THE BUNKHOUSE ON TOP OF ASPEN MOUNTAIN
In November of 1972 I went to work as a ski lift operator on
Aspen Mountain. At that time they needed
a small crew to ski from the top of the mountain every morning to start the
lower lifts. Four to five of us lived in
the Bunkhouse at the top of Aspen Mountain at an elevation of 11, 212
feet. I did this for four years.
In the summer of 1974 I worked on my bachelor’s degree in journalism at
CSU. I wrote a magazine article that my professor thought I should publish in
the Denver Post’s Empire Magazine. I
never did submit it. After 40 years I’m
publishing it on my blog as a narrative.
First the article and then…what really happened.
Some of the characters are dead. I don’t know what happened to the others
except from occasional gossip. I’ve
decided to use real names as this is not fiction. To keep it as comfortable as I can for those
involved in this drama, I’m only using first names and nick names.
There was a lot of drug use and I don’t mean to imply that
anyone mentioned in this narrative, including myself, still indulges in illegal
drugs. For those of us who have lived
this long, we had to give that shit up a long time ago. I haven't been able to locate any photographs from my first year on the mountain, but should I run across them, I'll publish a few here.
No. 2 lift
When most people are preparing for the Thanksgiving holidays
I pack my clothes and other personal belongings, load them into a snowcat and
head for what will be my home for the next five months. ..the top of Aspen
Mountain.
Upon
applying for work as a ski lift operator for the Aspen Skiing Corporation n the
winter of 1972, I planned on living in Carbondale, commuting the treacherous
highway that locals refer to as “Killer 82.”
It seemed o the only alternative other than submitting to Aspen’s
exorbitant cost of living. During the
interview, the lift manager, Larry Edstrom, asked if I might like to live at
the top of Aspen Mountain in the bunkhouse.
“What does that involve?” I asked
hesitantly. Larry rattled off a list of
duties and rules: “You and your three
bunkmates will be responsible for skiing down every morning and starting the
middle lifts to bring the Ski Patrol and the other lift operators to the top of
the mountain. Then you will go to your
assigned lift and work there for the remainder of the day. At the end of the day you will return to the
top of the mountain and you may do anything you wish except run the lifts for
your own convenience ride the snowmobiles or entertain women.” I tried to look benign. “We have a six-day work week and you may
spend two nights in town.”
With
all those restrictions upon my social life I couldn’t quite see the point. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want us to
run the lifts at night or go tearing up the slopes on a snowmobile, but why
can’t we entertain women?” Larry
frowned. “Its’ mainly for insurance
reasons, but then it’s also a matter of PR.
Not everyone can handle a situation like this so we try to make it worth
it by providing you with a free room and all the food you can eat.” In a town like Aspen, where room and board
can devour an entire paycheck, the relative isolation didn’t seem so bad after
all.
That
night I packed all my belongings and said goodbye to my folks. “Do they know you haven’t been on a pair of skis
in six years?” my dad asked. “I told
them, but they said it wouldn’t matter since I’m to remain at the top and won’t
be skiing down to start any lifts.” My
brother, the super-skier, looked at me and laughed. “The most difficult mountain you’ve even
been on is Buttermilk and you always skied the easiest trails. Since Aspen Mountain doesn’t have any easy
trails, how do you expect to make it down?’
“I’ll manage!” I said defensively. My sleep that night was interrupted by dreams
of skiing off cliffs, broken bones, running into lift tower, trees, other skiers…I
had my doubts that I could even remember how to snowplow!
The
next morning I loaded boxes of books and suitcases packed with too many clothes
into a snowcat. Don Smith, the lift
supervisor, told me to get my skis on and we would head for the top. Nervously, I tied the laces on my old leather
ski boots and stepped into my bear-trap bindings which were attached a worn out
pair of wooden skis. A ski patrolman
skated over gracefully and watched as I struggled with my bindings. “Where did you get those?” he asked. “They’re antiques!” I looked down at his shiny plastic boots,
space-age bindings, $200 skis and groaned.
Don and
I positioned ourselves on the ramp of the Little Nell lift and I watched as our
chair came rushing toward us from the bullwheel. “Poles on the outside, look to the inside!”
