprinkled into molten iron produced a steel that is much harder and resistant to heat and stress. In a struggle between colossal forts of concrete and steel and immense artillery barrages designed to pummel said forts to rubble, it's easy to see why tungsten would be in such high demand.
In a tragic irony of history, much of the German stockpile was mined in Britain with the knowledge, and consent, of the British themselves. That is until 1912 when the limeys finally wised up to the benefits of tungsten amid the deafening drumbeats of war. But by that point it was already too late, as British mining historian Ian Tyler glibly remarked "nearly all our tungsten mined up to 1912 we got back on the Somme."
As with any boom, the bust eventually came and Nederland nearly became a ghost town. But its location at the mouth of Boulder Canyon has provided an ideal base camp for mountaineers, and more recently, the outdoorsy kombucha crowd. As of the 2020 census around 1,500 people call Nederland home. During Frozen Dead Guy Days, that number swells to over 20,000. Grandpa Bredo sure knows how to draw a crowd.
As I make my way towards the festivities it feels like I'm walking towards a college football game. People are wandering about in a half-drunken daze, riding high on hopes that this pleasant weather signals the start of spring. I follow my fellow revelers to the main drag of town, which is crowded with folks moseying about, bros hanging from bar porches, substantial food truck lines, and not a single beer purveyor in sight. I watch a few FDGD-themed events: a brain freeze chugging contest, polar plunge, and a frozen t-shirt contest where participants race to don a white t-shirt that has been frozen solid into a ball.
I cruise through the party till I reach the end of the street and find myself in the mud section of the event. Luckily I wore my good mud stompin' boots. I splash through the muck and the puddles towards the cacophonous noises of jeering crowds and a garbled PA announcer. It seems I've reached the Thunderdome. Sprawled out in front of me lies a sloppy racetrack of mud and snow built for athletes by athletes. The grand arena sits within a bowl at the lowest possible part of town. Every drop of beer spilt on main street, every stream of piss drizzled down upon a back alley bush matriculates to this spot.
I've come to witness the Coffin Races, the showcase event of Frozen Dead Guy Days and the envy of racetracks from Churchill Downs to Talladega Motor Speedway. The contest pits teams of 6 coffin toting pallbearers in a mad dash to deliver the "corpse" of the 7th teammate to the finish line. The circuit traces a muddy loop 'round a pond, between hay bales, over slippery hills, and through frigid puddles. Each team decorates their coffin and sports homemade uniforms to match team names such as the Frozen Stiffs, I'm Coffin Here, and the Ice Girls.
I watch a few rounds of no-holds-barred sarcophageal steeplechases before meandering back to the main drag. As I'm taking in all the lunacy of FDGD I hear Lowell George's mellifluous warble over the din of the crowd. You don't often hear Little Feat playing from the speakers of public houses out in the wild, but when you do you must go in.
I poke my head inside Ned's and a see a few spots open at the bar. It's at the end of the street, away from the throngs of partygoers so it's slightly less mobbed than most drinking establishments in town. I stroll up to an open barstool when the bartender lashes into me with the fury of a Tesla driver when you compliment them on their Prius.
"DID YOU CHECK IN WITH THE HOSTESS!??"
"Hostess?" I say as I turn around to an abandoned podium at the front of the house.
"YOU HAVE TO CHECK IN WITH THE HOSTESS" she says in a condescendingly frustrated tone.
"Ah... ok"
I peer at the empty barstools to my left & right, slap my palms on the bar, and stand up with a grunt. I about face and take 10 strides to the still unmanned hostess stand. As I wait I look up down & around for a sign that says something along the lines of "Please check in with hostess to be seated." The lack of such a sign, in my opinion, relieves me of any culpability for breaching an unstated restaurant real estate regulation.
A few minutes later a young woman saunters up to the hostess stand.
"How many?"
"Just one, can I take a spot at the bar?"
"Yeah, the bar is open seating," she says while shooting a quick glance to a handful of deserted barstools. She slowly turns back to me with a sardonic smirk that says, in so many words, "hey dumbass, you ever been to a bar before?"
