1960’s

This story took place over a number of years, but all at an early age.  Like many kids in small or rural towns a paper route is something every little boy remembers having.  The kids of Aspen were no different.  We either had a specific route or just sold them on the streets, and even in the bars and restaurants every Thursday afternoon.  Back then they sold for twenty cents, but most kids asked for and usually got a quarter.  At times, it was like a mad rush to see who could sell the most.  Many kids made more than one trip back to the paper office for more to sell.

My story is slightly different.  I did have a paper route, but every Thursday before I went out on my route I actually helped produce the paper.  At the age of 5, 6 or 7 I was hardly a reporter, but I did help insert the various sections into the papers; and, I hauled the finished copies to the front desk to be distributed to the kids.   One of the greatest things about this job was that I learned all about how a paper was made, well back before computers at any rate.  They showed me how to transfer the type set stories on to the aluminum plates for the press.  From there the ink was transferred from the plates to the paper.  And, for the color images which were just starting to be included, the paper had to pass through multiple plates.  At my young age this was very fascinating.

One of the greatest things about this job was the people.  The press operator was the most fascinating person ever.  His name was Blue at least that is what he went by.  He knew everything about the press; and, regardless of what went wrong he was always so calm.

About the same time, the paper hired a new reporter.  I remember him always taking the time to answer all my questions.  He was very creative and always had a smile on his face.  I remember him showing me this cartoon strip he had been working on and was hoping to start running it in the paper each week.

Years after I had grown up and no longer delivered papers, I still remember fondly all the time I spent with those great people at The Aspen Times.  Bill Dunaway, the owner has since moved on.  I am not sure what came of Blue; but, I see with great pride that young reporter, Chris Cassatt, is still drawing Sal.

Aspen Times, thanks for the memories.

Summer 1975

In the summer of 1975 I worked for the City of Aspen cleaning and maintaining the downtown mall.  This was back when it was new and the streets still looked like streets with the addition of large planters haphazardly spread about.  My work included picking up Wagner Park after the events of the prior day.   I always got to the mall around 6:30am and did the Wagner Park work first.  That summer every morning was greeted by an “older” lady and her standard poodle named Clancy.  The dog would run around the park and stop every couple of steps and eat something from the grass.  This went on a week or so until curiosity finally got the best of me.

One morning I went up to the lady to ask what it was that her dog was doing.  Much to my surprise she told me her dog loved chewing gum and was looking for it in the grass.  Apparently a lot of people chewed gum in the park as this dog seemed to have an endless supply.  This ritual went on every day all summer long.  As the summer went by I got to know this lady and her dog, Clancy.  The lady was Cassie Clemmons and she along with her husband owned one of the Fasching Haus condominiums.  It was their vacation and summer home and it was just blocks from the park.  As it turned out, Cassie was married to Larry Clemmons who was well known for such Disney Classics as “Jungle Book”, Winnie the Pooh cartoons and movies and many more.  Prior to that Larry was well known for radio shows in the 1940’s and 50’s before going to work for Walt Disney.  Cassie was famous in her own right as one of Ziegfeld’s girls from the 1930’s.

Our friendship lasted all summer long and into the years that followed.  On occasion when Larry came to town I got the opportunity to visit with him as well.  I remember on one visit that Larry drew Mickey Mouse on my stomach in full color.  A year later in 1976 a childhood friend and I traveled to Los Angeles for a three day stay at Disneyland.  The two of us saved for two summers to make this trip without our parents.  We stayed in the Anaheim Grand Hotel just across the street from the park.  Larry picked us up at our hotel to take us to the Buena Vista Studios for a personal tour which included a tour of Walt’s office and the stage where “The Black Hole” was being filmed.  We were scheduled to meet Mickey Rooney, but as it turned out he had left the studios for the day.  Larry also gave us a behind the scenes tour of Disneyland which included seeing the three secret locations that Walt used to entertain guests.  We went to the future location of Space Mountain which was under construction at that time.  As Larry left us for the evening, he gave us each a bundle of “E” tickets which lasted us the remainder of our stay.

