A new brewery opening is always good news, and having one take shape in the challenging economic environment of a mountain town is even better. This September, Telluride Brewing Company will open its doors in the Lawson Hill area of Telluride. A joint project between long-time Smuggler’s Brewpub head brewer Chris Fish and business partner Tommy Thatcher, TBC is intended to be a production brewery, with distribution of canned product and 22-ounce bombers to begin locally in southwest Colorado this fall. Tastings will be offered at the brewhouse, with the full lineup of TBC brews to be available at the Llama Restaurant and Pub on Main Street in town. The final decisions as to which styles of beer will be offered initially were not set at the time of writing, but Fish indicated that he thought a Rye Pale Ale might be the first out of the gates, as he has won medals at the Great American Beer Festival for that style of beer in the past. The grand opening celebration is planned for the week of Blues & Brews, and TBC will be pouring at the festival as well.
The 18th Annual Telluride Blues & Brews Festival will take place September 16-18th in Town Park. The party really gets going during the grand tasting on Saturday, this year featuring 53 breweries from across the West. The musical lineup is slightly different than in years past, with Willie Nelson headlining, along with the Flaming Lips, Robert Cray, Big Head Todd, Dweezil Zappa and Moe. According to event press director Bill Kight, the intent this year was to attract a broader audience and then expose them to some serious blues musicians alongside less-traditional blues music. I personally consider Willie among the top three on my list of the greatest living Americans (the other two being Bob Dylan and Jimmy Carter), and hearing the mellow notes and bourbon-smooth sound of his guitar and voice flowing pure and true through the crisp fall air at 8,750 feet is reason enough to make the trip.
If you do go, be sure to stop in at the newly re-opened Baked in Telluride for some tasty goodies. Following a tragic fire that destroyed the entire building two years ago, owner Jerry Greene undertook the arduous task of rebuilding the establishment, a process completed this past June when the doors were opened in time for the summer season. Though he used to produce and serve his own beer, BIT now serves several styles from Smuggler’s on tap.
For some reason, September is the month to celebrate the greatest of all beer holiday, (and perhaps the greatest of all holidays, period), Oktoberfest. Based on a fairy tale originating from old Germany, the annual event, supposedly commemorating some dude’s wedding, is celebrated around the globe, and makes a wonderful excuse to get together with a couple thousand of your closest friends and neighbors to drink beer and eat brats in the streets of a friendly mountain town near you. Seriously, claiming meaning for Oktoberfest is about as ridiculous as the messenger of Easter being a magic egg-laying, long-eared mammal. Having attended my share of these celebrations in various locales across the West, I will call out the annual event held in Durango, Colorado, at the end of the month as my personal hometown favorite.
Up in Keystone, the 15th Annual Bluegrass and Beer Festival will take place August 6-7th at River Run Village. Featuring dozens of breweries, and tastings on both days of the event, this festival bears particular attention as bluegrass legend Peter Rowan and his Bluegrass Band will play two full sets on Saturday, and a third on Sunday. A one-hour song-writing/guitar-picking workshop session with Peter is also on the schedule for Saturday morning. If you don’t know his history, as a young man, he was a member of the Bluegrass Boys backing up the grandfather of bluegrass music, Bill Monroe. In the early ’70s, he, David Grisman, Jerry Garcia, Vassar Clements and John Kahn formed Old & In the Way, a traditional single-mic unit that began a bluegrass revolution that is still going strong today. I personally own and operate something like 50 albums and live recordings of his music spanning five decades, and make sure to get tickets whenever he comes to Colorado. At the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in June, he introduced his song, “Panama Red,” by saying, “Some people think this song is about drugs. Some people think that I take drugs. But I don’t need to take drugs … I AM ALL DRUGS.” Can I get a yee-haw to that!?
Erich Hennig, an avid home brewer, is the Four Corners correspondent for the Rocky Mountain Brewing News. He lives in Durango, Colo.
