By Cathy Orr

I’ve not been up Interstate-70 for a “mountain trip” for 15 years. Oh, it’s not because I don’t live near mountains anymore. But because it’s a relatively short drive away and a perfectly nostalgic place to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary, we’re going back to Steamboat Springs, Colo. 

After 15 years, I see changes. More homes press against the mountainsides. More traffic—until you’re almost to Georgetown, a quaint, historic mountain town a little over halfway on the route between Denver and Summit County. 

We won’t get further West than Silverthorne today though, where we’ll turn off onto State Highway 9 to go north to Steamboat Springs. But we’ll stop for a break and time to shop the outlet mall, a maze of stores designed with the feel of small-town giftshop storefronts, segregated into several clusters connected by wooden bridges and stone walls. 

Outside a convenience store, a man stands in the middle of the Blue River—that empties into Dillon Reservoir—flyfishing, and despite the nearby traffic, all I hear is the sound of rushing water. My husband buys a deluxe, folding canvas chair for camping, and I get “to-go” coffee from The Chocolate Factory, wondering what remains of the Steamboat I knew and loved more than a decade ago.

Except for Kremmling, the only town between here and Steamboat, the view through your car window—assuming you’re driving—is pure Colorado. As was true of numerous other towns across the state, white men came here first to find their fortunes in furs and later in gold and cattle. A pioneer “pit stop” for travelers needing supplies in the late 19th century, Kremmling is still a place of refreshment, but if you care to stay, this area of Grand County is awash in Western ways and ways to have fun. Ride a horse, drive cattle, fish, ski, hunt, sightsee, dogsled, raft whitewaters, camp, rent boats, or take a knockout scenic drive. 

Elevation earmarks the vegetation. I remember this stretch of road between Kremmling and the rise up to Rabbit Ears Pass. It’s drier, with fewer trees, but the drive is marked by—and I don’t exaggerate—at least a dozen construction-sign-yellow billboards advertising F.M. Light and Sons. An oddity elsewhere, here they’re akin to historical markers—F. M. Light and Sons will be a century old next year. Safe in the hands of the founding family, it still sells Western apparel. Some things haven’t changed.

The highway rises roughly 2,000 feet in elevation from Kremmling to the pass at a little over 9,400 feet. It’s clear today, but when I was here before, the fog was thick—too thick to see the edge of the road, and Routt National Forest enfolds you like the hand of a gentle giant, aged and worn, but deceptively strong, and don’t dare challenge the hand of mother nature, because you’ll lose. Weather can make or break you on mountain highways as well as in the backcountry. We’ve learned to respect her, most intensely in the midst of a spinout on the centerline. She’ll never change.

Change flies in my face as we descend from the pass into Steamboat. Multistory homes perch on the hillsides surrounding Steamboat, not a surprise when I consider the perennial allure of the springs and Yampa Valley. 

The Ute tribe knew a good thing when it spent its first summer here, as early as the 14th century, according to some archeologists. It was lush, a haven for wildlife, good hunting grounds, and a good place to soak after a long trip on the trail. The Utes roamed the valley until settlers stumbled into it sometime in the 1800s. 

Some say a French fur trapper gave the place the name of Steamboat in 1865 after hearing the chug-chug sound of bubbling springs, a sound similar to that made by a paddle wheel steamer. Modern-day travelers and locals, weary and worn from toil or travel, still find their way to the springs for relaxation.

After pioneers began developing their 160-acre homesteads in the late 1870s, H.H. Suttle opened a sawmill, and the Steamboat community put down permanent roots. Travel wasn’t easy though, especially in the winter. Mail carriers discovered that snowshoes and skis made their lives a lot less trying and less treacherous, and other folk quickly followed suit. It wasn’t long before a few transformed this exigency of safe travel into a new sport and recreation, and a fledging ski industry swooshed into being, boosted by the arrival of Norwegian stone mason Carl Howelsen in 1912. Steamboat today boasts more than 50 winter Olympians—more than any other town in North America.

Even with all the skiing and periodic mining in the valley, agriculture—primarily ranching—was its main industry, and today is a major contributor—along with tourism—to the area’s economy. 
We spend our first day in town browsing our way through the stores on the wide main street, Lincoln Avenue. Steamboat’s semiannual sidewalk sale is in progress, and “Excuse me” is the phrase on everyone’s tongue, as the sidewalks are crowded with shoppers and dogs bumping off of each other as they scrutinize wares hanging or sitting on racks and tables, shaded from the sun by storefront awnings. The sky is a clear, brilliant cornflower blue. 

In a well-stocked sporting goods store, my husband tries on a pair of sunglasses sporting a “sale” price. “These would be good for fishing,” he says. 

Leaving him to chew on the decision to buy them, I check out the clothing, until a small Australian Shepherd puppy trots by, ricocheting off people’s legs. His sparkling dark eyes speak loudly, and people standing in line at the cash register take turns bending to coo and pet the adorable pooch. He’s in the midst of eating this up, when a young, thin man walks into the store with a questioning look on his face. “Are you looking for a dog?” I ask with a glance to the floor where the ball of fur sits quietly. Nodding his head yes, the man tells us that “Barley” is being “socialized.” Barley definitely seems to have the knack for making friends and fits in well with the rest of the locals, who we find very ready and willing to give directions and make recommendations for where to go for food and fun.

Steamboat’s cowboy heritage undergirds some of its most important traditions and popular annual events, including a cattle drive down Lincoln Avenue on the Fourth of July, Cowboy Roundup Days—a century old last year—as part of the Independence Day festivities (along with a parade, pancake breakfast, and live music), and the PRCA Steamboat Springs Prorodeo Series, held each weekend between mid June and Labor Day. According to the city chamber’s website, Pin Ears, Carrie Nation, and General Pershing are some of Steamboat’s more famous bucking horses, made so during early 20th-century rodeos. 

That night over dinner at the Butcher Shop—“family-owned and the place for good steak,” locals told us—we savor steak and lobster outside on a deck to the tune of Burgess Creek’s gurgling waters, in the shade of aspens and pine. Scents that ride only on mountain air mingle with that of grilled meat, and it’s hard not to let my mind wander back to the day’s events, already my most cherished memories. I’m glad to know the best part of Steamboat is still here.