by Kelly Ryan

The dim interior was not especially cheery except for the twenty or so jubilant characters milling about. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and if not, they were soon introduced. Leaning close to my face so I could hear him over the ruckus, Brock told me about his hometown Crested Butte, Colorado. “I like the fact that it’s at the end of the road. That’s why I stay here,” he said.

Crested Butte’s remote location, at the end of Hwy 135, keeps it from developing as fast as the ski towns along I-70. Vail, Aspen, and Keystone have lost the flavor that Crested Butte has. The only other road leading out of Crested Butte is Kebler Pass, a 30-mile stretch of scantily paved seasonal road, soon to be “improved.” Eager to enjoy the road and the place while they still had their quirks, we decided to ski over the pass and hitchhike back.

Pam, Brock and a local musician

At 5:30 AM, I could have ignored the alarm clock if I didn’t desperately need to pee. We finished off a box of doughnut holes, heated our ski boots in our sleeping bags, sucked down some half frozen slush, and tumbled out of my truck into the snowy parking lot. The tint of green in the dark sky helped reassure me that the sun was planning on rising to the momentous task of warming this frigid air. Shivering like sewing machines at the hands of mad quilters, we clipped our boots on to flimsy skate skis and started up Kebler Pass. Carrying our daypacks, our sleep and oxygen deprived bodies struggled along at a less then break neck speed. Occasionally, my friend would spontaneously combust into a pile of skis, poles, and frozen body parts.

Despite the smirks we received from passing snowmobilers, we made it over Kebler pass. Molded to the jagged Rocky Mountains, it winds its way through the history of one of the few areas in the state that has not been transformed into a trendy mountain theme park. The snowmobilers from the old mining town, Irwin, are hardened by the mountains and cling defiantly to their rustic lifestyle, skiing or snowmobiling home when snow blankets the road. A Crested Butte local warned us that they might be “waving guns around or something. After all, what more could you expect from a bunch of old people living in seclusion?”The sun rose on schedule and got to work producing warmth and a vibrant blue sky. Gaining momentum, we headed down the far side of the pass, gliding by frozen streams and spectacular cliff bands.

Passing through an elegant grove of aspens, I noticed black and white words and pictures sketched on the trees refured to as the “eyes of the forest.”The wood was still a pale brown where “Dave and Lori 2001” was outlined by a heart. Messages like “I Rock Texas 8-10-64” and phallic symbols were clumsily drawn on the smooth bark. Other trees had lists of names, probably friends, like us, out to enjoy the day. Simple names like “Donato Peru” and “Lou Fierna,” from the 1940’s when Basque shepherds used the pass, resonated with me most. I pictured a Basque shepherd listening to the flutter of aspen leaves of the trees growing on the side of Kebler pass, while whittling away at the aspen bark, pealing off the layers one at a time. Scraping through the fragile, white, outer layer to the moist green and finally to the brown core of the tree. Basque sheepherders played an integral role in the American West, but never received the fame and glory of cowboys, and bank robbers. They melted unnoticed into the abyss of the past.

Colorado shepherds are not the only unacknowledged Basques. It is scarcely known that they have a distinct language, Euskara, older than any other European language still spoken. Some claim Basque cod fisherman discovered North America before Columbus, keeping their discovery secret to protect their fishing grounds.As we continued down the pass, I wondered what other Basque secrets might be held in those chalky white trees.

Our snowy trail was abruptly transformed into a plowed road. We started walking, thumbs out, toward Paonia, a last holdout for the remainder of Colorado’s true ranchers and hippies. Not knowing how far town was, or how we would get back to the truck, added to the enjoyment of the moment. We were about to be the famous “three girls, with skis, on the edge of town looking for a ride to Gunnison or Crested Butte.” The couple that dropped us off had called this message in to the local radio station.

Three coal miners in a big white truck rolled to a stop. The driver’s lip protruded from his jaw over an enormous wad of chew, which instantly gained my disgust and admiration. He was a real pro.He never spit and held a conversation long enough for us to gather that he loved to hunt “just about anything that moves.” When they dropped us off in Montrose, the fact that we were stranded began to sink in. Headlights of every car turned into taillights without a moment’s pause; we debated whether or not to have a pizza delivered to the lamp post on Hwy 50. I spotted my prey, a middle aged man and his daughter in a Blue Toyota pick-up. Jackpot, he was going all the way to the skier’s paradise of Crested Butte, where we had left my truck 17 hours earlier.

Crested Butte is one of the last ski towns in the state that has not been overrun by millionaires and tourists. Downtown is still dominated by little funky houses owned by people that really live there, while the million dollar second homes are kept at bay on the outskirts of town. Unfortunately, it will not be this way forever. The ski resort has recently been sold to the Mullers, who turned Okemo Mountain from a shabby struggling resort into one of Vermont’s more popular ski destinations. Soon, it may no longer be the end of the road.