They grew up with rhythm thumping around their little heads, learned to dance before they could even crawl and were dragged off to many music festivals by parents. They live in a high-altitude paradise with the sounds of birdsong, rivers, wind in the aspens and communal jams, so it’s no wonder mountain children are predisposed to music. They may be mere babes in the wilds of the industry, but they’ve proven themselves to be very old souls in the world of picking, songwriting and performance. They are the next generation, the new breed of singer/songwriters, and they’re unafraid of expression, full of vim, creativity and a sassy grasp of their possibilities.
Sol Chase blew into Crested Butte on a gypsy wind when he was only six years old in August 2004. “I was traveling around 13 different countries with my dad, living a communal-centered, nature-rific alternative lifestyle,” the well-articulated 13-year-old says, painting a vision of a nomadic spirit most kids could only dream of. “My dad and a friend taught me guitar at the age of three. We were busking for many years, playing a lot of music on the streets of Europe. From age five, I could follow along on the songs and sometimes put out my own guitar case and for a couple hours I’d make 20 to 30 Euros. We’d set up on the streets and play whenever we went into town. From town to town, we’d camp somewhere and go into town once a week to buy groceries and play music. We’d busk to get enough money to get to the next town. It was a gypsy life and it was definitely fun. It exposed me to a lot of different cultures. I’ve got more of an open mind to other things, and I feel I’m a more well-rounded person.”
By age six, Sol had switched to mandolin as his main instrument because of the smaller size and he enjoyed the sound. Sol and his dad Merrick also switched mountain towns and uprooted themselves to Telluride, where there were more musical opportunities. “When my dad and I came to America, one of our first stops was at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. I loved the music, I loved the atmosphere, the openness and friendliness. I actually got to play on the main stage that year,” Sol remembers, fearlessly plotting a course for the limelight. “I wanted to play, but it seemed unobtainable, it seemed super important, but I kinda thought it was possible right after Yonder Mountain String Band played.” Sol told his father he wanted to get up on stage and play immediately. “Like NOW, so my dad lifted me over the back stage fence. I had my guitar and dad was on bongos and I played three songs. I played one of my originals (“Last Train to Berlin”) and then played two old-time gypsy songs (“Raggle Tangle Gypsies” and “Go Move Shift”). People still remember it today. It was pretty awesome. I don’t think I quite realized the enormity of it, but my dad was freaking out. I was just playing to play,” he chuckles.
Sol’s influences draw from a tight genre: Yonder Mountain, Jeff Austin, Chris Thile and Drew Emmitt, the latter of whom Sol has played with several times. “I’m definitely bluegrass; it’s my thing,” he says. You can hear Emmitt’s influential style in Sol’s picking. Adept and lightning fast, his fingers know their way around a mandolin with surprisingly tasteful riffs for one so shy in years. “I haven’t really met anyone who started as young as I did,” Sol admits. “Some of the now-famous musicians started young. At this year’s Telluride Bluegrass Festival in June, I played with a guitarist named Bella Hudson. She’s 12 and lives in Evergreen. I met her last year at the kids’ tent at the Bluegrass Festival.”
“I had a feeling that I had to write songs and play music because I wanted to express myself in music,” says the 12-year-old Bella Hudson, a singer-songwriter who picked up a guitar a mere four years ago — but as a matter of perspective, it’s a third of her life. “I’ve written 20 songs and recorded 12. Growing up in the mountains with the views, a song will hit me when I’m looking out the window, and they’re my best songs.”
Telluride Bluegrass Festival has a history of being really supportive of kids in music, and kids get the benefit of serendipitously and spontaneously connecting. “I met Sol and we were jamming at the Festival,” Bella says of the 2010 Telluride event. She was asked to play on the main stage that year and came home super charged and inspired, having performed in front of thousands of people. “This spring, Sol and I recorded three songs together at Immersive Studios in Boulder, one of mine called ‘Cowgirl Prom’.” Bella and Sol worked on each other’s music for this year’s Telluride Bluegrass Festival and performed a mini set to about 12,000 people in a Saturday morning slot. “I wasn’t scared. I was really excited!” she enthusiastically giggles about the fabulous reception both she and Sol were given for their originals.
