Gunnison on the cusp of spring

Ohio Creek Road in Gunnison County

The American West might begin somewhere in Kansas or even at Omaha, but western Colorado becomes official down the hill from Monarch Pass. The road to Gunnison is edged by sagebrush; rare sage grouse mating grounds (leks) lie among these craggy hills. Robust rivers and creeks run down from the western reaches of the state’s highest mountains. The tiny farming towns that run up to Gunnison still feel more rugged. 

Gunnison feels different from the other mountain towns. The historic district lasts a few blocks, revealing a lot of wooden facades. It does not have the brick and stone buildings that mineral wealth allowed many small Colorado towns to build and endure. A pocket park salutes the International Organization of Odd Fellows, who had a lodge on the site till it burned in the 1990s.

Gunnison feels informed by its surrounding ranch lands, where much of the sparsely populated county resides. A brewery and numerous restaurants hum comfortably on a late March Thursday, the crush of summer tourists still months away. That might be the main reason I skipped Gunnison to this point – I only crossed it in summer, and always at times when I felt like finishing the drive to the Springs. 

My friend Beny considers Gunnison her Colorado happy place. When she asked if I wanted to join her spring break trip, I saw a chance to give Gunnison a fair shake. 

Maybe it was because we arrive hungry, but the food stuck out. Gunnison has few chains, lots of locally owned eateries, some with decades of history. Among the eateries is The W Restaurant, one of Gunnison’s older establishments. The small breakfast-and-lunch place touts itself as “Where locals eat” and the massive green-chile-covered breakfast burrito hinted why. 

Other food stops during the brief trip made the case for visiting Gunnison. Jermaine’s, a Jamaican-themed café (the owner hails from the Caribbean) with good coffee, a display case of baked goods and hot sandwiches, most with a Jamaican twist. The eggplant parmesan sandwich at Pie Zan, a local pizzeria, was delicious - lightly breaded cutlets topped with just enough marinara. The owners heavily remodeled a former Pizza Hut, adding a stylish bar. I had both the Hazy IPA and Mexican Lager from Irwin Brewing Co., Crested Butte’s only craft brewer. 

I did not intend for the short trip to include any brewery visits, but a little spare time on Friday afternoon allowed me a sampler from High Alpine Brewery on Main Street. They had a nice range of rotating taps including session beers and a fewer high-octane brews too strong for early afternoon. I left with a crowler of their Summit Snack, a low-alcohol Belgian table beer.

Even in March, crossing into western Colorado was no safe bet. I had to beg off driving because I didn’t trust my car on the 11,000-foot Monarch Pass with snow falling. Monarch stays open all year unlike Independence and Cottonwood passes, but Monarch can prove treacherous at times. 

The pass proved me correct. The flakes began falling a few miles into the ascent, the road remained clear. Snow fell vigorously at the top. In the visitor center parking lot, the show came up to the tops of my boots. Beny’s all-wheel drive helped us through the descent.

On the west side, we passed a jeep with its front end buried in a snow drift. My car could have easily repeated that feat. Once across, the snows eased up until we reached Crested Butte. Winter was always close, even if spring officially started a week earlier. 

Downtown Gunnison at sunrise

The weather moved fast over Gunnison, but snow lingered above the higher elevations at Crested Butte and Mt. Crested Butte. The road crosses a number of healthy creeks plus the Gunnison River. Public buses run among the three towns, saving summer travels from the hunt for parking in Crested Butte. On a wintry weekday, parking was ample. 

Crested Butte had a number of small shops to complement the bistros and bars. The historic district is full of colorful, century-old buildings, but the wealth all around grows glaring at times. So I concentrated on the stores, with toy stores, bookshops and more along the main drag. 

Mt. Crested Butte lies up the hill from Crested Butte, but easily felt like the more artificial of the two, a town existing solely to support the ski industry. No parking on the streets, condo high-rises everywhere, lifts running up the mountain. Flakes fell freely, even if the mountain powder had the anemic look of a warm winter.

After visiting CB and MCB, we turned onto Ohio Creek Road, which drifts into the rural heart of this mountainous Gunnison County. Cattle farms and horse corrals lined the road. Most farms and ranches had the decay husks of earlier buildings on their lots, with more modern and better-kept farmhouses As the pavement ended, the Castles came into view, as a storm began to envelope the Anthracite and West Elk mountains and its surrounding wilderness area. The storm moved in quickly, forcing us to leave to muddy roadside and head back into town. 

West of town the impounded Gunnison River swells into Blue Mesa Reservoir, which is bordered by treeless, crumbling mesas and spires of rock. We didn’t get that far but we did not need to - another foreign landscape hides in the hills south of Gunnison. 

Rafters on the Gunnison

The Hartman Rocks Recreation Area is intended mostly for mountain bikers, but the paved road that runs below the rocks provided ample late afternoon views demonstrating why this area received protection. To see the rocks required a trip past the town’s airport, into the small canyons where houses grew sparse and fields of junk emerged. Crumpled campers, dead cars and more rusted among the thin grasses below the hills. The little hoodoos were magnificent, a surprising break from the rumpled hills around Gunnison. 

Backtracking before dark, we stopped at a random trailhead. The county has wide paths along the Gunnison River, its waters clear and its shores rimmed by fins of snow and ice. The river has a number of small rapids that add a little roar to the otherwise silent, craggy land. A lone whitewater raft and two paddlers course down the river, undeterred by the temperatures or the occasional cutting wind. Paddling in winter means not having to share the river, so I didn’t blame them for launching that afternoon. The few rapids through town seemed easily passable. 

Coming off the Gunnison River trail, a little herd of mule deer stared intently. There were five, all young. Only one buck had a more mature set of antlers growing in, the others had spikes, the sharp little antlers deer grow in their early years. They grazed warily, and eventually decided to move to grass along the county airport’s fence. 

One deer hesitated as the other four crossed in front of a car. When it crossed the meadow, I noticed an odd gait, one of its rear legs possibly injured. Finally the deer crossed, seeming to sense the driver was in no hurry. More cars queued as the deer entered the road, putting little pressure on one foot. 

My experience with American drivers had me expecting one of the drivers to turn impatient and budge. In Gunnison, it never happened. The lame deer had a chance to cross before rejoining the herd grazing along the airport fence. 

A grass-filled smile?