Don snapped. I was in the process of
removing my poles straps from my wrists when I felt the chair knock my knees
out from under me. Luckily I didn’t
fall, but I dropped my poles. A patrolman
behind us picked them up.
After
reaching the top of the little Nell lift we skied the short distance to the
bottom of the Bell Mountain lift. As we
rode the lift in silence I looked down on the infamous Ridge of Bell where many
exciting hot dog races have been held.
Everywhere I looked were moguls the size of Volkswagens! I looked about frantically from my high perch
and couldn’t see a gentle slope in sight.
A pang of anxiety hit and I knew I would be stuck forever on the top of
Aspen Mountain.
We
unloaded at the top of the Bell Mountain lift and I tried to follow Don through
an easy area known as Deer Park. I fell
and he was out of sight before I could get back into my bindings. I followed his tracks through a frightening
half-inch of powder, snowplowing to the bottom of #3 lift which would take up
to the top. Don was waiting impatiently
and talking to the lift operator. “It’s
about time,” he said. The ramp was icy
and I skied into the lift operator, knocking him over. “This is Byron, one of your bunkmates,” Don
informed me. “Nice to meet you,” I said,
still struggling to get up. Byron looked
at my equipment and laughed. “Where did
you get those, turkey? They’re
antiques!” I could tell this was going
to be fun.
As Don
and I neared the top of the #3 lift I asked, “What’s a turkey?” “A turkey is a novice that shouldn’t’ even be
on this mountain, but we frown on our employees using the term.” Don pointed to a modern house sitting in a
treeless expanse of snow. A lift shack
was attached to the side of it. “There’s
your new home and the lift you’ll be running.”
The view was magnificent! Peaks
of thirteen and fourteen thousand feet were visible in a 360 degree view. “Sorry the bunkhouse doesn’t have a view of
town,” he said. Who needs it, I thought.
Once
inside the bunkhouse Don told me to look around. I hadn’t anticipated such a modern
house. The kitchen was enormous and the
shelves were packed with food. I peeked
inside the refrigerator which was stuffed with milk, pop, vegetables and cheese. The freezer compartment was empty except for about
six inches of frost. Don led me to the
dining room window and pointed to a large wooden box outside. I opened it and found it to be full of frozen
meat. “This is the shady side of the house
and you’ll rarely find the temperature above freezing,” Don explained.
The
bathroom window overlooked a deep canyon to the west and I could barely make
out skiers at the Aspen Highlands Ski Area.
I put my hands over a hot air vent in the floor and warmed them. “It used to be a rough life up here,” Don
said. “The bunkhouse was just a one-room
cabin. Then they expanded and installed
central heating. The new addition has
electric heat.” I was pleasantly
impressed with my new home. “Where are
the laundry facilities?” I asked. Don
grinned. “You have to ski to town with
your dirty laundry and do it on your day off.”
I felt helpless. “I’ll be lucky
to get down this mountain with my ski poles much less a bag of laundry!” Don seemed unconcerned. “We’ve got a washer and dryer in the budget
for next year.” He opened a closet door
and pointed to a washboard. “It wouldn’t
be the first time it’s been used.”
In a
corner of the living room, my belongings were piled neatly. “Where are the bunk beds?” Don pointed down a hall. “Your room is at the end on the right. Until last year there were only two bedrooms,
but we added three more when we built the addition.” This was better than I thought. A room of my own! I grabbed a couple of suitcases and stepped
into my room. In disbelief my eyes
searched the four white walls for a window.
“Two of the new rooms don’t have windows,” Don yelled from the kitchen. It looked like a monk’s cell.
The
rest of the day I was shown the ins and outs of running a ski lift and in no
time at all I was on my own. At the end
of the day the rest of my bunkmates, Byron, Steve, Andy and Rabbi returned to
the top and we got acquainted. By five
o’clock the last two ski patrolmen left for “super-clear”…one last sweep to
make sure all the tourists were safely off for the day. We were all alone on the top of Aspen
Mountain. I sat down at the kitchen
table and found myself short of breath.
“What’s the elevation up here?” I asked.
Steve helped himself to one of my cigarettes. “Only 11,212 feet. We really shouldn’t smoke.” I agreed and lit a cigarette out of a
six-year habit. It made me dizzy in
short order.
