Breckenridge was a sleepy mining town with a small, relatively new ski area when Jeffrey Bergeron moved there nearly 50 years ago. Since then, the town has transformed into a worldwide destination, with Breckenridge Ski Resort frequently ranked the most-visited mountain resort in the nation.Bergeron is now mayor pro tem on the Breckenridge Town Council, as well as a columnist and author whooften writes under the pen name Biff America.

 

The car was loaded and leaking oil on my parent’s driveway. It was 1974, and my best buddy Keith and I were leaving the South Shore of Boston, bound for Breckenridge, Colorado. 

The trip was both an adventure and escape from parental ultimatums. My mum wanted me to go to college; my dad wanted me to learn a trade. I didn’t have the attention span for one or the energy for the other.   

Like many of the disaffected during the ’60s and ’70s, we could not see ourselves living the lives expected of us. We knew what we didn’t want but were unsure of other options. We heard from a friend of a friend that Breckenridge was a wild place, lacking rules and traffic. Though I had only one picture postcard as a frame of reference, I saw it as a potential place where guys like us could perhaps redefine ourselves and wear cowboy hats.

Breckenridge was also making a name for itself as a fledgling ski resort just north of 10 years old. Its reputation as wild and free appealed to me, though I was unsure about the skiing aspect.

My buddy Keith was raised a Lutheran, and with his church group he had gone on a few ski trips to New Hampshire. Me being Catholic … my people boxed. My friend assured me that I would pick up skiing quickly, and since he had skied three or four times before, he would be considered an “expert.”

We loaded up a 1968 Volkswagen stationwagon that we bought from a bartender named Phil for $700. The car was in good shape, except for the body and engine.

Other than a few family vacations to New Hampshire, this would be the first time I had left Massachusetts. The first few miles of our journey took us through our hometown, past the places where we would bicycle to sandlot football and Little League games. Unbeknownst to us, we would never again live full-time in the town that once was our world. In the pocket of my leather jacket, I carried that postcard with a Breckenridge address of a friend of a friend, who we thought might let us crash on his floor until we got settled.

As we approached the Massachusetts state line, I had the grandiose illusion that we were the incarnation of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, but in truth, our only resemblance to Kerouac was our East Coast dialects.

 

We arrived in Breckenridge on a clear day in mid-October. Main Street reminded me of the town featured in the TV show Gunsmoke.

There were two Breckenridges back then: One was a fledgling ski hill and a few lodges serving what many hoped would become a popular ski resort; the other was a wild place filled with miners and mountain-man-hippies long on resilience, short on grooming. There were wooden sidewalks and dirt streets. Draft beer was a quarter, and a wild purity prevailed. It was not uncommon to see an occasional horse tied outside of a bar or a dog sleeping in the middle of the road. 

With a rich history of mining dating back to the 1800s and lasting off and on until post-World War II, the mountains surrounding town were full of old, abandoned cabins. During the late a’60s and ’70s, many hippies (for a lack of a better phrase) fixed up those cabins and lived off the grid. There were old ghost towns that were revitalized where five or 10 cabins would be fixed up, forming small communities.

A prime location for a cabin would be one where the occupants could cut a hole in the ice of a nearby stream to access water. Other than that, running water was an unheard-of luxury.

Since the only marketable skills Keith and I possessed were with the service industry, we needed a place with a shower. We rented a two-bedroom condo for $250 a month; the same place now would now go for more than $3,000.

As luck would have it, running water was our foray into the high country social scene.

About half of the folks we met that first winter lived off the grid without running water. We often invited our new friends home to use our shower, and on occasion we would join them. The rumor soon spread that we were a full-service facility.

 

On one of our first nights, we entered a local bar with both excitement and fake IDs. We were only a few dollars into our quarter-beer budget when noticed an altercation brewing at the bar. Both of us, having grown up around working-class saloons and schoolyard battles, were well acquainted with fistfighting.

We had watched the quarrel brewing for almost an hour. At the time, Breckenridge had unlimited parking and a half dozen single women.  There were two scraggly looking guys both vying for the attention of one scraggly looking gal. The gentlemen in question wore beards, long unkempt hair and faded jeans tucked into heavy boots.Except for the beard, the gal looked much the same. 

