By Candida Harper

Originally published by the Aspen Chamber of Commerce, c. 1980

Any prophet who said in 1880 that silver lamé ski suits would one day outnumber silver mines on Aspen Mountain would have been laughed out of town. Just imagine trying to convince one of Aspen’s muddy miners that within a mere century those big clumsy boards he begrudgingly strapped to his boots would transform into sacred sticks, whose very name—skis—could simultaneously send 15 million sport crazed Americans into a semi-religious frenzy!

But the future is always wild fantasy until it unfolds, and it took a long time for the gloss of skis to overshadow silver’s sheen—a sheen once so bright it glittered above Aspen like a guiding light, luring men in droves with the promise of great riches. That silver star burned blue-bright for while, then suddenly fizzled and went dark. The lavish style that spiced Victorian life in silver’s heyday disappeared with the disenchanted droves, and for 30 years only a handful of the hale and hardy—or incurably stubborn—called Aspen home.

Local residents heard the first hint of what was to come in the mid ‘30s, when U.S. Olympic Bobsled Champion Billy Fiske and his friend and fellow ski enthusiast Ted Ryan discovered to their delight that Colorado’s Rocky Mountains were ideally suited for skiing. Fiske and Ryan moved right in and began designing what they hoped would be America’s finest ski resort. In 1936 they constructed the 16-bed Highland Bavarian Lodge at the confluence of Castle and Conundrum Creeks, declaring downtown Aspen too decrepit to salvage.

Ryan and Fiske set their sights on the nearby Ashcroft valley and dreamed of building a four-mile tramway from the valley’s floor to the very top of Mt. Hayden’s 13,500 foot peak. They invited the renowned Swiss skier André Roch to help them scout the area.

All the best terrain in Switzerland that Roch had skied was above timberline. Ignorant of the severity of a Colorado winter, Roch encouraged his hosts’ enthusiasm for the bleak, treeless majesty of Hayden.

Encouraged by Roch, the newly formed Aspen Ski Club raised enough money to buy a length of half-inch steel cable for a ski lift. The motor, a converted Model A Ford engine, was donated by the owner of the Hotel Jerome. The lift was modeled on a tow Ryan had seen in Kitzbuhel, Austria. A tobaggan-like "boat" could transport two to four skiers to the top of the run in less than three minutes. On opening day, January 27, 1938, 100 adventuresome souls rode Colorado’s biggest ski lift. Lift prices that winter were 10 cents a ride, 50 cents for a half-day, and 75 cents all day.

If World War II hadn’t dashed Ryan’s and Fiske’s dream of developing Ashcroft, they might have built the tramway to Mt. Hayden, and some unfortunate skier might be shivering against the unmitigated cold beauty of her slopes this very moment. But world events intervened with the force of a cosmic sledgehammer. Billy Fiske rushed to answer the call, becoming the first American to volunteer for the British Royal Air Force. Aspen’s first attempt at ski development followed him to a fiery hero’s death.

Efforts to turn Aspen into a viable ski resort were eclipsed by the fury of the war but Fiske, Ryan and Roch had infused Aspen’s dark star with a faint new glimmer. Those with keen eyesight could see it shine.

Before Ted Ryan left to join the wartime effort with the Office of Strategic Services in Europe, he offered the Army the use of Ashcroft as a training camp for the elite mountaineering troop known as the 10th Mountain Division. The troops were stationed in Ashcroft between August and November of 1942 before moving to permanent camp in Leadville some 50 miles away. Whenever weekend leave allowed, the lure of Aspen’s downhill skiing brought the bright-boys of the 10th Mountain swarming down on the old mining town. They looked around them and saw the potential of this Paradise-in-the Raw.

At war’s end, Aspen’s guiding light gathered enough of the 10th Mountain Division under its warm glow to provide the town with a backbone strong enough to survive any shockwaves set off by the impending stampede to wealth and glory. Even today, whenever Aspen’s fate is debated, the rational voices of the men of the 10th Mountain Division can be heard above the roar. One member of the 10th Mountain Division whose very first look at Aspen Mountain convinced him that skiing was the name of the future was a European refugee, Friedl Pfeifer. Before he left for active service overseas he begged Aspen’s City Council to start untangling the mess of mining claims that obfuscated ownership of Aspen Mountain. He promised to return as soon as the war would let him, in order to devote heart and soul to skiing in Aspen.

Meanwhile, the lovely, lively wife of Chicago industrialist Walter Paepcke had fallen in love with Aspen. Elizabeth Paepcke came here to ski at Ted Ryan’s invitation in 1939. She hitched a ride with miners up the backside of Aspen Mountain, tied skins on her skis, climbed to the summit, then swooshed past groves of snow-laden evergreens, and sailed into downtown Aspen. She lost her heart, somewhere in mid-flight, and her love proved to be the gentle nudge that sent the nearly deserted mining town down the road to glory.

