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The sun was sinking, a cool
wind was on the rise, and curiously, the bar was nearly empty.
In fact, it was totally empty until three guys blew into the
joint, saddled up comfortably on corner stools and ordered up.
The three knew each other by name and shared time over the occasional
drink, ride or ski. On the occasion of that night in that nearly
empty bar, the three convened with a specific purpose in mind.
And over a few cocktails, they tried to put a long-standing
and great riddle to rest.
“Whatever became of the good-old days?”
As with any great and long-standing riddle, they began to pick
it apart at its beginning. Dipping into the realm of forgotten
dreams and memories, this trip into the lost chapters brought
smiles to their faces. But, every sip of beer, twist in the
barstool and look outside reminded them of paradise lost, and
as bottles were emptied and tales were told, more than a couple
regrets surfaced.
No end to the riddle in sight, the three eventually paid up
and packed it out of the bar, leaving only heavy questions and
an air of lost dreams to mark their passage.
Having spent a big chunk of my life bemoaning the loss of the
good-old days, the exchange sparked my interest. And had I chosen
a different stool that night, I could have spun a couple tales
and mustered a few tears of my own.
Looking back, the ’70s and early ’80s clearly were
the good-old days for my hometown of Telluride. Coming from
all over, hippies, ski bums and anarchists sniffed out and descended
on a silver-mining town gone bust. They populated its classic
shacks and filled its dirt streets and bars, opened and operated
its new ski lifts, and then they rewrote the rules for living
in an unparalleled mountain town. The living was lean, but no
one minded. The greater family eased the burden. The shadows
of Ajax, Ballard and the San Sophias provided reassurance.
For me, those days were my only benchmark, the only living I’d
ever known. My parents were among the squatter hippies, wheeling
into the San Miguel Valley in a Volkswagen bus and toting their
infant son. I gladly made my way through an unorthodox public
school, grew up around the pool tables of the Roma and found
solace in the deep powder of Bushwhacker and on the perfect
bumps of Zulu Queen.
At that time nothing else really counted to any of us. The happenings
of the outside didn’t inspire interest. That is, the happenings
of the outside didn’t matter until the outside began to
take over.
Looking through the Hollywood haze that now envelops Telluride,
those “early” days really do seem like a high point
in ski town culture. At that time, the ski bums hadn’t
traded in their restaurant jobs for real estate licenses. Hang
gliders still outnumbered private planes. And the health food
co-op and the Tofu Shop restaurant proudly occupied a space
that would later become a gallery. Back in those days, we still
thought Oprah was a kind of a vegetable. The last star to visit
the high-altitude hamlet had been William Jennings Bryant during
the turn of the century.
Many years later in Durango, I’m still tempted to romanticize
that Telluride hey-day. A bunch of my friends love to hear me
tell tales of those good-old days while mentioning how shitty
things have gotten “up there.”
But to be honest, two weeks ago, things in Telluride were far
from shitty. And I suspect they’ve been far from it ever
since I packed up and left more than a decade ago. Looking around
Town Park during Blues and Brews, the old valley seemed like
it hadnchanged a bit. Ajax, Ballard and the San Sophias still
framed the view. Cool beer poured from the tap, and Dr. John’s
piano sounded from that classic Bluegrass Festival stage that’s
seen only a few changes in the last 30 years.
More importantly, a bunch of my friends are staying true to
those good-old days and keeping that misfit dream alive. And
then it really started happening. The first faces I recognized
were those of hippie kids I’d grown up with. They were
back in the valley making their homes there and living the good
life after stints in filmmaking or investment banking.
And almost as if my eyes had adjusted to see what had always
been there, I started seeing the ageless faces of those old
squatter hippies, first a couple, few and then dozens. And believe
me, they weren’t sitting around on bar stools bitching
about how lousy things have gotten. They were smiling, laughing
and getting down just like during the first Bluegrass Festival,
still having the times of their lives in Telluride. And I decided
it would probably be alright to get down a little bit myself,
comfortable knowing that the good-old days are alive and well.
-Will Sands
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