A few months ago, I wrote about a trip we took to Glenwood Springs, CO with dear friends, Tim and Lisa, to put Lisa’s parents to rest. Click here to read that post. Today, Lisa is sharing some memories that make this place so special to her.
Guest Blogger, Lisa Baker:
Colorado ski season is now in full swing, but 6 months ago – when the air was still warm, and the aspens were just beginning to turn – I took a pilgrimage with my husband Tim and our dear friends Terry (theTravelsketcher) and Tricia (Travels Through My Lens) to sprinkle my parents ashes on the top of Aspen mountain.
My parents introduced me to skiing when I was 6 years old and living in San Diego, and as a family we went on several ski trips a year. (So many, in fact, that my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Collins, admonished me for missing so many days of school.) Mammoth Mountain, the resorts of Lake Tahoe, and sleepy June Mountain (where I learned to ski) were our go-to destinations. That is, until I was in high school, and my parents bought a place in Glenwood Springs, Colorado.
The world’s largest outdoor, natural, hot-spring pool (400 x 100 feet) is smack dab in the middle of this tiny Colorado town. Actually, it is imprecise to say the pool is in the middle of town, because in the 1880s, the town grew AROUND the springs, and a famed resort was born. But now Glenwood Springs feels less like a resort than a cowboy town, like the kind of place Doc Holliday would be (and is) buried. Polar opposite of the near by ultra chic and swanky ski towns of Aspen and Vail.
Glenwood Springs has a small, sleepy, local ski resort called Sunlight, which is at the end of a narrow, winding, rural road. Every weekday during ski season, local kids board an after-school bus, annual ski passes hanging around their necks in lanyards, to be shuttled up to the mountain and swarm the slopes. We would occasionally ski at Sunlight, but the geographical wonder of Glenwood Springs is that Aspen is 45 minutes due south, and 45 minutes straight east is Vail (with the added bonus of a spectacular drive through Glen Canyon). So we could wake up each morning and pick that day’s ski pleasure.
Summer in Colorado is as beautiful as the winter, and because the countryside isn’t blanketed in show and the rural roads aren’t icy, there are a lot more ways to enjoy your day in the summer. We would wander down Grand Avenue in shorts and tee shirts, popping into the ice cream shop, or take day hikes. Dad loved to fly fish (with flies he made himself, per a “how-to-tie flies” manual kept on his fly making table in the loft).
We would take road trips to the many small, historical towns that dot the area, like Leadville (near the continental divide), Ashcroft, and Marble. With 23,000 abandoned mines Colorado has lots of small, historic towns to discover. One of my favorites is Marble. Actually, Marble wasn’t a mine, but a quarry, and stone from the Yule (creek) Marble Quary is among the whitest in the US. It was used for the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, and Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. (And the Hearst Castle, too!) But the location of the quarry made it so treacherous to get marble out, it was abandoned in 1941. One summer mom, me, and my cousin Jana drove up a steep, narrow dirt road to the quarry. Seemingly every 30 seconds, we passed a quarried cube of marble the size of a Volkswagen Beetle that, over a century ago, tumbled off an ox cart and into the Yule Creek ravine.
No Colorado summer vacation was complete without a ride up Aspen mountain in the Silver Queen Gondola, which departs from the center of town next to the famed 5-star Little Nell Hotel (the ultimate in ski-in, ski-out accommodations!). At the top of the mountain, we would have lunch at the year-round (and aptly named) Sundeck restaurant, located at the top of the mountain (donned in shorts and tee shirts, rather than the sweaters and parkas we wore 6 months prior), sitting outdoors on the deck, basking in the sun.
It is this spot I would revisit decades later with Tim, Tricia, and Terry, and the ashes of mom and dad.
Dad passed away 6 years before his wife of 60 years, and having his ashes in her house gave mom great comfort. Every morning she would sit next to the burlwood urn to reminisce about their times together, ask him to keep her from falling (her house had stairs, and she was in her 80s, living alone), and to thank him for being such a good husband. But most of all, to tell him how much she loved him. When I suggested that after she passed, perhaps I could sprinkle their ashes together at the top of Aspen Mountain, she was delighted with the idea.
Last August, I kept my promise to my dear, sweet mother. Because I’m an only child, I asked Terry and Tricia to accompany Tim and me to offer sibling support on this final farewell journey with my parents. They graciously agreed, and we spent 5 nights in a pretty rented house built in the spectacular terra-cotta-colored hills that surround Glenwood Springs. Terry and Tricia’s presence added so much joy, kindness, and laughter to the occasion that I hope dad and mom know T&T were there.
It was a typically glorious Colorado summer day when we set off in our rental car – tote bag with photo-covered canisters of ashes settled on my lap – for the 45-minute drive to Aspen and a ride in the Silver Queen Gondola up to the top of the mountain. Gliding above the steep, rugged terrain, we marveled at the intrepid hikers and mountain bikers below us, traversing the expansive rutted and rocky pathways that are home to skiers in the winter. Tricia and I lamented the loss of our youthful knees.
The expansive deck of the Sundeck restaurant was abuzz with diners basking in the sun, like mom, dad, and I did 30 years ago. A bluegrass band and lots of friendly dogs added to the happy chaos, which was great fun – but not the reason we were there.
We strolled away from the Sundeck, searching for a secluded spot in the woods, and Terry found a perfect place overlooking the distant Maroon Bells, mom’s favorite mountains. We took our time unpacking the canisters of ashes, the rosebuds and commemorative stones I had painted, the bottle of bubbles and glasses. Tricia took photos, Tim and I sat, holding hands, in the red Adirondack chairs facing the Maroon Bells, Terry sketched. Finally Tim and I scattered the ashes and some rosebuds at the base of a majestic pine. We raised glasses of bubbly in a tearful memory, and Tim shared splashes with mom and dad.
I am beyond grateful to dear Tricia for documenting the occasion with her camera, and for Terry memorializing it with a sketch of me.
The Silver Queen Gondola ferried us back to Aspen and our lunch at French Alpine Bistro. We discovered the restaurant by searching Google Maps, and after we ate there we discovered it is a starred review in Fodors. The food and décor of this wonderfully intimate restaurant (maybe 10 tables?) was an exquisite Aspen mash-up – perfectly prepared French country food in what felt like a fur-trapper’s cabin… a fur trapper with a large collection of wooden skis and snowshoes, but who – miraculously!! – also has an abundance of French linens and elegant tableware. Here are the links to those posts:
This week in the Pearl – Colorado
I had been hesitant to return to Glenwood Springs for fear it would be overrun with big box stores and sprawling housing developments, and that it wouldn’t be the quaint town of my memories. I was thrilled to find that it had not changed. Tim and I strolled the historic downtown, popping into shops selling western wear and outdoor gear. We wandered into a very small and sleepy old train station that receives 2 trains a day – one eastbound and one westbound Amtrak California Zephyr. (Seasonally, the Rocky Mountaineer stops over night at Glenwood Springs on its sightseeing excursion between Denver and Moab, Utah.)
Crossing the long pedestrian bridge spanning the giant hot spring pool, I told Tim how magical it was to soak in the 100-degree water after a day on the slopes, and, under the night sky, watch snowflakes drift down into rising steam.
Promise of the healing powers of the spring water brought Doc Holliday – who hoped it would cure his tuberculosis – to Glenwood. (It didn’t.) Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft both stayed in Glenwood Springs’ Hotel Colorado, where Tim and I ate lunch on the patio. Hotel Colorado claims to be the birthplace of the stuffed teddy bear. (Truth be told, there are several teddy bear origin stories.) But per the Hotel Colorado, upon returning to the hotel grumpy after an unsuccessful day of bear hunting, the president was presented with a small bear fashioned out of fabric by the hotel’s maids. He passed it along to his daughter Alice, and she named it “Teddy.”
Right outside Glenwood Springs are the abandoned Cardiff Coke Ovens, which can be seen from Highway 82, across the tarmac of the miniscule Glenwood Springs Municipal Airport. One day Tim, T&T, and I want to check them out. Hundreds of these ovens burned coal extracted from nearby mines to produce coke, a fuel used in steel production. I walked into one of the 50 remaining ovens, and the brick walls were as smooth and shiny as glass. (I’m supposing from all those years of being exposed to such intense heat.)
Glenwood Springs is of such a manageable size, has happily changed so little, and I have been there so many times, that during this trip I did only one new thing: a visit to the Yampah Spa and Vapor Caves. Built into the side of a mountain, and only one third mile from the Hotel Colorado and one fifth mile from the giant hot springs pool, the entrance to the caves looks pretty much like it did when it was turned into a business in 1883. (The Utes enjoyed the caves for eons before they were found by white settlers.)
Yampah Spa and Vapor Caves is an anti-swanky Vail and Aspen revolt. It screams: “We don’t need no fancy spa in this small town. We have the WORLD’S LARGEST HOT SPRINGS, thank you very much!”
There are many treatment options. Tim and I chose the most simple one… time in the vapor caves, and a private hot tub soak. To get to the HOT underground caves, you descend a primitive (dare I say treacherous?) wooden staircase through a tunnel carved into the rock. At the bottom of the staircase, there are several small rooms, also carved into rock. In these rooms there are stone benches and plastic five-gallon water dispensers. This water isn’t only for drinking (A MUST!), but also for wetting the simple, white – one-thousand-times-washed – terry cloth towel you will press into your face and drape over your head, because it is HOT. (Did I say, HOT? Let me state once again: down there, it is HOT!) The simple paper signs created on Microsoft Word, inserted into plastic page protectors, and taped to the walls (rapturously anti-swanky) warn not to stay in the caves too long.
Sitting on the stone bench, in one of the tiny rooms chiseled or bl own out of the rock who knows how long ago – as I’m panting like a dog, with a wet towel slung over my gray head – I noticed my bench mates, who maybe seemed like members of the Ute tribe, speaking a language I did not understand. I hoped it was Ute, but perhaps it was Spanish.
After our time in the cave, Tim and I were escorted down a twisting labyrinth of hallways that were built a long time ago (and never updated – yay anti-swanky!!) to a private room for a 60-minute hot water soak. It was lovely to be secluded in this small, nourishing space with my husband, hot water to our chins. Because I doubt I will ever return to this beloved town so replete with memory, it feels perfect that I ended this most important trip to Glenwood Springs with my dear husband – whom my parents loved so much – discovering something new.
Thank you, Colorado for an abundance of happy memories.
Thank you, Tim, Terry, and Tricia for your abundance of compassion, understanding, and laughter during this most significant occasion.
And thank you, mom and dad – Ann Hilton Peterson Baker and John Seifert Baker – for a lifetime of abundant love.
Thank you, Lisa, for sharing these beautiful, wonderful memories of you childhood in Glenwood Springs.
As always, we’d love to hear from you so leave a message if you’re so inclined.
Travels Through My Lens 
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