| There
I was last winter, nervously making small talk with the
man who was to create my headshot for this magazine. When
he learned that I write about odd places in Colorado,
he mentioned that we have more closed ski areas than open
ones—and some of them are still ski-able, if you
don't mind hiking to the top.
That's all I needed to know; I had a mission to ski at
a “ghost ski area.” Our party chose to focus
on one in particular: Geneva Basin, located on the Guanella
Pass Road between the town of Grant on Highway 285 and
Georgetown on I-70. (It closed in 1984 after a chair fell
off a cable.) Why that one? My husband Brian had good
memories of skiing it in times past; it wasn't too far
away; and it is on public land, and thus still accessible.
So, one Saturday last winter, we loaded up the car and
headed out, choosing to approach the pass from the Grant
(south) side. We drove and drove, turned north at Grant,
drove some more, and were stopped by heaps and piles of
the good stuff. It seems that Guanella Pass is no longer
kept open in the winter—and the road closes about
five miles from Geneva Basin. We were expecting to have
to use some leg power to hike ourselves up to the top,
but we weren't prepared to ski in for five miles first.
But why let a little thing like that stand in the way
of a good day? We turned around and headed to Evergreen,
in search of another abandoned ski area, Squaw Pass. Bummer
again—sort of. Squaw Pass is not abandoned; it's
flourishing under the name Echo Mountain (echomountainpark.com).
Squaw Pass began as a family-owned resort for Denverites
back before I-70 was opened, and before “ski area”
became synonymous with “monstrous development.”
Once I-70 and the Eisenhower Tunnel were completed, Squaw
Pass lost its market. In fact, most of the front range
ski areas faced the same issues: they all had (and still
have) the disadvantage of less snowfall than west slope
areas, and back then, snowmaking wasn't much of an option.
Between the quixotic snow and the new highway, Squaw Pass
was shuttered in 1975.
Times, and traffic on I-70, have changed. All of a sudden,
skiing on this side of the Continental Divide looks good.
And with modern-day snow-making capability, Echo Mountain
is doing a fine business. It's aiming for the all-around,
non-pretentious crowd. In fact, it's aptly marketing itself
as “closest, cheapest, freshest.”
Fun, it was. But it wasn't Geneva Basin. So, a couple
of weeks later, we tried again to get to Geneva Basin
from the I-70 side in our burly 4WD pickup truck. First
stop: Sopp & Truscott Bakery in Silver Plume.
One of the bakery owners, Patrick Buckley, asked us if
we were eastbound or westbound; we told him we were southbound,
hoping to ski at Geneva Basin. At that he perked right
up; he had been the snowplow driver over Guanella Pass
for years and years, and knew the terrain as well as anyone.
As he went about ringing us up, he told us the bakery
is for sale—and then handed us an extra loaf of
Johnny Bread, the best bread anywhere, and asked us to
“deliver it to Julie.”
It seems that Julie Holmes lives at Duck Lake, less than
a mile north of the old Geneva Basin ski area, a place
that is unreachable in winter. We now had a dual mission:
seeking an abandoned ski area, and delivering sustenance
to a snowbound woman.
Off we went, through Georgetown and up the Guanella Pass
Road, only to find that it is only plowed part way up
this side, too. We parked and geared up: snowshoes for
daughter Renee and family friend Barrett Sather (he carried
his snowboard slung on his back), touring skis for me,
and telemark skis for Brian (he got to carry Renee's downhill
skis). Three miles later, we were out of breath, but on
the top of the pass at 11,666 feet. Where was Duck Lake,
and where was Julie, never mind Geneva Basin?
By this point, it was 3 p.m. We mulled over our options,
and decided to split the party. Barrett and I made a run
for Duck Lake, which seemed likely to be nestled in the
valley right below. Brian and Renee headed back toward
the truck for some glorious downhill excitement.
A mile and a half below the pass on the south side, we
braved the “Private Property” signs and the
ruckus of dogs and skied straight to the only cabin with
smoke coming out. There was Julie, happy indeed to have
visitors and a loaf of bread.
It turns out she runs the Alpendorf cabins (angelseleven@earthlink.net),
which are a set of 50-year-old gems ready and waiting
year 'round for visitors. She offered us a beer, and as
we drank, we heard bits and pieces of her story, which
includes 41 years of living there. When they stopped plowing
the road in 2006, it took a real bite out of her business,
but this is home.
The coroner for Clear Creek County has assured her that
he'll request a “welfare check” from the powers
that be any time that she needs to see a friendly face.
So far, she's doing fine, and she's open for business—although
there isn't much. She'll arrange transport via snowmobile
to bring winter guests' gear in; guests themselves are
self-propelled.
As for the ski area, she reported that it is much loved
by a strong, adventurous crowd who ski in the five miles
and then propel themselves up the slopes. Snowmobiles
are used, too. There's a hut at the top where people sometimes
stay; it's free, first come first served, and we wanted
to see it—and try the slopes. But dark was coming
and we had to settle for seeing the vestiges of the much
smaller Duck Lake Ski Area directly outside Julie's door.
All very enticing, but it was time to head back.
“Are you going across the lake, or up the road?”
Holmes asked. One look at each other and it was obvious:
skiing across the lake was a great idea. At the far end,
we climbed up to the pass through an untrammeled valley.
On top, Sather swapped his snowshoes for his snowboard,
waved and whizzed down to the truck. I came more cautiously
on my cross-country skis, and was glad to be safely returned
to my crew as the sun sank lower and lower.
Our dinner conversation at Mangia!
in Idaho Springs was centered on plans for a third attempt
to see Geneva Basin. It will be an overnighter, including
staying at the Alpendorf.
The moral of the story: it’s all about the adventure.
Success doesn't have to mean getting where you're going;
for us, we twice had success—that is, fun—and
still haven't “gotten there” at all. Long
live serendipity.
For more information on Colorado’s abandoned trails,
see Powder
Ghost Towns by Peter Bronski (Wilderness Press,
2008), or visit coloradoskihistory.com.
Wendy Underhill, a writer, parent and
community do-gooder, has set a goal for 2009: “Have
more fun.” Traveling the byways of Colorado is one
of the big ways she’s fulfilling that goal.
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MAY/JUNE 2009 FEATURE ARTICLES
