Testing My Mettle in Crested Butte

Steve and Me Feeling on Top of the World at the Summit of Mount Crested Butte

Sometimes it’s hard being a girly-girl in the Rocky Mountains.  No matter how thin, how blond, how tanned, it seems as though these Colorado women are made of tough stuff.  Some have their nails done on a regular basis and their hair colored with even greater frequency, but beneath their fresh-as-an-alpine-morning allure, they’re able to keep up with the most competitive men, the super fit guys that think nothing of powering up a stretch of singletrack at nosebleed elevations and then charging down the slope at near breakneck speed.  These dudes are typically the husbands, boyfriends and partners of the aforementioned Colorado mountain girls and I’ve come to observe that most everything that the men take on, the women do nearly as well (and in some cases, even better).  Their approach might be a tad less aggro but none seem to hesitate much.  It’s kind of what’s expected out here.

And then there’s me.  My life’s now a far cry from the Parisian Princess posturing I maintained for more than a decade in the French capital.  Yes, I even became a ski instructor in an attempt to break out of such a pampered modus operandi.  But still, my softness prevails and sometimes it just gets in my way, preventing me from engaging full-on in real mountain activities with the rest of the men and women I encounter here in the West.

This monster of girliness reared its ugly head last weekend during a special gathering of friends in Crested Butte, a mecca of mountain bike riding in America.  As much as I’ve had a big passion for road riding in recent years, I’ve done very little mountain bike riding, mostly because I haven’t had my own bike.  (O.K., I admit I’ve had a few nervous moments on singletrack when I feared I’d topple off my bike and fall down a cliff.)  But I knew one of the main events of the weekend was going to involve a group bike ride, so I packed my chamois-bottomed shorts and cycling jersey and began to psyche myself up for the expedition.  When D-day arrived, however, I choked, especially when I heard the ride would traverse some of CB’s most pristine stretches of singletrack, one and a half-foot wide swathes of trails that would normally be the envy of any respectable rider.  But I couldn’t help thinking about the wobbling and eventual toppling over that might likely occur out on some precipitous ledge.

Wildflowers Proliferate Even in the Heart of the Town of Crested Butte

So I waved good bye to the thirty-some outdoor enthusiasts that pedaled off en masse to experience some of the finest mountain bike riding in the country.  I settled for a hike, not a bad alternative even though I still felt like the odd man out.  It didn’t help that I circled around the neighborhood for nearly forty-five minutes until I found the designated trail that was to take me up over the mountain and down into the town of Crested Butte.  I consoled myself greatly with a quiet stroll through fields of knee-deep wildflowers, the delicate, brightly-colored blooms for which Crested Butte is famous during its peak days of summer.  Indeed this section of singletrack felt more reassuring under foot than had I been pedaling through it on a bike.  The skinny trail eventually spilled out into the valley below where cows grazed and rivulets of mountain waters gathered.

I found my way onto the main street of Crested Butte and was endeared by the conglomeration of candy-colored buildings that stood cheek by jowl along this old mining town’s central thoroughfare.  No wonder it made the list of the National Trust’s Dozen Distinctive Destinations for 2008.  Baskets, barrels and planters spewed forth with more brilliant hues of posies.  The monolithic presence of Mt. Crested Butte backdropped the town like a majestic beacon to visitors and townsfolk alike.  Had Norman Rockwell worked in the West, he most surely would have painted this scene.

I settled myself onto one of the many patios that punctuated the street, mini havens of peace that would surely disappear within a few month’s time.  I had landed at Princess Wine Bar (how à propos!), a lovely little establishment that despite it’s name, served up coffees and cupcakes all day.   I indulged in both.  (My hike after all had lasted nearly two hours and I was desperately in need of a pick me up.  Power bars be damned.)

A Family Hanging Out Just Outside of the Princess

Just as I was completing my tour of the jumble of shops and galleries that made up the street, I spotted a handful of riders from our group whizzing by.  “Hey!”  I shouted, rather surprised that they all instantly stopped for a lowly pedestrian like myself.  We traded tales and next thing I knew, I was being picked up and chauffeured back to our hosts’ home where I showered and changed for a late-afternoon barbecue.

Aside from dodging a few queries as to why I wasn’t on the bike ride, no one seemed overly concerned about me not joining them for their adventure.  Fortunately I was able to fill gaps in the conversation with my own stories about attending the Tour de France and even meeting Lance and most of the U.S. Postal team on the eve of the renowned Alpe d’Huez stage in 2001.  Clearly I seemed like an anomaly to some; one woman even insisted that I must have been a “podium girl” to have known so much about this world renowned bike race.

The party ended rather early, so Steve, my boyfriend, suggested we head into town to check out CB’s nightlife.  It was dusk by now and the quaintness of the town was further emphasized by the sky blue pinkness of the early evening sky.  Even more people strolled the street now than during the heat of the day and as before, locals and tourists pedaled about on town cruisers and all kinds of mountain bikes, some worth more than a small car.  Our host had recommended we check out a couple of hot bars, so as night fell, we ducked down into Lobar, a subterranean, contemporary-styled hippie lounge where we ate sushi and sipped Champagne and high-end Margaritas.  We eclipsed just before the dance floor and d.j. got going.  As for the other place, we were too tired to seek it out.  It’s always good to save something for next time.