Although Sol loves to play and create, he has a clear vision of at least his immediate future. “People ask me if I see music as a career. I don’t really think I want to take it to a pro level as a career. I already have an EP on iTunes, and I’m working on a full album. My interests are more in math and sciences. This fall, I’ll be attending my first year of high school at Phillip Exeter Academy in New Hampshire.”
Although he’s taking his mandolin and guitar along to school, “There are so many academic areas I’m interested in that I won’t have much time to take the music courses offered.”
His talent isn’t going to fade away anytime soon, though, and music has a way of permanently attaching itself to one’s future.
Bella admits with well-earned, smug joy, “I’ve sacrificed soccer and swimming for my music. I practice every day, so it takes time from my homework and any sports I could have done. But since I’ve been in music, it’s been everything to me, and I don’t miss anything that I’ve had to give up. It’s what I want to do with my life.” Rock on little sister …
Dawne Belloise is a freelance writer, photographer, traveler and musician living in Crested Butte. A feature writer for the Crested Butte News-Weekly, her musings and photography have been published in numerous blogs, mags and rags. Contact email@example.com.
Not everyone can pull off “Fire on the Mountain,” be it in sound or action. Peace Officer learned its lesson from real mountain cops.
Not long after the hip-hop/reggae/dub crew formed in 2007, the artists stretched beyond their socially conscious vocab by playing with fire.
After a gig in Estes Park with a guest trumpet player, the Fort Collins-based crew proceeded to its comped resort suite. Around 3 a.m., they noticed the trumpet player and his young, loud pal had disappeared, something that relieved more than worried them — until the fire alarm went off.
“The player and his friend ran into our room with terrified looks on their faces, which were also covered in a gray powder,” said MC, guitarist and self-proclaimed nice guy Andy Kromarek.
Seems they set off the fire extinguisher, not thinking it would trigger an alarm (and apparently not considering consequences of the thick powder that would cover the entire hallway, either).
“Not a good scene,” nice-and-innocent guy said. “It looked like smoke in the air, and with the alarm going off and it being 3:30 or so, the other guests in the place were starting to freak out.”
What exactly does a cozy mountain retreat scene gone bad look like?
One scared-out-of-his-wits, fire-extinguisher-curious pal who erupts into tears and admits he’s only 17, so please, no one tell his mother — to which the Peace Officers replied, “We won’t, if you won’t tell her where you got the beer”.
One pissed-off mom of said 17-year-old in her pajamas (that’s all the description you want on this one) screaming she’s suing the resort because she tweaked her ankle in the mad rush to fresh mountain air,
One Honda with a trumpet in the back, squealing outta Estes as fast as it could, and
Just about every cop in Estes on site. (They may not have seen this much action since Stephen King insisted the second and more true-to-his book version of “The Shining” be filmed at the Stanley Hotel).
“At this point, things looked dire for the band, and with a few policemen striding toward us, we didn’t know what to expect,” Kromarek said. “Turns out they were amused by the whole thing — I guess Estes Park is generally a pretty boring place for a cop.” Still, the stickler cops wanted the name of the trumpet player. When the musicians claimed they didn’t know (“it was 4 a.m., and we were drunk, so that seemed like a good idea,” the MC said), the cops threatened them with paying for every guests’ hotel room — as well as the by-now-decidedly broken ankle in PJs. So they ratted their horn player out (once, not twice, for the Mountain Gazette world to read).
It seems cops come pre-cut with the urge to always get the last word in before letting young people loose; they are the smart-ass sages of safety. For me, it started at age 16 when I raced my neighbor-boy home (launching my parent’s Oldsmobile over a huge bump in the middle of a bridge, which resulted in a very large dent in the bottom of the gas tank). The cop who pulled me over left me with the resounding words: “Remember, a car is not a toy.” About a decade later, a Dillon, Colo., police officer pulled me over after I rolled through a stop sign (after, uh, speeding). When I told him I didn’t have my driver’s license on me because I was going skiing, he said, “Do you have your ski pass?” — to which I enthusiastically replied affirmatively and whipped it out, hoping it would give him the necessary clue he needed to confirm my nice-girl identity.
