1960’s

 It was a twice annual migration across McLane Flats, up Cemetery Lane and into town.  From the West end of town the heard used Hopkins Street in order to avoid Main Street as the proceed out of town towards Independence Pass or up Aspen Mountain.  Besides Hopkins Street was narrower and made it easier for the Sheep Dogs to maintain control. 

A number of the ranchers down valley used the high country in the summer to graze the herds before taking them back home in the fall.  Some summers every valley up intendance pass was filled with sheep, sheep dogs and even Basque Sheep Herders.  Back then the Federal Government leased out grazing rights and the only efficient way to get the herds to the high mountain pastures was to drive them there, and I don’t mean in big trucks.

As kids we used to look forward to the twice annual visit of the flocks.  On a good visit the street were filled with droppings and all the weeds along the gutters and sidewalks were gone.  Watching the sheep dogs do their work was fascinating and the men on horses sparred little time to answer questions from the ever growing crowds of spectators.

One year tragedy struck right out in front of our house.  During a minor stampede, if that is what sheep do, a lamb was injured in the melee.  The herd pressed on and the little guy just laid there in the street.  Bellowing out for his mother, who was nowhere in plain sight and with little notice from the working dogs or men on horseback, the lamb, was soon left behind.  My sister Debbie, who has always had a soft spot for animals jumped into action.

 First she ran to the aid of the lamb but soon learned that only served to scare him more.  Next she ran to our father insisting he help.  With the next herd only a few blocks behind, my father headed down the street in the direction of the approaching riders leading the way.  Within minutes a number of the cowboys arrived to see what, if anything could be done for the stricken animal.  Not long after that a pickup truck arrived and took the lamb off in the direction of his herd.

 My sister insisted on knowing what was to happen to the little lamb and was re-assured that not was really wrong and that the lamb would be re-united with his mother and be able to spend the rest of the summer in the high country with the rest of them.

By summer’s end, with the various herds returning to their respective farms the high country looked as well groomed as a golf course putting green.  Over the years the annual migration dwindled and by the early 1970’s only the Christiansen brothers continued to graze their sheep in the high country.  By mid-1970 the migrations had ended all together.  Progress had once again claimed another aspect of a quieter time in Aspen’s past.

1970’s

There was a time when the Maroon Bells were one of the most photographed places on earth.  In the middle of the summer, the parking lot up at the lake was always at capacity with more cars waiting at the entrance of the upper lot for the next available space.  There were tri-pods and expensive cameras everywhere.

The lower lot was reserved for hikers, many of which headed up the well-used trail to Crater Lake situated below the “bells” and above the Maroon Bells Lake.  Some of the hikers were taking on more challenging hikes like traversing West Maroon Pass, East Maroon Pass and even climbing the face of Pyramid Peak.  There were also about 100 small camping spots in and around both parking lots and these were almost always in use all summer long.

For the locals we just loved the un-fettered access we enjoyed going up to the “bells” at any hour of the day.  Some might say that it was even the site of many “submarine races” by the high school students.  Another fun activity was to ride our bike down from the upper parking area all the way back to town, approximately 12 miles in all.  Our parents took turns taking us up and dropping us off, most had pick-up trucks or other means of carrying half-dozen bikes at a time.

The trip down was 80 percent speed, 10 percent terror and 10 percent uphill.  The first part of the trip was a gradual downhill on nicely paved roads.  Then there was a section just below the lake where the road turned to a gravel surface for a few miles bordered by Cattle Guards on both ends.  Unfortunately, by the time you hit the first cattle guard and the ensuing gravel surface most of us were already doing 30 or 40 miles per hour.  Panic was our first order of business.  We all knew to expect that section of the road but it always arrived earlier than we expected.

The next couple of miles after the gravel was back to pavement and a gradual downhill, we once again picked up speed.  As we passed the T-Lazy 7 stables, tolerating the fresh odor of horses, our next obstacle was a short distance away.  As the road crossed over the Maroon Creek River it turned transitioned to a fairly steep uphill for the next half mile.  No matter how much speed we had as we crossed the river it was never enough to get very far up the hill before you had to start peddling again.

Exhausted and barely moving we finally crested the hill right next to The Heather Bed Lodge and Highlands Ski Area parking lot.  The remainder of the journey into town was uneventful with the exception of the volume of traffic on the road.  Back then the bike riders knew how to share the road with the cars.  Today bicycles seem to control the roads.  Also today, the access to the Maroon Bells is limited and usually requires a bus ride to the lake.