The route hugged the winter shallow, whitewater bend, as an excited stream bubbled up, over, and around the river stones. Heavy trees lined the banks as the rocky mountain valley walls closed in tightly near the road.

It was as if Almont was a tunnel. A tunnel with a roof made from tree canopy, walls of sheer rock cliffs, and a floor of whitewater. Yet I knew we weren’t inside a tunnel, because just then it started to snow.

As we emerged on the other side of the peaceful community we saw Mt. Crested Butte. A true butte; A hill that rises abruptly from the surrounding area. She stood alone, proud, detached, and towered over the high Colorado valley.

A light dusting of snow softly sprinkled white everything in sight. Ranches and farmhouses dotted the rustic meadows along the valley floor. Huge mountain ranges rose on all sides, corralling the end of the dead end valley. The ski base lay at the end of the road. Town was two miles earlier.

Up on the mountain base, the chairlifts were just shutting down for the day. The tiny ski base was filling with people who were gradually making there way into town. The few little streets were filling with people with liberal smiles at the end of a great day. It seems Saturday was the first snow in weeks and everyone was enjoying it.

  We toured through the town, ski base, and Kebler Valley, as I showed Jen and Char around my old home. We traveled through the unplowed snowy road to the forest that once held my winter base camp.   I pointed out the very same trees that stood guard above our Teepee & Tent compound all those months in the cold high altitude air many years ago.

Back in town we unloaded our gear into a cheap hotel and walked down the single main street. Outside the temperature was hovering around zero, but inside the mood was festive. I snapped a few photos in the last light of the day.   

We grabbed dinner, drinks, and a few games of pool as we slowly made our way along the few watering holes in the rustic old mining town. It was another Saturday night, another snowfall, and another ski town. Everyone enjoyed knowing they were on the edge of paradise. 

People were friendly. The mood was festive. Everyone seemed drunk on the thin air.

Inside, we thawed out from the cold skiing. Other enthusiasts poured into the warm oasis frostbitten and dazed. I guess I had forgotten why this part of Colorado is tied in rank with a section of Minnesota for the two coldest regions in the United States.

A few runs later we were back at the main base eating a late lunch and contemplating if we had had enough. The girls got to see the majority of the mountain, and the famed North Face still wasn’t open for me to explore solo. Besides, they had fallen in love with the aura of Crested Butte even before their first Chairlift ride.

Soon we were back in the car and road tripping out of the valley. The route home was equally desolate as we occasionally drove through passes of snow. I was still internalizing what Crested Butte meant to me this weekend and not really understanding.