Over the years, I lost touch with Larry and Cassie but their memory lives on.  Larry passed away in 1988 and I am not sure of Cassie’s fate.  Larry, Cassie and Clancy, thanks for being a part of Aspen’s character and history.

Summer 1971

The family house I grew up in was built in the mid 1880’s.  It was located at the intersection of Hopkins Avenue and Garmisch Street across from Paepcke Park.  As a child, living across from the park was like having a much larger yard to play in.  I remember the elderly man who used to cut the grass every week on his riding lawn mower.  He would let the neighborhood kids ride in the trailer behind him as he worked, and was always willing to share his lunches which included lots of Ginger Snap cookies.  Life across from the park was always an adventure in itself.  That was until the late 1960’s when the “hippies” arrived and made the park their home.  Don’t get me wrong, these hippies were always friendly, and they used to smoke these really funny smelling cigarettes. That was how I remember them from my youth.

At that same time property values were starting to climb faster than the mountains around us, and life in downtown was ever changing.  With the new residents living in the park things started to disappear; toys and bicycles left out at night were rarely there the following morning.  One morning my father walked out to go to work only to find the family car missing.  Our neighbor who built a hotel next to our house had asked previously if we were willing to sell and up to this point my father had always resisted.  With the years passing by and the “guests” across the street in the park still there my father agreed to sell the property, but not the house.  So begins one of the most memorable events of my life…

My father found a nice piece of property on the west end of town.  It was a quiet neighborhood, understated and largely left alone from all the development in the valley.  It was a perfect setting to relocate the house; yes, relocate the house.  Our house was a two-story Victorian that I and many of the locals were convinced would never make the trip.  This was evident as there were many locals who turned out to watch the movers pick it up and drive it through town in a route that avoided as many power lines as possible.  Thomas House Movers were contracted to do the job as they had considerable experience moving houses of this type.  The house traveled east, past the Hotel Jerome, down the hill and west behind the hotel.  It then traversed the neighborhoods passing the final location by a block at one point.  The travel distance ended up being twice as long as the most direct route to drive there.  When the trip was over the house rested on a new foundation intact and in one piece, for the most part.  The exterior of the house looked as if it had been there all along.  As for the interior, furnishings and all looked good aside from the numerous cracks in the walls and ceilings.  The house was built back when slats of wood and plaster were used to make the interior walls.  This type of construction was very strong but did not flex very well during the move.  Within a few months the interior was restored and the house had settled in as had we.

Back at school the following fall the question of, “What did you do on your summer vacation?” just seemed too easy.  Little did I know, this would not be the last time this house would be moved. 

The house is no longer part of our family, but I still drive by it on occasion to see how it is doing and to show it to my kids.  But now, it sits 20 feet further to the west than where we left it.

Winter 1972

Growing up, my parents always made sure there were plenty of outside activities for us as a family to do.  Summers included dirt bikes, camping, “Jeeping” in the back country and even a pack mule.  Winters brought out the snowmobiles, World War II “Coot” and Sno-Cats as well as skiing and skating.

We lived across the street from the Music Tent on the west end of town where a large parking lot was located.  In the winter every day after school I would go home with a few friends and we would snowmobile in the parking lot until long after dark.  Our neighbors never cared and even helped us get “un-stuck” on occasion.  We also had a trailer that we would tow behind and try to dump the riders.  This went on every winter for nearly five years.  There were occasions when things did not go so well, like the time I was on the wrong side of the fence practically out on Gillespie Street when a Highway Patrolman pulled up.  I was sure I was in big trouble, but the machine was stuck and I had nowhere to go.  Much to my surprise he got out and helped me lift the machine back on to the correct side of the fence.