I take a second to compose myself.
This is their busiest weekend of the year by a wide margin. By this point the bartender has surely dealt with hundreds of drunken buffoons that have pushed her over the limit. Her outburst has nothing to do with me. She's exasperated and I happened to be in the line of fire when a life shell was loaded into the mortar. I offer her the benefit of the doubt and suppress my smartest-ass instincts. I will be kind today as I await my invitation from the Norwegian Nobel Committee.
I plop back down on the same barstool I vacated 5 minutes ago with proof that I checked in with the hostess. I bite my tongue as I order a Frozen Dead Guy Frigid Pale Ale. When in Rome.
Upon the arrival of my ale an older fella with a shock of white hair in a disheveled ponytail leans over to discuss some inane topic or the other. Fred, as I soon learn, has lived in Nederland the past 30 years. He's seen the festival explode in popularity the past few years but doesn't besmirch the crowds that mob his little town every spring. It breaks up the monotony. I just think he likes having someone new to talk to at the bar.
Then after about 10 minutes of discussing the weather or something else equally as boring, Fred, completely unprovoked, hits me with,
"I'm pushing 60.. I'm 57.. Never been married and I don't know if I could marry a woman my age. Once they get to 50 they start to fall apart."
Awkward pause
"And they get fat"
Awkward pause again
"And they get fat in the worst places"
Well y'know Fred, I wasn't gonna say it but you look an awful lot older than 57. What we have here is a classic kettle-pot situation. I grab my check lest I hear more of Cassanova Fred's treatise on the fairer sex.
I bop over to Crosscut Pizzeria and Taphouse, where I find a spot against the rail on the back deck overlooking the bubbling waters of Middle Boulder Creek. I enjoy an Upslope Citra Pale Ale from a platic cup while chatting with my fellow patio patrons. I decide I better have one more before bidding Nederland adieu.
While on the patio I book a room at a modestly priced accommodation called the Millennium Harvest House in Boulder. The hotel's proximity to the university campus suggests that I should be able to find a tavern within walking distance to watch March Madness. I find my way back to the rig at the mining museum and deftly traverse the winding road to Boulder. My timing is perfect as I beat the FDGD crowd and make it to the Millennium whilst the sun is just barely hanging on.
The hotel has a 60s-era futuristic feel that has swung so far past "old" that it's likely now considered retro chic. I check in and walk down the swooping hallway of the main building of the hotel to.. another building that's connected to it, that's somehow connected to a third building, that winds around to a fourth building? I think? It's a maze of hallways that would make perfect sense to a local at Steamboat Springs.
I drop my bags in the only slightly dingy room and set off on foot. Right down the road I find a nice watering hole called Backcountry Pizza & Tap House that should work just fine. I sidle up to the bar and order myself an ice cold Scenario Porter from our good friends at Melvin Brewing in Alpine, WY. The dozen or so TVs in the joint are all tuned to hoops. The game I'm really interested in doesn't start for another half hour, a hardwood showdown between the 12 seed New Mexico State Lobos and the 4 seed Arkansas Razorbacks. I'm all-in on Arkansas tonight, they are my pick for my March Madness daily pick 'em a-lá NFL Survivor.
I finish my porter just as dem Peeeeeigs is about to tip off. I decide to switch to an Insane Rush IPA from Bootstrap Brewing just down the road a piece in Longmont and pair it with a slice of margherita and a half dozen wings. The game is a low scoring affair, with Arkansas going nearly 8 minutes of game time in the second half without a single point. The Lobos were only able to muster a meager 6 points of their own in that stretch. If the entire game were played at such a leisurely pace the final tally would add up to 30 points combined.
The second half is uncomfortably close, with Arkansas seeming to score off sheer athleticism alone devoid of any resemblance of an offensive system. But in the end the Hogs win 53-48 and I celebrate with a 2x4 Double IPA from Melvin, leaving Backcountry happy, full, and more than slightly tipsy.
Only one more day of skiing left. I can't believe it's already here.