“You need a ski pass to ski, right?” he asked, looking me deeply in the eyes. I nodded. “Well, you need a driver’s license to drive.”
Needless to say, I missed that powder morning.
So what did the Estes Park cops leave the Peace Officers with?
“You know, you guys aren’t Led Zeppelin. You probably shouldn’t go around trashing hotels just yet.”
Though Westword magazine just nominated the crew the best hip-hop in Denver and Peace Officer is playing larger festivals like Soul Rebel Festival in Denver and venues like Boulder’s Fox Theater these days, they’re not singing, or playing with, Fire on the Mountain.
To catch Peace Officers, sans alarms, in the next two months, check out Star Bar in Park City, Utah Aug. 18 or Snake River Saloon in Keystone, Colo., Sept. 9-10.
Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, Colo.
Books: “The Six Mountain-Travel Books,” by Eric Shipton
British explorer and mountaineer Eric Shipton was a tireless adventurer, known for the first ascent of Kamat, then the highest peak ever climbed in the world, and early Mount Everest reconnaissance that discovered the route over the Khumbu icefall. Shipton’s world travels, exploration and climbs were detailed in six books, long out of print, but re-released in a hardcover edition in 1997. Mountaineers Books has released “The Six Mountain-Travel Books” in one 800-page paperback edition: “Nanda Devi,” “Blank on the Map,” “Upon that Mountain,” “Mountains of Tartary,” “Mt. Everest Reconnaissance Expedition 1951” and “Land of Tempest.” $34.95
Podcast: Off Belay Podcast with Chris Kalous and Jamie Lynn Miller
Chris Kalous and Jamie Lynn Miller have a lot to say about climbing, and almost none of it is about sponsored athletes, the newest, flashiest gear or news in the world of climbing, The Off Belay Podcast is a candid discussion of the important stuff. How candid? Well, maybe your dog doesn’t belong at the crag. Or your kid. Maybe you should stop bitching when you show up at Indian Creek, the most famous crag in Colorado (oh, it’s in Utah?), and there are dozens of other people there. Chris and Jamie have had a few guests on the show, but the highlight is their own banter — whether it’s about online climbing forums, guns, hung draws or whatever. Between the two of them, Chris and Jamie have written for Climbing, Rock and Ice, Elevation Outdoors, Women’s Adventure, 303 Magazine, Men’s Health, the Snowmass Sun and others. And oh yeah, the Mountain Gazette, where Chris was the gear editor for a number of years. Jamie Lynn is also an on-air personality at Aspen Public Radio’s Sonic Byways. The Off Belay Podcast might be the most fun you’ll have listening to two people you don’t know talk about climbing you haven’t done. offbelaypodcast.com
Radio: ClimbTalk Radio with Mike Brooks and Dave McAllister
For a couple non-college students running a radio show late on Thursday nights from a college radio station, Mike Brooks and Dave McAllister have convinced an incredible number of huge names in the climbing world to come on their show, which is 60 minutes of fairly organized fun. Brooks, of frontrangebouldering.com, and McAllister of pumpfactoryroad.com, have brought in a laundry list of who’s whos in the three years of ClimbTalk: John Bachar, Royal Robbins, John Long, Pat Ament, Jim Bridwell, Jim Erickson, Heidi Wirtz, Dave Graham, John Sherman, Jason Kehl, Peter Beal, Robyn Erbesfield and more. Brooks and McAllister keep the entire 60 minutes interesting, with their combined climbing knowledge, Brooks’ conversational instinct and McAllister’s bouncing-off-the-walls energy. ClimbTalk began in 2008 as a climbing TV show on the Boulder cable-access channel, then a radio show on KGNU and is now at its current home in KVCU, the radio station on the bottom floor of the UMC at the campus of the University of Colorado. The show airs at 10 p.m. MST every Thursday night, and can be streamed at that time from radio1190.org. Past shows are stored at archive.org/details/climbtalk. I plan to talk McAllister and Brooks into making the show into a podcast by the end of summer 2011, as well, so keep your eye on the iTunes.
