I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, to discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.
– “Walden,” by Henry David Thoreau
Like Thoreau, at present I am a sojourner in civilized life again. Unlike him, however, I never have truly taken the deep plunge, spending two years and two months in relative isolation, Spartan-like, merely to reduce life to its lowest terms. Then again, he never endured a Rocky Mountain mud season.
This May marks my 13th mud season, a sort of extra-season phenomenon exclusive to high-country ski towns, roaming between spring and summer like the short fielder on a softball diamond as the snow melts from the mountains at a pace of its own. And if, like softball season, there exists a bona fide lowest terms life-reduction season, this undetermined span of time between the closing of the ski areas and the beginning of summer unquestionably is overqualified to fulfill the role.
Mud season itself is not so insufferable as its name implies, however. And even its characterization as life-reducing should be considered in Walden-esque terms – not an absence of life, but an abundance, stripped bare of the trappings and embellishments that accompany the daily routine of resort town-living during high season. True, Vail, or even my home in the outlying town of Minturn, never will be confused with Walden Pond, but without the tourist crowds, hectic routines and myriad distractions that accompany the peak winter and summer months, there remains the naked peacefulness and raw allure of mountain adventure that I suspect cast a spell similar to the one that place held over the man who made it famous.
Mind you, mud season is not for everyone. It’s an acquired taste, and one that even dedicated mountain dwellers find bitter for years on end. The closing of a favorite bar or restaurant each offseason can be as big an inconvenience as the closing of Vail Pass in a spring squall. And offseason’s associated loss of income can quickly put the pinch on purse strings of those in the service sector, as so many are. Mostly, I think they’re just mad because the lifts shut down while there’s still so much snow on the mountain.
But for every door that closes, a window is opened for folks willing – in Thoreau’s words – to live deliberately. The mountains are your own, if you’re willing to walk. The rivers are on the rise, if you don’t mind the cold. The bike trails are open, if you know where to look. There’s even a golf course or two around, if that’s your bag.
Mud season, like no other time, offers an opportunity to truly get to know yourself and your neighbors, to learn who among you has the gumption to take on the meanness of the season and the savvy to savor the sublime. For those who do, there is a world of life’s lessons to be discovered. For those who don’t, well, there’s always Denver.
Yes, it’s nice to know that Colorado’s capital never will know mud season in its true sense. It’s a great escape – a sojourn into civilized life – when our fabrication of deliberate living has grown as stale as ski boots in the spring and the sublime is unwilling to show itself. The trails almost always are dry, world-class climbs are close at hand, lakes for wakeboarding abound and the rivers aren’t far off.
But like Thoreau, I believe the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. And most of us who call Colorado home, do so because of the mountains, the place that truly tugs at our souls. Denver we merely call convenient. Convenience, obviously, has its place. Just like mud season, meanness and all.
Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
