My best friend left Aspen on Friday.
OK, so he was my boyfriend. Whatever. It was one of those small-town relationships that went everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Together we went up mountains and down them. We hiked under sunny summer skies through endless fields of wildflowers and scrambled up rocky peaks. We floated over bottomless powder and cheered each other through blinding face shots.
The problem is men do not move to the mountains to settle down. It’s the opposite. They come to play, and the sacrifices they make in order to do that ensure nothing beyond the upcoming ski season. Let’s just say “the future” is a short-term concept.
Mountain Man gives up earning potential and works a low-paying job, either in service (bartender, waiter, ski instructor) or in a professional field for which he is grossly overqualified and underpaid. He lives in whatever housing he can afford on his measly wages, either in a rundown place in a good location or a halfway decent place in a bad location. He lives paycheck to paycheck and often runs out of cash.
The payoff is a season’s pass: If he’s lucky, his employer provides it. If not, he saves what he can of his summer wages or goes further into credit card debt. He skis/snowboards 100 days a season and never misses a powder day. He knows all the best lines and secret stashes and knows someone in the ski patrol so he can stay informed on key run/area openings before anyone else does. He lives in a T-shirt and the same pair of jeans or shorts and never has to shave. His overgrown hair stays hidden under a ratty baseball cap and his feet stink inside the tattered, but comfortable shoes he wears day in and day out.
While there are some who can sustain this lifestyle for decades, most burn out on their jobs and/or end up in serious debt. The promise of another epic ski season isn’t enough to tie them over for another year.
That’s what happened to Tim. He worked as the sports editor for the Aspen Times for seven years, a position that afforded him many on-the-hill benefits and a midnight deadline that meant he had to be at work by 2 or 4 p.m. at the latest.
Tim broke the first story on Aron Ralston, “the guy who cut his arm off in the Utah desert” before his accident, with a cover story on Ralston’s quest to conquer all of Colorado’s Fourteeners solo in winter in the Aspen Times Weekly.
Tim’s coverage of Ralston’s ordeal won several awards from the Colorado Press Association. He limited that coverage to the Aspen Times, turning down several offers from the national media. As a fellow journalist, that drove me crazy – it seemed to be the opportunity of a lifetime. But Tim was far too loyal to capitalize on his relationship with Ralston. To him, the friendship was more important. He wasn’t about to ride on the coattails of the publicity storm. If he were going to make his mark in journalism, he would do it on his own right.
The Aspen Times paid him rock-bottom wages because they provided him with affordable housing, a sweet one-bedroom pad in downtown Aspen. But every time they gave him a raise, they also raised his rent. After seven years, Tim finally decided the only way to accelerate his career was to leave Aspen.
He packed his old 1991 Nissan pickup with all he had accumulated during seven years in the Rockies, including eight pairs of skis. “I’m doing this so I can give more,” he said, wiping the tears from my cheeks. He was headed East, back to Boston and his beloved Red Sox. He wanted to spend time with family and try to figure out a way to sew it all together: his love for the mountains and his ability to make a decent living.
As he drove away, our friend Dan hugged me and said, “Don’t worry. He’ll be back as soon as the snow flies.” But I’m not so sure. The only thing I do know is I’m not going anywhere.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
