I’ve never wrestled an alligator, but I have tried to stuff a reptilian-green sleeping bag into the designated zippered section of a thirty-six liter backpack. It’s quite comparable. Suffice to say, despite living in Denver for over four years, I admit (in a hushed voice) that I’m not a camper. That is why the famed hike from Aspen to Crested Butte was my holy grail of Colorado adventures. Stretching eleven miles through the wildflower-filled wilderness, with a midway cross over West Maroon Pass, the spectacular trek would be accomplished in one day. Better yet, it was bookended by two incredible mountain towns where I could enjoy the finer things in life — like a hot shower, pillow-top mattress and the comfort of knowing that I would not be a mountain lion’s midnight snack.
Yes, after silently backseat driving over the white-knuckle Independence Pass route, my adventure began in Aspen. Aaassspppennn. It’s that little town where a man on the patio of Ajax Tavern once leaned over and told me that my wagyu double cheeseburger and fries looked so perfect they should be in a magazine. Why of course they should — we were in Aspen. It’s the land of twenty-dollar cocktails where I ran across a couple ladies in fur coats squealing in the lamplight that they just saw a bear strolling through town. Or was it just one of their fur-clad friends? You never know in Aspen. It’s where on a dark February night, I cross-country skied with a headlamp down the icy, wooded trail to Pine Creek Cookhouse — and fell yard-sale style with the bravado of a cartoon character. Ahhh, but even that was fun in Aspen.
Packed puffy jacket aside, it was the summer of 2018 — a warm August afternoon as our group kicked things off on a light note at the Grey Lady, Aspen’s own little slice of Nantucket. With Cucumber Fizz cocktails and heavy pours of rosé in hand, we clinked glasses and reclined on patio couches, taking in the scene. Classic hits played by street musicians filled the air as an older woman’s gigantic diamond ring bobbed up and down through a platter of oysters, crab legs and lobster tails. It was the closest I’d felt to the ocean in months.
Yet, after a second round of drinks, we ordered the “check, please,” remembering that this wasn’t the weekend to indulge in the revelry of Aspen. There wasn’t enough time to try on Stetson hats at Kemo Sabe, bask in the historical grandeur of Hotel Jerome or carouse in the wee hours amid the neon lights of Escobar. Furthermore, since we only packed the necessities we could carry on our backs, we opted for a dinner locale that matched our casual duds — Ryno’s Pub & Pizzeria.
Likewise, our digs for the evening at Aspen Mountain Lodge were humble and also welcoming of my friends’ dogs — including Kili, my all-time favorite golden retriever. That’s Kili as in Kilimanjaro — and no, she hasn’t made the ascent. Despite tripping over the pups in the middle of the night, our rooms were comfy enough and the price was right for the occasion. Yet, I echoed the sentiments of the fabulous Phyllis Nefler played by Shelley Long in the 80’s classic “Troop Beverly Hills” — two bathrooms for nine women, that’s what I call roughing it!
Yes, with Patagucci wishes and Thin Mint dreams, nine of us ladies from Denver and Boulder drifted into the cool mountain air at 7 a.m. the following morning clad in our colorful layers. Fueled by hotel lobby coffee with fake creamer, we beelined toward the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, which begins ten miles outside of downtown Aspen.
(Just so you know, during peak season, private vehicles are only allowed past the Forest Service gate before 8 a.m. and after 5 p.m.. At other times, visitors are shuttled there from the new Maroon Bells Basecamp in Aspen Highlands, which opened during the summer of 2019. That amounts to a lot of Instagrams on the 1.7-mile nature trail that loops Maroon Lake.)
Thankfully, we cleared the Forest Service gate with time to spare and there they were… Pausing at Maroon Lake, we took in the pièce de résistance — the 14,000-foot Maroon Bells soaring into the sky. Then, after taking a swig of water and tightening the waist belts of our packs, we were off into the wild blue yonder, leaving the selfie takers behind.
In my opinion, as long you’re in good shape and adjusted to the altitude, one of the most challenging parts of the trek from Aspen to Crested Butte is figuring out the logistics. But then again, after living in Colorado, my red blood cell count far exceeded that of my sea-level living counterparts — which is like being Lance Armstrong-style blood doped in a natural and legal way.
In terms of the tricky logistics, Maroon Bells lot does offer limited parking for those who go for the gold and do the 11-mile hike back to their cars in Aspen after spending the night in Crested Butte. Yet, a better option is to plan the hike far in advance in order to snag a reservation with Maroon Bells Shuttles (maroonbellsshuttles.com). Athletic powerhouses in this niche business model actually run the West Maroon Trail, pick up your car in Aspen and drive it to meet you in the parking lot of the Crested Butte trailhead. However, since we didn’t have the foresight to assemble a plan more than ten days before the hike, this brilliant service was booked up. That leaves option number three — knowing the right people.
Fortunately, the best thing I did after moving to Colorado was joining a circle of friends who are lightyears more outdoorsy than myself — a group that knows the ins and outs of many mountain adventures. It’s kind of been like having my own Colorado activity cruise directors, while I’m a wide-eyed guest holding a coconut with a straw and tiny tropical umbrella, nodding “yes” to suggested excursions.
With that said, just before all logistical hope was lost, a friend who lives and breathes outdoor adventures wrangled the best transportation option of all — the car swap. From her little black book of outdoor enthusiasts, she locked down two groups who happily agreed to do the reverse hike from Crested Butte to Aspen, thus leaving their cars for us at the end of the trail. We’d do a baton-style car key pass off on West Maroon Pass, and to be on the safe side, hide the second set of keys at the cars in Aspen. Voila! (That definitely beats hiring a shuttle service, such as Dolly’s, to schlep us all the way back to Aspen. Though for out-of-towners, the shuttle is a viable option.)
While the scenery is incredible no matter which direction you choose, hiking from Aspen to Crested Butte is much more uphill and strenuous than the reverse route. Yet, the dramatic narrative is perfection. Act one is the Aspen side. At the Maroon Lake Trailhead, we began at 9,580-feet and climbed through aspen groves before reaching the splendor of Crater Lake, another prime viewing point of the Maroon Bells’ rugged beauty. Located less than two miles from the trailhead, this area is popular with hikers enjoying out-and-back morning jaunts and even small chi-chi dogs.
Leaving the leisure set behind, our journey continued through the pristine Maroon Bells–Snowmass Wilderness as mountains towered overhead. We hiked for miles along and over a creek with stone crossings, and through expanses of thick bushes before ascending to into the high-alpine tundra. Wildflowers like Indian paintbrush and lupine dotted grasses above the tree line with red and purple. West Maroon Pass, our 6.5-mile midway point loomed above us — it’s accent marking a 3,000-foot elevation gain from the Maroon Lake Trailhead.
If you’ve ever read Cheryl Strayed’s captivating memoir “Wild”, about her 93-day trek along the Pacific Crest Trail, this is the point on the hike when you’ll start thinking about Snapple lemonade and her 70-pound backpack, which she affectionally named “Monster.” At that moment, I felt like a beast of burden in laughable, pale comparison. Each step during the final steep mile ascent to the top of the pass came with heavy breaths and regrets about frivolous extra weight crammed in my much smaller, thirty-six liter pack. How did my hairbrush make the necessities cut? That’s what fingers are for!
But, oh — my fear of ledges aside — the theatrical, panoramic view from the 12,500-foot peak of West Maroon Pass was breathtaking! Grand rugged mountains of the hike’s first act lay behind us on the Aspen side, while rolling green hills leading to Crested Butte spoke to a distinctly different act two. Adding to the climax, a dark cloud passed overhead and a light sprinkle fell. Patagonia’s water-repellant “Houdini” jackets in cool hues magically appeared as we also whipped out warm beers for a ceremonious cheers with our car swap crew who perfectly met us in the middle.
Like crossing into a wonderland reminiscent of the Swiss Alps, the hills were more than just alive as we descended from West Maroon pass into the open valley. Shades of green were speckled with endless fields of orange and lavender wildflowers. Further down the trail, deep tall fields of fireweed created a magnificent magenta foreground against the sharp distant peaks of Crested Butte. Saying we were “among the wildflowers” just like Tom Petty sang feels a bit cliché since I’ve already dipped in to that hashtag on Instagram. So let me go with a little Talking Heads to soundtrack the scene — “Heaven. Heaven is a place…”
The sprinkle stopped, our Patagonia Houdini jackets disappeared and we marched on through tall grasses as the sun sank into the afternoon. Staying on course despite a couple forks in the trail, the water level receded toward the bottom of our hydration reservoirs as we wound our way through a forest. I daydreamed of orange Gatorade, the sweet nectar of the hiking gods.
Finally, clocking over eleven miles, we emerged into the dirt parking lot where our swapped chariots awaited — a Jeep Grand Cherokee and a big pickup truck. The most intrepid drivers from our group then took the wheel to navigate the rocky and perilously ledgy Schofield Pass. Take heed — the four-wheel drive and experienced drivers-only warning signs on Gothic Road are no joke.
Now, our accommodation selection in Crested Butte wasn’t exactly the Beverly Hills Hotel, but the mini shampoo bottles and big comfy beds at the Elevation Hotel and Spa looked pretty glamorous after a trek through the backcountry. (That is why man made beds!) The hotel — another dog-friendly choice — was right at the ski mountain, while the town itself was just a quick ride down the hill on the free Mountain Express shuttle, a colorful school bus painted by local artists.
No, Toto — or actually Kili, the golden retriever — we weren’t in Aspen anymore. Crested Butte was a down-to-earth haven for outdoor enthusiasts with hippie flair and no desire to star in the society pages. On Elk Avenue, historical wooden buildings showcased a rainbow of shades and boisterous music spilled from Montanya Distillers. In the morning, tents filled with an eclectic array of paintings, carved wood and ceramics would line the street for the annual Crested Butte Arts Festival.
For dinner we sat around a big table at Secret Stash, the go-to for pizza in town. Moroccan lanterns cast light on a funky room draped with sheer, colorful curtains and a lazy Susan paraded pies in front us. Appetites were huge and the conversation was sparse. Sure, the locals’ hangout, Talk of the Town, would pick up later in the evening, but it seemed like the pups lounging back in the hotel room had the right idea. Those pillow-top mattresses were calling our names, so our troop tucked in early. We were dog-tired and even wilderness girls need their beauty sleep.
Author’s note: Times have changed since I took this hike in the summer of 2018, as have some spots mentioned in the story.