Sunday was to involve another outing of impressive proportions.  Steve gave up the day’s group ride to spend time with me.  We both, of course, knew that this would not involve any cycling and I think we both secretly hoped he wouldn’t be bored too much on our excursion.  He had devised the plan:  We were to take The Silver Queen chairlift up to the top of the ski mountain and then get off and hike another forty-five minutes to the summit of Mt. Crested Butte.

“You mean we’re going to that hook of a mountain top up there?”  I asked as we sailed up most of the Butte on the lift.

“Yep,” he replied with all the confidence of an expert mountaineer that had climbed that peak a zillion times.

Forty-five minutes, I thought.  How difficult could it be if it was only to be forty-five minutes?  “Is that round trip in forty-five minutes or one-way?”  I asked.

“One way,” he answered as if it was going to be a real piece-of-cake climb and that I’d better not start whining.

“Is it a scramble at the end?” I queried, eyes fixed to the massive pile of boulders that made up the peak.

“No, no scramble,” he replied.  I just stared quizzically at the cleat-like formation of a mountain top that towered above us.

We plodded along on a well-trammelled trail, Steve not breathing any harder than had he been walking downhill at sea level.  I huffed and puffed but still remained good natured because the hike and the company pleased me greatly.  Fat and friendly chipmunks crisscrossed our path and precious blooms pushed out from in between rocks along this high alpine tundra that appeared inhospitable to both faune and flora.

By now Steve forged forward a good fifteen feet ahead of me.  Then more.  Then even more.  Then way more until he finally stopped.  By now we were in the thick of the big boulders, picking our way carefully between jagged rocks and smooth surfaces upon which to plant a foot or a hand.  My heart pounded like a jackhammer tearing up a sidewalk as I gasped for more oxygen in the super-thin air.  I couldn’t utter a word.  Fellow hikers passed offering encouragement as they cautiously descended the crags of this iconic rocky mountain.  “It’s well worth it.”

“It’s right around the corner.”

“You’re almost there.”

Still, I was in agony, beleaguered by battling conversations in my head that reminded me how inopportune it would be to break an arm or a leg falling on a nasty rock but also how empowered I would feel to finally get to the top.  I sat down for a minute about fifty yards from our ultimate goal and pondered my options.  I gathered myself, turned and looked at Steve and gave him a traffic cop-like signal to stop right there!  I finally made it up to him, and then we valiantly rose to the top together.  By now we had experienced about an hour of grueling physical and mental endurance, an effort that had thankfully cleared our minds of any thoughts except for those pertaining to the task at hand.

And it was truly magnificent.  As though perched in a giant bird’s nest made of rock, we marveled at the 360-degree panorama that surrounded us more than 12,000 feet above sea level.  We could see as far as the Maroon Bells (in Aspen) to the north, the Collegiates to the east, the Elk Mountains to the west and the San Juans way off to the distant south.   Countless other majestic peaks encircled us far off in the distance, creating the illusion that Mount Crested Butte was an island of sorts, separated by the rest of The Rockies by a sea of florid valleys.

We congratulated ourselves and the few others that shared the excitement of summiting this jagged peak.  After signing the guest book and briefly peering ominously at the handful of plaques that commemorated certain others that had (or hadn’t) made it down from the tip-top of Mt. Crested Butte, we embarked upon the descent of the mountain.

Skies threatened, instilling even more fear in me as I remembered that most mountain climbing incidents happen on the downhill portion of the adventure.  I gripped my way down over the boulders like a crab on a beach, sometimes going frontward, sometimes backward, but most often scurrying to the side and even sometimes flipping over onto my back.  Steve showered me with praise as he coaxed me down over the last precarious sections.  My legs trembled but my spirit soared.  I think even Steve was amazed by our feat.

“You know normally you’d have to hike at least five hours to take in such views, but here  it took us only about an hour,” he said.  “I’ve never seen such vistas before,” he admitted.

Downloading After the Big Climb

We downloaded onto the chairlift, talking contentedly the whole time about our hike, the must-see thing to do in Crested Butte in the summer.  (Actually skiers sometimes hike to the summit in the winter as well.)

Our water bottles had long been drained and now our stomaches growled.  We headed back to the charming little town of Crested Butte and picked a nice table on the deck at Ginger Cafe, a restaurant that specializes in Thai food and other Asian-inspired dishes.  We had earned our lunch and as we looked around at the hikers and bikers, we marveled about the Sunday thing to do in Crested Butte, the Sunday thing to do throughout most of the Rockies.

“Yeah, there’s nothing like going for a good hike or a ride and then settling into lunch before the weather rolls in,”  Steve said.

“I know, it’s so much better than going to the mall,” I added as we both chuckled.

I felt as though I had conquered the Butte.  There’s nothing like climbing a mountain for clearing your head.  Now I think I’m ready to begin riding a mountain bike, maybe even over a section of singletrack to boot!

Crested Butte Mountain Resort, 800-810-7669, 888-317-6482 or 970-349-2262, www.skicb.com

The Silver Queen chairlift takes hikers to the peak of Mt. Crested Butte while the Red Lady Express whisks mountain bikers to excellent singletrack.  A single-ride ticket costs $15. for adults, $10. for seniors and children ages 7-17; ages 6 and under ride for free.  It’s also possible to buy an all day pass, multi-day passes and summer season passes.

Princess Wine Bar, 218 Elk Avenue, 970-349-0210, www.princesscb.com

Lobar, 303 Elk Avenue, 970-349-0480, www.thelobar.com

Ginger Cafe, 313 3rd Street, 970-349-7291

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