It seems all was orderly until they lost track of whose turn it was to buy the lady her beer. Both slapped money on the bar, and a pushing match ensued. When we heard the words, “Let’s settle this outside,” we knew it was gotime.

Virtually everyone, including the bartender, filed out the door. The two combatants were joined on the street by an older guy in a long jacket, cowboy boots and hat. He seemed to be giving rules or instructions. The gal in dispute looked on like the desired damsel she was.

Keith and I moved closer for a better view. But rather than throwing punches, the fighters backed off from each other and opened their coats. That’s when Keith said, “Jeez, Berger, these guys aren’t going to throw punches – they’re going to start shooting.” I remember inching over behind the largest guy I saw.

The referee looked at the crowd and said, “Give ’em room.” He turned to the battlers and added, “Don’t neither one of you polecats move until I say ‘go!’”

The two stood about 10 feet from each other with their arms held out from their hips.

“Go!”

Their hands flew to their belts. But rather than draw guns, they fumbled with their buckles. In a flash, one was standing with his pants down to his knees with his red long underwear visible to all. The other was a few seconds behind and was declared the loser.

The fighters shook hands. A cheer went up from the crowd and, with much celebration and back slapping, all returned inside.  

 

We were in Breckenridge less than a week when Keith lied about his age and got a job tending bar, and I lied about my experience and got one waiting on tables. The problem was our jobs didn’t begin until the ski resort opened on Thanksgiving, and we had arrived in mid-October.

After paying rent and doing the math, we had concerns that we might not last until late November. We even considered moving to Denver, where the work would be steadier. Lucky for us, after a night of celebration, Keith rolled our Volkswagen into the Blue River, making a move more difficult.

In his defense Keith, did have a reason to celebrate – he had won a dog sled race earlier that day.

The buzz around town had been that there was going to be some sort of dog sled race around Lake Dillon, with mushers coming from all around the West to compete. Two local bars, one of them where Keith was slated to work, entered teams. But rather than have dogs pulling a musher, these bar owners decided to have a pack of humans pulling a dog sitting in a toboggan.

When the organizers realized what was going on, they created a separate category, distance (about 100 yards) and start times so the human dogs would not get bitten by the real ones at the start. Keith’s team was in second place until the lead dog/human tackled one member of the opposing team, bringing them all down. Keith’s team was the first on their feet and won the race.  

As I recall, the winning team’s prize was a case of Yukon Jack Canadian whiskey.

 

Four decades later, I stopped by a celebration of the final night of ownership of a local tavern. It was one of the last vestiges from the old times, and only a stone’s throw away from the one that hosted the aforementioned quickdraw contest.

I saw some of the same faces who once lived in cabins, and even some who shared our shower. Like me, they have made a home and found success 2 miles above sea level. Those former cabin dwellers are now contractors, teachers, businessmen and -women, and community leaders. They stayed, not because it was easy, or that they had nowhere else to go, but because they loved this town. They stayed because this place is special.

And giving credit where credit is due, Keith was correct: I picked up skiing “in no time,” if you consider no time as decades. On a good year, my wife and I might begin cross-country skiing in late October on the same trails we mountain bike on during the summer. When the lifts begin running, we mix up riding lifts with backcountry skiing on our nearby untracked mountains. Usually, our last backcountry ski days are on the summer solstice or the Fourth of July.

Breckenridge is not the same place it was when I arrived. Over the years, I have attempted to throw a wrench into the works of growth and expansion. But what I considered sprawl, others thought of as progress.

Though I lost more battles than I won, I will admit that with growth came three additional peaks to ski inbounds, miles of hiking, biking and cross-country skiing trails, a golf course and an amazing recreation center. I’d like to say the young and wild crowd still fights to win the heart of a lady by pulling down their pants on the street, but I would imagine that with the skinny jeans popular today, it would be a challenge.

And speaking of that gunfight so long ago, the next day, I wrote my mother telling her that I had found where I belong. And though I miss the old days, I’m nonetheless certain that Breckenridge is where I am meant to be.