The most memorable event took place in 1975 when I was riding one of our older machines.  I was having a great time when at full speed the throttle froze and nothing I could do would stop it.  After a short distance I abandoned ship.  The machine went on without me through the upper parking lot, over the fence and across the street heading east.  My brother pulled up to give me the customary sibling abuse only to see me sitting there and no machine in sight.  I climbed aboard his machine and we headed out to find the missing craft.  It left a clear track for us to follow and about a half mile from the point that I abandoned ship, we found it.  It was sitting on its side still running at full throttle.  Next to it was a six-inch thick pine tree split in half lying on the ground.  The front of the machine was in bad shape but it still ran. As for the tree, its days were over.  We towed the snowmobile home and I set out to craft a real good story as to what happened to my father’s snowmobile.  As any brother would do, he got to my father first and the truth was out.  Surprisingly enough, the truth did set me free.  Those old snowmobiles with the open carburetors were known for freezing up.

We continued our daily adventures in the parking lot until I was a junior in High School at which point many of the new neighbors were less tolerant of the evening noise.  There were occasions when other people would show up with their own snowmobiles and join us.  I still run into old classmates from back then who remind me of how much fun they had snowmobiling across the street from our house.  Those were the days.

Circa 1963

As with anyone we all have stories from our childhood that shape our thoughts and actions for the rest of our lives.  Many of these stories are due to an event, tragedy or mistake that happened to us when we were very young. In some cases these stories never die because your friends and family refuse to let them.  They get brought up at family gatherings, year after year, all with a roar of laughter and a new dose of ridicule.  Well, this adventure is one of those fateful “events” you wish you could forget. 

Every summer was filled with camping trips and picnics in the neighboring valleys and mountains.  A favorite spot for our family was the clearing just above Grizzly Reservoir and just below the old mining town of Ruby.  On this particular day our family outing included numerous extended family members as well as good friends. The day was like any – kids playing games and long bouts of “hide and seek,” parents making plans for their next adventures and reminiscing about adventures past.  Adult humor was a staple of these events and it seemed as though no one was missing out on some sort of fun. 

As the day passed on to evening with dinner complete it was time for the bonfire and adult beverages.  For the kids this was the time for long twigs sharpened to a point, sometimes like a multipronged fork, marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate.  If my memory serves me correctly I was most certainly the youngest in the crowd.  I was always good at standing out, if not overwhelming those around me.  On this occasion I was going to be the subject or object of a cruel trick hosted by none other than the Lord above.  I not so patiently waited my turn to cook up my marshmallow, unaware of the carnage about to ensue.  Cooking the marshmallow was supposed to be easy: put it on the stick, stick it near the hot coals at the base of the flames and rotate it slowly to a nice golden brown.  As often happens, it caught fire and instantly tripled in size. 

As soon as the flames were extinguished, charcoal black, it was ready to eat.  I have never been much of a chocolate eater, so making this into s’mores was not in my plans.  As I reached for the marshmallow to remove it from the stick, still lava hot, I proceeded to drop it on the forest floor.  As the tears welled up in my eyes I went for it; I was going to have my treat one way or another.  Five second rule be damned, it was mine.  I attempted to remove the dirt and pine needles from my treat which only served to spread this sticky delight from one hand to the other.  Not satisfied, I proceeded to get it all over me from head to toe.  I got it on my clothes, my face, even all over the family dog.  As this carnage ensued a crowd developed.  There was not a sympathetic one among them.  By this time even the family car had become a recipient of this sticky madness. I recalled the tale of Br’er Rabbit as I became attached to everything I touched or that touched me, and was not happy feeling as though this was all a bad nightmare.

Covered in dirt, pine needles and marshmallow, the crowd, overwhelmed in laughter, I looked for someone to help me.  The dog tried but that only made matters worse.  Finally to the rescue came my mother and not a moment too soon, in fact about ten minutes too late.  She helped get me cleaned up, changed me into my pajamas and off to bed.  The next day was met with each adult telling their version of the events from the previous night, all the while trying to tell me that they were not laughing at me but with me.  I did not remember laughing the night before so that was little comfort to me.

To this day I am not a fan of marshmallows and avoid them whenever possible.  Gone was the pleasure of “Peeps” at Easter, and hot chocolate was just fine without the addition of those multi-colored delights floating on top.  The mere mention of marshmallows only serves to remind me of that fateful childhood event.

