There I was last winter, nervously making small talk with the man who was to create my headshot for this magazine. When he learned that I write about odd places in Colorado, he mentioned that we have more closed ski areas than open ones—and some of them are still ski-able, if you don't mind hiking to the top.

That's all I needed to know; I had a mission to ski at a “ghost ski area.” Our party chose to focus on one in particular: Geneva Basin, located on the Guanella Pass Road between the town of Grant on Highway 285 and Georgetown on I-70. (It closed in 1984 after a chair fell off a cable.) Why that one? My husband Brian had good memories of skiing it in times past; it wasn't too far away; and it is on public land, and thus still accessible.

So, one Saturday last winter, we loaded up the car and headed out, choosing to approach the pass from the Grant (south) side. We drove and drove, turned north at Grant, drove some more, and were stopped by heaps and piles of the good stuff. It seems that Guanella Pass is no longer kept open in the winter—and the road closes about five miles from Geneva Basin. We were expecting to have to use some leg power to hike ourselves up to the top, but we weren't prepared to ski in for five miles first.

But why let a little thing like that stand in the way of a good day? We turned around and headed to Evergreen, in search of another abandoned ski area, Squaw Pass. Bummer again—sort of. Squaw Pass is not abandoned; it's flourishing under the name Echo Mountain (echomountainpark.com).

Squaw Pass began as a family-owned resort for Denverites back before I-70 was opened, and before “ski area” became synonymous with “monstrous development.” Once I-70 and the Eisenhower Tunnel were completed, Squaw Pass lost its market. In fact, most of the front range ski areas faced the same issues: they all had (and still have) the disadvantage of less snowfall than west slope areas, and back then, snowmaking wasn't much of an option. Between the quixotic snow and the new highway, Squaw Pass was shuttered in 1975.

Times, and traffic on I-70, have changed. All of a sudden, skiing on this side of the Continental Divide looks good. And with modern-day snow-making capability, Echo Mountain is doing a fine business. It's aiming for the all-around, non-pretentious crowd. In fact, it's aptly marketing itself as “closest, cheapest, freshest.”

Fun, it was. But it wasn't Geneva Basin. So, a couple of weeks later, we tried again to get to Geneva Basin from the I-70 side in our burly 4WD pickup truck. First stop: Sopp & Truscott Bakery in Silver Plume.

One of the bakery owners, Patrick Buckley, asked us if we were eastbound or westbound; we told him we were southbound, hoping to ski at Geneva Basin. At that he perked right up; he had been the snowplow driver over Guanella Pass for years and years, and knew the terrain as well as anyone. As he went about ringing us up, he told us the bakery is for sale—and then handed us an extra loaf of Johnny Bread, the best bread anywhere, and asked us to “deliver it to Julie.”

It seems that Julie Holmes lives at Duck Lake, less than a mile north of the old Geneva Basin ski area, a place that is unreachable in winter. We now had a dual mission: seeking an abandoned ski area, and delivering sustenance to a snowbound woman.
Off we went, through Georgetown and up the Guanella Pass Road, only to find that it is only plowed part way up this side, too. We parked and geared up: snowshoes for daughter Renee and family friend Barrett Sather (he carried his snowboard slung on his back), touring skis for me, and telemark skis for Brian (he got to carry Renee's downhill skis). Three miles later, we were out of breath, but on the top of the pass at 11,666 feet. Where was Duck Lake, and where was Julie, never mind Geneva Basin?

By this point, it was 3 p.m. We mulled over our options, and decided to split the party. Barrett and I made a run for Duck Lake, which seemed likely to be nestled in the valley right below. Brian and Renee headed back toward the truck for some glorious downhill excitement.

A mile and a half below the pass on the south side, we braved the “Private Property” signs and the ruckus of dogs and skied straight to the only cabin with smoke coming out. There was Julie, happy indeed to have visitors and a loaf of bread.

It turns out she runs the Alpendorf cabins (angelseleven@earthlink.net), which are a set of 50-year-old gems ready and waiting year 'round for visitors. She offered us a beer, and as we drank, we heard bits and pieces of her story, which includes 41 years of living there. When they stopped plowing the road in 2006, it took a real bite out of her business, but this is home.

The coroner for Clear Creek County has assured her that he'll request a “welfare check” from the powers that be any time that she needs to see a friendly face. So far, she's doing fine, and she's open for business—although there isn't much. She'll arrange transport via snowmobile to bring winter guests' gear in; guests themselves are self-propelled.

As for the ski area, she reported that it is much loved by a strong, adventurous crowd who ski in the five miles and then propel themselves up the slopes. Snowmobiles are used, too. There's a hut at the top where people sometimes stay; it's free, first come first served, and we wanted to see it—and try the slopes. But dark was coming and we had to settle for seeing the vestiges of the much smaller Duck Lake Ski Area directly outside Julie's door. All very enticing, but it was time to head back.

“Are you going across the lake, or up the road?” Holmes asked. One look at each other and it was obvious: skiing across the lake was a great idea. At the far end, we climbed up to the pass through an untrammeled valley.

On top, Sather swapped his snowshoes for his snowboard, waved and whizzed down to the truck. I came more cautiously on my cross-country skis, and was glad to be safely returned to my crew as the sun sank lower and lower.

Our dinner conversation at Mangia! in Idaho Springs was centered on plans for a third attempt to see Geneva Basin. It will be an overnighter, including staying at the Alpendorf.

The moral of the story: it’s all about the adventure. Success doesn't have to mean getting where you're going; for us, we twice had success—that is, fun—and still haven't “gotten there” at all. Long live serendipity.

For more information on Colorado’s abandoned trails, see Powder Ghost Towns by Peter Bronski (Wilderness Press, 2008), or visit coloradoskihistory.com.

Wendy Underhill, a writer, parent and community do-gooder, has set a goal for 2009: “Have more fun.” Traveling the byways of Colorado is one of the big ways she’s fulfilling that goal.