Books: “Home Waters: A Year of Recompense on the Provo River,” by George B. Handley
Handley, a literary critic and professor at Brigham Young University in Provo, masterfully intertwines nature, the Mormon responsibility to take care of the environment, spirituality and family over a year of exploring the Provo River watershed. As a Hemingway fan and student of old-school newspaper journalism, I appreciate Handley’s ability to write about his environment, not with the over-the-top flowery adjectives and endless lists of flora and fauna used by many a nature essayist, but with the language of a writer who knows how to draw a scene using only the right words. Handley has the literary tact to make this book accessible to non-LDS readers, making the faith part of the story, not the story. “Home Waters” will get you thinking about what’s in your own backyard, and whether you need to travel far, or at all, to ponder and understand nature. $25, uofupress.com
Brendan Leonard is a writer, climber and urban cyclist living in Denver. More of his writing can be found at www.semi-rad.com. His blog, Semi-Rad, can be found at mountaingazette.com.
After walking to the top of this rocky Thirteener, looking, as usual, for skiable terrain, I signed the summit register, for the first time ever. It was partly because I had never seen one before, anywhere, and had no ida that to actually do about it, but I signed the date, ace my name, and appended my affiliation with the “Eleventh Mountain Division,” the “Disrespectful Sons of the Tenth,” of Aspen, Colorado.
That done, I scrabbled down, over some monstrous scree, to welcome groves of Aspen, bordering the main forest thick green Spruce and Fir. It began to rain, harder, harder and harder, until I was reduced to hunkering down completely under my pancho, waiting for it to pass, or at least let up some. When it didn’t do either one, I had to get up and move anyway, on the forceful advice from the rain-soaked Indian scout in my imagination, and my father in his military presence, as well.
Finally the rain moved on, and left me facing groves of Aspen, interspersed with small open “parks,” meadows of grass and wildflowers. Navigating from one to the other, I suddenly entered one in which someone had made a campsite. The tent was zippered tight against the rain, and everything looked to be in order except for a lone item hanging from an improvised clothesline, on the opposite side of the clearing. Coming closer revealed it to be an inexplicable item of swimwear, hanging by itself, in the middle of nowhere, with no one in sight. The sensuous shape it had assumed immediately suggested to me that there was some girl running around out here in these woods without her swimsuit! A nude on the loose! In the rain, too! Ahhh, Magic strikes!
I fiddled around with my Nikon as long as I could, hoping someone would show up with an explanation, but it was not to be. I finally found a path leading out of the clearing, and reluctantly went on my way. I followed the path until it came to a small stream, which, on close inspection, seemed to have an uncanny resemblance, bordering on identity, with a spot on Conundrum Creek where I had photographed many years ago.
No sooner had I recoiled from pondering the identity over time and through space of this event of recognition, than, only a few yards more along the trail, I encountered two young girls with backpacks, trailing a small black kitten. Well, of course! Doesn’t everyone? They had just come down from a Fourteener, which one they didn’t say, and yes, the kitten had walked all the way to the summit.
I recited my experience with the empty swimsuit, and confessed to having made a photograph of it because it looked like a Nude on-the-loose, but they didn’t respond. Well, I joked, the worse that could happen would be that someday they might see the swimsuit hanging on the wall of a gallery somewhere. Still no comment, Oh, well they’re probably too tired to think about any more activity of a physical kind today, anyway!
Come to think of it, I’ll just limp on down the trail myself.
Senior correspondent Bob Chamberlain lives with his dog at 8,000 feet in Colorado’s Roaring Fork Valley.
Writing a column in late May destined for the High Summer issue in July while watching flakes the size of coasters build to a soggy eight-inch-deep mess on the front deck is no easy task. On the radio, the talk is of serious snow in the central Rockies, and the possibility that the intrepid souls at CDOT may not have some of the seasonal high-alpine passes open for the Memorial Day weekend. Independence Pass is 25 feet deep in places, but the locals in Aspen still hope for a regular start to summer, hot on the heels of near-record skier visits this past winter.
I haven’t been up the Roaring Fork Valley in years, not since Widespread Panic and Ratdog played something called the “Howling Wolf” at the base of Buttermilk in the late-’90s. At that time, the Flying Dog Brewpub still operated in Aspen, though the bottling operations had been moved down to Denver. The larger production facility allowed owner (and MG founder) George Stranahan, (also producer of Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey), to distribute his flagship Doggie-Style Pale Ale and the rest of the lineup in 45 states. I’m a big fan of Doggie-Style, and I always wondered at the connection between the beer, Aspen and the unique artwork on the labels.
As it turns out, George was the owner of the “Owl Farm” property in Woody Creek that was the long-time residence of the late-Hunter S. Thompson. He leased it to Hunter, and through his acquaintance, was introduced to artist Ralph Steadman. When Flying Dog began bottling beer for distribution, Ralph agreed to design the labels. His first label, for Road Dog Porter, contained the scrawled slogan, “Good Beer, No Shit.” The Colorado liquor board, apparently concerned that adults over the age of 21 would be irreversibly harmed by this bold stroke of marketing genius, pulled the beer from shelves. A four-year legal battle ensued, during which time the words, “Good Beer, No Censorship” replaced the original moniker. Flying Dog prevailed in court, and the label art was restored. Today, it can be found in any decent liquor store across the country, with the notable exception of the State of Texas, whose mixed-up liquor authorities still can’t handle that shit.
With the closure of the brewpub in 2000, Aspen was without a true local brewery until 2008, when the Aspen Brewing Company opened up shop. The brews are served in the on-site tasting room, and at notable venues in and around Aspen. I was lucky enough to run into them at a beer festival on Earth Day in Boulder. I enjoy India-Pale-Ale-style brews, and found ABC’s offering, Independence Pass IPA, to be a crisp and refreshing hop experience, and a welcome break from the current trend of double- and triple-strength concoctions out there, many of which drink like chilled Robitussin, and hit like a full bottle of the same.
That same summer, a friend and I hiked the Lost Man trail over the 4th of July, from the top of Independence Pass, to where it again intersects the highway, seven or eight miles below. Standing on the side of the road in a sweaty tie-dye with my thumb out, none of the 13 out-of-state minivans grinding up the pass in a slow line behind an RV would stop and give me a lift. As I watched them pass, a jet-black Trans-Am skidded to a stop on the gravel shoulder. Jumping in to the black leather seat, the driver, wearing aviators and a silk shirt, looks over to me and says in a Swiss/South African accent (a combination possibly heard only in Aspen), “I just watched them pass you. I used to ride up here. Now we pass them all”! Burying the pedal, he proceeds to tear up the narrow lanes of the pass with complete disregard for solid yellow lines, speed limits, other vehicles, sheer drops or blind curves. As we recklessly swerve around them, the honks and shouts from the flabbergasted minivan drivers are drowned by the deep-throated roar of the big-block, and Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” which the driver has turned up to 11. At 70 mph, he makes his move on the rental RV, and with open road now ahead, I see the hairpin just below the top of the pass where our car is parked. Not wanting to get behind the RV again, he slows to a roll and I jump out with a shout of thanks. As he screams away, I stand at the inside of the hairpin as the RV and all 13 minivans that had refused to give me a lift, roll slowly by. The shocked looks on the face of the Midwestern wives and children was great. The last guy in the line shouted as he passed, “Nice choice of Rides!” Priceless!
Erich Hennig, an avid home brewer, is the Four Corners columnist for the Rocky Mountain Brewing News. He lives in Durango, Colo.
Honey Island Swamp Band claims its Bayou Americana makes you smarter, thinner and better looking — but frontman Aaron Wilkinson also admits to being a fifth-generation North Florida redneck.
The musicians have traveled from their home base in New Orleans throughout the West to play in such fine establishments as The Goat Soup & Whiskey in Keystone and Whiskey Jacques in Ketchum, Idaho; this Fourth of July, the band, voted Best Roots Rock Artist in OffBeat’s 2010 Best of the Beat Awards, hits the Waterfront Blues Festival in Portland, Ore.
