James McKew

It’s the last weekend in April and storm clouds hang above Glenwood Springs, Colorado, when the clouds rise for just a moment, a light dusting of snow is visible across the mountain tops. Katie and I are on a one night mini-vacation. She suggested we stay at the Hotel Colorado and I couldn’t say “yes!” fast enough. Just the idea of spending a night in this hotel gets me as excited as a kid on a three-day sugar binge.

As we pull our luggage through the hotel lobby, my gaze follows along the wood floors, to the large area rugs, up the dark oak wainscot to exposed ceiling timbers that run the length of the lobby, it’s more like a visit to a Victorian-era mansion than a hotel. Modeled after 16^th century Italian designs, the exterior is made of cut sandstone blocks and red brick, and looks as fresh as the day it opened in 1893. With event halls, a restaurant and the largest hot springs pool in the world, the Hotel Colorado feels more like a destination resort for the rich and famous and indeed it was a hundred years ago. Centrally located within walking distance of the railway station, the stately landmark sits at the gateway to the luxury ski areas of Aspen and Snowmass. I love this hotel with the dark wood accents, high ceilings, wood pillars, 1920’s music in the background, everything says high fashion. I’m a fan of Downtown Abbey and standing in the lobby is the closest I will probably ever be to that sort of experience.

Teenagers mill about in the lobby, their high-pitched tones creating a small cloud of chatter that echoes in the large space. It’s prom night and the dance is to be held in the ballroom. Young men stand about in uncomfortable poses, the stiff tuxedos not allowing them to slouch, their dates are dressed in beautiful yet awkward fitting chiffon gowns, almost as if finding their mother’s cocktail dress and deciding to play dress-up. My mind works to block out the din of noise, seeing such fine outfits in the lobby is perfect really and adds an air of rich sophistication that is so lacking in my own choice of travel-wear, khaki shorts and sandals.

We make our way up the broad staircase to our room on the third floor, passing where President Theodore Roosevelt stayed during his hunting excursions in the Flattop Mountains. I can’t help but glance at the doorway every time I pass by, there is a statue and other adornments that commemorate his time here, something of a shrine to this iconic president. I should mention that this very hotel is rumored to be where the term “Teddy Bear” was first used by his daughter.

After settling in and changing into warmer clothes, Katie and I take the foot bridge across the Colorado River into the downtown district. The night is cool with a slight breeze coming down the canyon. I have Katie’s hand in mine, we have a plan; dinner at the Glenwood Canyon Brew Pub, located inside the Denver Hotel. The pub takes up a large area of the bottom floor and serves up award winning micro-brew beers. We settle in next to the large wall-sized windows that overlook the railway station and order a sampler of four different beers: Hanging Lake Honey Ale, No Name Brown Ale, St. James Irish Red Ale and Vapor Cave India Pale Ale, along with a plate of nachos. It’s all good beer, each sample owning a distinct character.

Now here’s an interesting story about the Denver Hotel.

In 1932, Diamond Jack Alterie a bootlegger and bodyguard to gangsters, was staying here when he ran into the prizefighter Whitney Hutton. There was an altercation and Diamond Jack took a helluva beating. Jack went to his hotel room and came back with a rifle to settle the score but was apprehended and disarmed by a hotel porter before finding Hutton. Jack went back to his room and returned with a couple pistols, found the porter and beat him badly then hunted for Whitney Hutton. Believing that Hutton was trapped in a hotel room, Jack fired .45 caliber rounds at the door, striking two traveling salesmen on the other side. Fortunately for him no one was killed and he was given a choice of either five years in prison or leaving the State of Colorado forever. He chose the latter. This story puts a slight grin on my face as I watch a group of prom night teenagers stand around outside the pub, testosterone filled boys all eager to be grown up, pretty girls in fancy dresses, the whole scene teeming with an undercurrent of 1920’s style tension and expectation. I take a final sip of our little tasters and order a pint of St. James Irish Red Ale.

This is pretty much how I expected the night to go; good beer, good company, good stories and good pub food. This is where I want to be right now, with the woman I love, drinking, laughing and people watching. Others are enjoying themselves as much as we are, and that’s the thing I’ve noticed about Colorado, the people are fairly laid back here, maybe because it’s a lifestyle, not just a vacation.

Afterwards we cross the bridge back to our hotel, stopping a moment to watch bathers in the pool below us, black dot silhouettes against the blue underwater lights of the hot springs. I lean on the railing and think about another of my hero’s, William F. Cody “Buffalo Bill”, who came here in 1917 seeking a remedy for his ailments, most likely he bobbed around, letting the heat soak into his joints, and breathing in the steaming mineral vapors. I can only hope it did him some good.

Back in the hotel, the tuxedos and chiffon dresses have tripled in number since we left. The lobby has become a noisy cocktail party without the booze. A sheriff deputy mills around the front desk, his thumbs tucked in his service belt. Up in our room, I can hear the faint boom-boom of dance rhythms through the walls, thankful for the separation.  

The next morning we have breakfast in the hotel restaurant and once again I’m launched into the past. Roosevelt probably ate breakfast here, along with other notables; the Unsinkable Molly Brown and Hollywood stars Tom Mix and Patrick Swayze.

Roosevelt wasn’t the only President to visit here, William Taft did as well on September 23, 1909, having arrived by train, then motorcade to the hotel for a breakfast of trout and wild berries. After breakfast he delivered a speech from the second floor balcony. I pause in the central garden to look up at the ornate railing to the spot where he stood, imagining the speech in the cool Fall morning, the crowd of seven hundred that gathered where I stand now to see the President. On that same balcony in 1905, