The title pretty much covers the whole point of this post.
Once upon a time, I lived in Crested Butte, for two years. I taught high-school science and math at a now non-existent private school, Crested Butte Academy. The first year my salary was $12,000. The second year my salary was $14,000 (though they did pay for an apartment that second year–I was in one of the dorm rooms near the kids for the first year).
I fell in love with Crested Butte then, and deep down I’ve never moved on.
Karen watched the kids for the weekend so that I could meet up with Jon for two days of riding. We were both way out of biking shape, having not ridden more than twice all year, but whatever. We did two trails that others would consider warm-ups (that I once considered warm-ups), but whatever. Jon and are are both old enough, and old-enough friends, to care about what matters: the conversation, comraderie, relaxation, freedom, adventure-feeling.
We camped in our usual spot, up Slate River in the wide meadow with other mountain biking crews. We also went for an evening drive up to the Paradise Divide and scouted other spots, for future family camping options. The weather was perfect for sleeping in the back of the xterra–chilly and crisp. Perfect also for drinking the extremely nice bottle of rye that Jon brought…
My infatuation with Crested Butte will fade if I stay away for awhile—go dormant, so to speak—but when I go back, I realize that deep down my love for the place smoldered with an ever-burning desire. It has the big mountains, the alpine streams, the trails, the snow, it’s just all around more intensely alpine than other Colorado towns. For me, there’s no better mountain town anywhere. If I didn’t have to make money somehow, that’s where I would be.