Winter 1963

Many of my adventures were about the “good old days” and there is a reason for that, those days were good and they will never happen again.  For my children, they will someday have their “good old days” to reflect upon but they will never be the same as mine.

I started skiing at the age of 2, this was not because my Mom or Dad felt it was necessary to get a start at it as soon as possible, I would like to think is was more a matter of convenience.  The Little Nell lift was close to all of the downtown businesses and it was a convenient place to meet up with friends and family.  I do not remember much from the age of 2, but by 3 some of my memories were becoming more permanent, at least for the next 40 or 50 years.  As the story goes, so it has been passed onto me, by the age of 3 I could go skiing on Little Nell while my mom stayed at the bottom or in a near-by business and my father was at work up on the mountain. All my life I have had a ski pass and even back then, my mom kept my passes from over the years and the one I wore that year was a small, flat piece of wood with “Aspen Skiing Corporation Season Pass 1963” engraved on it and the number 19.

I was not able to get on the lift by myself but there were always lift operators willing to help out, besides I was related to most of them.  At the top, getting off was easy, I basically threw myself out of the chair and headed to the bottom.  Each run down consisted of only a turn or two and I was in a permanent snowplow but that did not stop me or even slow me down for that matter.  At the bottom I could ski on for blocks since the North of Nell Building did not exist and neither did many of the other obstacles that exist today. The old A-frames on the corner of Hunter and Durant were the first obstacle and if you cleared them you were “home free.”  In fact I could ski all the way to my grandfather’s grocery store in the Wheeler Opera House building. 

I remember one individual who was quite concerned about a little boy at that age skiing all by himself.  But when he pointed it out to the lift operators, they all knew me by name and told him not to worry.  In today’s world you would never leave your children alone like that but that was the kind of small town Aspen was in the early 60’s.  That is what makes this adventure so special.

Winter 1974

With Snowmass Mountain reaching capacity and new areas of that mountain opening up each year, it was time to look for the next mountain to tame.  Further west of the Snowmass Ski Area and at about the same altitude was Haystack Mountain.  From the top of Haystack Mountain you could clearly see the slopes of the Snowmass Ski Area.

The year was 1974 and Haystack was still only a consideration for a new resort; but before all that, information had to be collected.  What was the snow depth throughout an average winter?  What temperatures could be expected? And wind?  A group of Aspen Skiing Corporation employees were given the task to going up Haystack every day to collect this vital data.  Those men were long time locals and employees of the Company.  The team included Larry Beidleman, Jerry Bland, Tom Marshall and my father, Neil Beck.  This process was much the same as what was used a decade earlier for the development of Snowmass Ski Area but in the end, the results were not the same.

My adventure took place on March 21, 1974 when my father asked me if I wanted to spend my 14^th birthday with him up on the mountain.  This was a school day for me so the thought of playing hooky with my parents’ permission was reason enough.

With a couple of thermoses full of tea, packed lunches including may favorite American cheese and Miracle Whip sandwiched, on white bread (of course) and our dog in tow, we were off to Haystack.  The Sno-Cat was parked at the old schoolhouse on upper Capital Creek Road.  To get to Haystack required a drive down Highway 82 to the Watson Divide road and over the ridge and into Snowmass creek.  From there we drove southwest on Capital Creek Road past the Monastery to the Old School House to get the “cat” and then up Nicholson Creek Road until it came to an end.

We were an hour into this adventure and we were not even to the Sno-Cat, had I made a bad decision?  Soon my doubts were gone, as we headed up the trail in the “Cat” with Archie, our Sheppard running behind.  From the end of the road we drove the “cat” up the trail to the very top of Hunter Pass, named after Pierre Hunter.

It was a long ride up to the top with stops along the way to take some readings and give the dog a rest.  I do not remember what my dad and I talked about on the way but I do remember this day as being one the greatest birthdays of my young life.  With my siblings consigned to another day at school and “me and my dad” spending the day together, it could not get better than this.

