Affixed to the back of a ’56 Ford truck back in the early 1970’s, this sticker is a declaration supporting firewood over fission, good old fashioned wood heat instead of nuclear power plants. But there’s more than meets the eye. This sticker is really about power. Not the electrical kind that flows through transmission lines, but the political kind that shapes communities. It symbolizes a changing of the guard here in the Fraser Valley.
For nearly a century, Grand County had been a working class, Republican stronghold, even hosting President Eisenhower while he fished for trout in nearby St. Louis Creek. Ranching and logging dominated the economy, with seasonal tourism (mostly hunting and fishing) rounding out the day’s receipts.
But things were changing. Most of the accessible old growth timber was gone, and the sawmill was slowly becoming a mere pole yard. Meanwhile, Winter Park ski area was growing. Some locals even started taking jobs there during the winter when life in the woods or on the bulldozer could be harsh. The first condominiums, “Park Meadows”, came in ‘61, followed a few years later by the first of many hippies.
While these newcomers were surely influenced by the “back to the land” ethic of the time, they weren’t your typical flower children. True, most of them were fleeing jobs or college life in the big cities, tended to be liberal minded, and partook in all the requisite chemical compounds, but their primary reason for coming to the Fraser Valley was skiing. By day, these young men and women hit the slopes, and by night, they hit the Slope or Adolph’s, 2 drinking establishments conveniently located near the base of the ski area. It was one of the more politically aware of these folks who put the sticker on what was even then an old truck.
Needless to say, the influx of dope smoking longhairs came as a shock to the local populace, who had been enjoying a quiet life of relative isolation in a town known as the “Icebox of the Nation.” They sat on barstools in Clayton’s Café and Bar or in the “Bloody Bucket”, Cat Diesel Power caps perched askew on crew-cut heads, sipping Coors and complaining about the freaks. Many of them scoffed at the sticker, for they had spent a good portion of their lives splitting wood just to ward off the bitter cold nights, and no hippies were gonna convince them that atomic power was anything but good old fashioned progress.
Fights between the two groups are the stuff of legend. Packs of drunken loggers and ranch hands would occasionally drive the 5 miles from Fraser to Old Town Winter Park, just to see what those unkempt ski-bums were made of. The peace, love and deep powder crowd, plenty drunk themselves, would surely have preferred to be left alone, but would stand their ground when forced to, matching the rednecks blow for blow.
An important battle took place in the summer of 1972, when the world’s first ever Rainbow Gathering was held a few miles away near Grand Lake. This event, where mostly young, mostly middle-class white folks lived like Indians for a week, was especially troubling to the locals, who watched in disbelief as throngs of psychedelic buses and makeshift motor homes rolled through town on Highway 40 en route to a spiritual gathering that some attendants believed would usher in the actual Age of Aquarius.
Unfortunately for the cosmic seekers, the county Sheriff was not about to let a paradigm shift happen in Grand County, especially on public land so close to the vacation homes of Front Range politicians. Roadblocks were set up on the highways leading into the gathering, and anyone trying to sneak through the adjacent woods was rounded up by a posse of local boys on horseback. The local longhairs, by now familiar with the back roads, hauled some of the hippies into the planned site, but the rest retreated to Granby, where, to the horror of all onlookers, they scavenged through dumpsters, ate leftover scraps on restaurant plates, and loitered furiously on the streets and sidewalks of the small town.
Just then, a local rancher entered the fray by announcing that the big event could take place on his land, free of charge. The locals cried “Judas” but were unable to do anything to stop it. The freaks gathered and partied and prayed, then hiked to the top of nearby Table Mountain to build a shrine. It was a watershed moment of sorts, symbolizing the changes that had come to the Fraser Valley for good.
In the end, the ski bums stayed. Within a decade, many of them were running the show as town council members and mayors, trading all-night parties and wood stove simplicity for domesticity and flick of the switch, nuclear powered climate controlled comfort. The local loggers and ranchers stayed too, but in the new age of destination tourists and cocaine, their time had come and gone
What Makes a Local?
It’s early November in the Fraser Valley, Colorado. Outside the snow is falling silently, big fat flakes that cover the frozen mud. Meanwhile, in the bar, folks are gathering on a Tuesday night, doing the Tuesday night during the off-season in a ski town in the bar sort of thing. Which is pretty much like the Tuesday night during the season in a ski town in the bar sort of thing except that there’s lots less people and most everybody there knows everybody else.
The cute young bartender asks a fresh face where he’s from. An innocent question, a common question. The new fresh face replies “well, I just got an address and post office box in Fraser so I guess I’m a local.”
Meanwhile, a few barstools away, my cousin is doing the Tuesday night in the bar thing. He’s a 40 something fellow, a skier and mason, born and raised in this mountain valley, the Great-Grandson of Swedes who settled in Fraser back in 1909. He hears what the fresh face says, and it upsets him. My cousin confronts the fresh face, asks him a barrage of questions about the Valley and it’s history and culture, none of which he can answer.
I’m sure that the new guy in town didn’t mean any harm when he referred to himself as a local. In his eyes, the Fraser Valley is a pristine place where everything is new and the possibilities are endless. He was probably from a big city and was expecting, or at least hoping for, some small town hospitality. Instead, he had to deal with the wrath of a pissed off stranger with beer on his breath.
But how could he understand? Aspiring ski bum newcomer doesn’t know what it’s like to have newcomer millionaires turn hay meadows into golf courses. He doesn’t understand that fishing holes of yore are now just part of some far off stranger’s investment portfolio, off limits to the locals. He doesn’t remember what it was like to be able to ride a horse out of town without having to worry about getting run down by a Lincoln Navigator stacked with 5 thousand dollar bicycles.
This whole incident got us to thinking about just what it is makes one worthy of the local’s discount. Is it property? Is it employment? Is it a state of mind? Is it a length of time? In an effort to answer this question, we came up with a 20-part quiz. The more yeses, the better the chance that you’re a true local here in Fraser, the “Icebox of the Nation”.
Are your keys always in the ignition?
Did you (or your children) ever put pennies on the railroad tracks?
Have you ever been 86’d from the Crooked Creek Saloon?
Does your job give you powder days off?
Do you enjoy the off seasons?
Did you (or your children) learn to drive on dirt roads?
Have you ever owned a Ford, Subaru or Volkswagen?
Is there one broken down in your yard right now?
Do you remember when it was colder and the snow was deeper?
Ever used a chainsaw?
Are there any loggers in your family tree?
Have your hands ever been calloused?
Ever lived in a home with wheels?
Ever shoveled snow off your roof?
Does your car have an engine heater?
Ever fried up an elk steak?
Do you pick up hitchhikers?
Ever had a drug or alcohol problem?
Ever attended an old timer’s reunion, a Bob Marley birthday bash, an Epworth Cup or a town picnic?
Do you have friends or family buried in the cemetery?
Bonus question: What was the original name of the Fraser River?
How did you score? 0-2: Trustafarian/Developer, I hear Vail calling your name. 3-6: You’ll be gone for good come mud season. 7-9: Winter Park maybe, but not Fraser. 10-13: Oh yeah, I remember, you moved away after 9th grade. 14-17: I agree, John Elway is the best quarterback in NFL history. 18-19: Glad to hear your liver transplant was a success. 20+: You should run for mayor.
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