Wilkinson wasn’t sure what to expect when the band began touring Colorado’s mountain towns, even though now, after years of traveling, they’re all beginning to blur together, he said.
“First time I’d ever really seen mountains, so I was all wide-eyed and full of wonder,” Wilkinson said. “Guess I kind of had an idealistic vision of what it would be like, nature and all.”
About six years ago, he and his crew followed a Telluride-area local to “secret” hot springs back in the hills.
“The city slickers in the band were huffing pretty heavy,” he said about the hike, which was a piece a cake for the locals. “You’re not prepared for that thin air, and we don’t exactly lead the healthiest lifestyles anyway. But after about an hour and a half of stopping every 50 yards so that my 55-year-old emphysemic drummer didn’t keel over and die, we come upon the spot.”
Situated at the bottom of a rocky bluff, it was gorgeous, just as advertised. Only problem: It wasn’t so secret; a rather portly man soaked in the pool with his cluster of kids — and at least a case of empty, crushed Busch cans beside him.
“He had on this bright red bandanna and a pair of those heinous reflective Oakley Blades,” Wilkinson said. “He’s all, ‘Come on in and join us,’ and we probably would have, given what we went through to get there.”
Just as the band was about to join the pool party, a train appeared on the ridge across the river, and the 6’6” man stood up, hollering and flipping off the train.
“Turns out, he’s butt-ass naked,” Wilkinson said. “Proud of it too. With his kids right there in the pool with him. Giving that train all he’s got and all God ever gave him.
“Needless to say, we didn’t join him, but then and there I realized something: Florida, Louisiana, Colorado — there are rednecks everywhere in this world, God bless ’em.”
Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, Colo.
A good adventure-sports movie, no matter what sport it covers, usually accomplishes one thing: It makes you, the viewer, want to go out and do whatever it is those athletes are doing on film in that beautiful location, at your own speed — mountain biking, climbing, skiing, whatever. “Cold” is an achievement in that, instead of inspiring you to climb an 8,000-meter peak in winter, it makes you want to go home, curl up in the fetal position under a down comforter, and not come out.
The film begins with photographer and climber Cory Richards hunkered down in a tent at 21,959 feet, as the viewer is informed that the temperature is -51 degrees F., and can see that the inside of the tent is covered in snow. Richards asks, “What the fuck am I doing here?” And over the next 20 minutes of the film, you will ask the same thing. Richards and mountaineers Simone Moro and Denis Urubko summited 26,362-foot Gasherbrum II on Feb. 2, 2010, succeeding in the first winter ascent of an 8,000-meter peak in the Karakorum Range.
“Cold” gives you an up-front seat to all the post-holing, avalanche burials, whiteouts and the high-altitude coughs. Anson Fogel assembled Richards’ tirelessly filmed footage, and, with writing help from Kelly Cordes, won the Best Adventure Film at the 5Point Film Festival this spring. This is not three guys smiling for one moment in a summit photo. It’s real pain, cold, suffering and misery — high-altitude winter mountaineering at its best. It may not be inspiring, but it is amazing. forgemotionpictures.com
In his third book, author and University of Colorado professor James McVey takes the reader along on his experiences in the backcountry — hiking, running rivers, backcountry skiing and fishing — and provides scholarly depth in each experience, weaving history, ecology and philosophy into classic nature writing. McVey draws on 20 years of venturing into Colorado’s backcountry, from places as popular as Boulder’s Chautaqua Park to the solitude of a post-rafting season run of the Green River through Dinosaur National Monument.
The collection of essays in “The Way Home” provides rich writing with a solid balance of adventure and nature, and the question of our place in all of it. McVey writes of a day of backcountry skiing on Wolf Creek Pass: “But the truth is, something else drives us out here to the geographic backbone of the continent. What lurks there in our tangled psyches? What genetic baggage left over from the days of sabertooths and woolly mammoths?” $19.95. uofupress.com