We reached the top after about 2 hours in the “cat”, just in time for lunch and some more readings.  The dog had made the trip up but I knew he would be riding down off the mountain.  This time it was my turn to get out of the “cat.”  I skied down to the bottom from the very top stopping along the way for my dad to catch up, as dumb as it sounds; I did not want to get too far ahead so he would not get lost.  By the time I reached the bottom I had very little energy left but I had done it, I skied Haystack Mountain.  I would like to think I was the only person to ever ski down Haystack Mountain and maybe I am, but not likely.

For whatever reason, the Skiing Corporation never developed Haystack Mountain into another area.  For me this adventure was truly unique, to be a part of two ski area research projects, all by the age of 14 and there was another one in my future about 4 years later, but that is a separate adventure.

Winters 1965 – 1971

With the sun setting in the west and the distant peaks holding on to the last bit of sunlight, the mountain was nearly empty of its skiers, except for a few lift operators, restaurant employees and a contingent of Ski Patrol.  It was time to clear the mountain. 

This process is repeated every afternoon as it has been from the start.  The Patrol would each pick a run to ski down, watching for any stragglers still on the hill.  Calling out at the top of their lungs, “Clear” as they went along, followed by the required silence to hear if anyone responded.  This would seem like an ordinary process unworthy of discussion but that is where the expected became the unexpected.

In the mid sixties and early seventies I was often asked to join in the mountain “clearing.”  Well the truth-be-known, I often asked.  I was not yet a teenager and one of my “buddies” whose father was a patrolman would hang out all day on Aspen Mountain, taking a few runs here and there and spending the rest of the time in “Little Siberia” as the patrol hut was often called or over in the Sun Deck.  We entertained the patrol by asking more questions than humanly possible, rarely waiting for the answer.  I think back to how helpful we were, our mere presence in the cabin encouraged the patrol to take more runs throughout the day, spend more time fixing fences, repairing toboggans and a lot less time playing cards.  Could it be, “we may have overstayed our welcome at times?”  Either way, these were great men and women who always treated us well.

I remember well when a new piece of technology entered the scene that would forever change the way to find a person buried in an avalanche.  Aspen Mountain was one of the first places to get them.  They were called Skadies and with their arrival, the use of the long rods to find buried skiers and patrolmen was made easier.  These devices were worn by each person when going out on Avalanche Patrol. Everyone would set them to transmit and if anyone was buried or lost the remaining patrol would set theirs to receive and they would proceed to search for their missing crew member.  Once again, the resourceful patrol in an effort to keep us busy and out of the cabin would go and bury one of these devices and my friend and I would spend the next hour searching for it.  Over time we got very good at finding them.  I still have three of these devices in working condition today, and every so often I take them out and let my kids search for the hidden one.

Back to the main topic of this adventure, “Clear!”  The intent of the daily clearing was not only to look for stragglers but to watch for those individuals who would hide out hoping to be the “last” ones off the mountain.  Although many clearings were normally no more than a last run down, there were occasions where we came upon injured skiers or people walking down due to broken gear.  They were the beneficiaries of a “Free Ride” down on a snowmobile or in a toboggan.   As a little boy growing up in Aspen, these opportunities made lifetime memories.

 I remember the names and faces of so many of these great people, some of which are still up there clearing the mountain each day.  Some have gone on to other great adventures and a few have passed away.  I remember them all and appreciate the impact they have had on my life.

Clear!

Summer 1966

It was the summer of 1967 and as in the summers before, the Wednesday night rodeos at the T-Lazy 7 had begun.  The kids of the valley looked forward to these Wednesday events with the anticipation of doing well enough to participate in one of the big events held at the W/J Ranch.  My older sisters participated in many of these rodeos and eventually went on to owning their own horses.

My parents always told me that the horses belonged to the whole family; but, I remember my constant companion in the corrals back then to have a metal scoop on one end and a long wooden handle.  Well, maybe that was best as horses and I have a sordid past. 