The ebullient Elizabeth extolled to her husband the virtues of the simple good life Aspen offered. One day Walter—still skeptical—presented his wife with the deed to a home of her own in the dilapidated land of her dreams. He meant the gesture as a joke, but by the time peace descended on the war-weary world, Walter himself was vitally engaged in an all-out effort to transform decaying Aspen into a community all the world could look to as a model.

Paepcke’s vision for the new Aspen wasn’t limited to ski development. He wanted to create an environment where both body and mind would flourish. Intellectual challenge was, for Paepcke, the natural complement of the physical test of strength inherent in mountain life. The Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies was his answer to the cerebral side of his quest and he endorsed skiing as the appropriate physical component.

While Paepcke dreamed of the perfect community, Friedl Pfeifer waited impatiently in a Colorado Springs hospital for his war wounds to heal so he could pursue the dream that had sustained him through both combat and convalescence: Aspen—Ski Capital of America!

Paepcke sought out Pfeifer in the hospital and agreed to find the financing for Friedl’s dream. The Aspen Skiing Corporation was born. Ted Ryan, returning after the war, agreed to invest. Ryan shelved his Mt. Hayden development and launched a lecture tour throughout the East, spreading the gospel of Colorado skiing.

Lift-1 opened for business on January 7, 1947, transporting eager skiers up 300 vertical feet to the Sundeck and the start of a long, leisurely run all the way back to town. Skiing in Aspen had survived the fledgling’s falterings and was about to fly. Pfeifer wanted to share with everyone in Aspen the joy he derived from skiing. He held clinics for housewives and classes for kids. He distributed ski passes with a liberal hand. His one and only loud lament was the lack of a gentle beginner’s slope where the intimidated uninitiated could join in the fun.

In 1950 Aspen was chosen as the site for the prestigious FIS (Federation Internationale du Ski) [which] heralded international acceptance of the young ski resort. The star that had been glowing brighter and brighter above the little mountain town suddenly assumed a blinding brilliance.

In 1958 the enterprising Whipple Van Ness Jones started advertising the thrills and chills of the world’s highest chairlift and opened Aspen Highlands Ski Resort. The increasingly obvious and almost dire need for gentle beginner’s slopes was finally satisfied in 1961 when Buttermilk joined Aspen’s blossoming ski industry.

By the mid-60s, Aspen was mushrooming at a rate that delighted investors and terrified ecologists. All the economic indicators showed that growth exceeded a 10% annual rate of increase. Clearly, Aspen had entered an era of boom growth. The opening of Snowmass-at-Aspen lifts in 1967 increased ski slopes in the valley by 50% in one fell swoop. Snowmass, the largest of the Aspen area’s four ski development, is still unfinished.

Between 1960 and 1969, the number of Americans who purchased slick sticks and took to the slopes tripled. Skiing’s exponentially expanding popularity showed no signs of slacking off during the 70s. Fourteen and a half million adventuresome Americans now spent a total of $3 billion a year to enjoy the skiing experience at over 700 ski resorts throughout the country.

Aspen’s recent history parallels the growth of the ski industry nationwide. Aspen Mountain registered 263,793 skier days last year; Buttermilk, 235,000; and Snowmass, a whopping 699,568. Aspen Highlands is so busy they can’t even keep track of numbers.

Ski slopes in the four-mountain Aspen area proffer sufficient diversity to challenge an expert or placate any novice. For those of us whose skill falls somewhere between those two extremes, we can cruise or creep, even sail or soar down more runs than anyone can keep track of. Skiers can socialize on the slopes if they want to, or chase celebrities, or stick close to family. Its all out there, groomed and waiting Those who seek the simple solitude of a snowy forest can slip into touring skis and take to the hills under their own power.

Ignore for a moment the utter futility of trying to second-guess the changes that the next century will spring on this mountain ski resort, and let's engage in a little amateur star gazing. Will the fashion in slick sticks in 2080 be wide or narrow, short or long? Will they be made of metal or plastic, or manufactured by willpower alone? Or will skis long since have been forgotten, their place of honor usurped by some other unlikely item? Will the sun a century hence dawn on a booming mountain megalopolis or a tumble-down ghost town abandoned to decay? Will the star that lights up our skies with dazzling brilliance burst like a bubble? And if a fortune-teller knew the answers, would we be any less incredulous than the miner who laughed at the crazy idea that skis would one day shine brighter than silver?