My general fear of horses dates back to one of those Wednesday night rodeos at the T-lazy 7.  I spent most of the summer working with the various horses that Hilder and Bill Anderson had at their ranch on the east end of town.  Yes, the Anderson Ranch, not the one in Snowmass although they did own that ranch at one time and Hilder Anderson taught school in the old School house up by the ranch.  They had their stables just over the Roaring Fork Bridge on the east end of town.  That was back when town ended at the bridges on both ends.  You could rent a horse or go on the ”guided” rides that took you south and then east from the Ranch.  You would pass through fields where “The Gant” now stands, through the old cemetery and out along the river on the south side, past the Smith Ranch, across the fields where the Aspen Club now stands until you reached the Anderson Stables once again.  Those rides were fun but they always ended the same.  Once the horse and its rider crossed the river for the last time, right where the main Aspen Club facility is located, the horses knew they were headed home and there was no stopping them.

Back to that fateful Wednesday rodeo…  You know, one of those turning points in your life, the type that no one will ever forget about, least of all you.  On that particular night in August I had signed up to do the Barrel Race.  The horse I usually rode was being used by a more experienced rider so I was given an old gray mare; yes, it was an “old gray mare.”  That should have been my first warning sign of the epic tragedy about to unfold.  This horse was about twice my age at the time and seemed perfect for the job at hand.  It just stood there as I got ready for my turn at the barrels.  It calmly walked out to the starting point.  I was convinced this horse had done this so many times before that all I had to do was stay in the saddle and let the horse do the work.  As my “race” started, the horse headed for the first barrel.   I was convinced it could do better so I gave it a kick which was met with no response.  This horse was going to go through all of the barrels but it was going to do it at the pace it had chosen.  From the sidelines the crowd began to laugh; Mr. Anderson was urging me to kick it again.  Then it happened, I gave the horse another kick and somehow it must have landed in a different spot than all the rest and the horse went down.  Right by the third barrel the horse lay dead.  Not a sound was heard from the crowd and I had passed the point of simple tears, I was in a full on cry.  Had I just killed the “old gray mare?”  Mr. Anderson calmly walked out, grabbed me by the shoulder and whispered, “Watch.”  He reached over to the horse and tapped it on its head, and like a faith healing the horse jumped up and just stood there.  By now the crowd had erupted in laughter, and I just stood there with tears running down my face.

Following that event Mr. Anderson got on the Public Address system to inform the crowd that this particular horse had worked for a circus and was just performing one of its tricks.  By kicking it in a very particular place it would lie down and play dead. Mr. Anderson had taken this horse in to provide it a nice place to live out its retirement years.

Little Dooger’s Adventures

Many lament the “burden” placed on them by being born into a family that has its roots and still maintains them in a small town.  I cannot speak for many of them but the small town I grew up in had more advantages than disadvantages for kids to be kids.

Yes, I grew up in Aspen but that does not change the underlying story but only the location.  When I was a child Aspen was not well known for football, baseball or even soccer.  The kids there learned to be great skiers, hockey players and outdoorsman.  Our childhood adventures included camping in the backcountry in the winter.  When we got old enough to have a car, it was usually a very used four-wheel drive vehicle that could barely go 30 miles per hour but it could climb a tree. 

Much like many small towns, when the kids did something wrong the parents usually knew before the act was even committed.  There was no hiding anything from the “collective” parent population.  This being a disadvantage is stating the obvious, but there was an upside.  Speaking specifically to my situation, at the age of 3 I was skiing down Little Nell on my own without either of my parents in sight, but watchful eyes were always present and my safety was never in question.  At the age of 7 I was working my first job, so much for child labor laws, as a plant “waterer” at the first, yes first, Chart House Restaurant.  It seemed to have more plants than the rain forest at least that is how I remember it.  At the age of 6 I was going up with the crew that eventually built the Snowmass Ski Area, all without my parents in tow.  I was skiing to the top of Aspen Mountain with my friends before I was 10 and I rode my bicycle all over the valley and never once angered a passing car, those were the days.

My childhood adventures are many and at my age now, I can remember only a small fraction of them.  In the “stories” to follow I will attempt to bring back those adventures as best as I can and with what memories I can scrape from the back of my mind.  I had a great childhood, with many friends, loving parents and a real community of people who knew when to help and when to “tell your parents.”

Some dates may be off and some memories may have faded but the gist of the following stories remain the same.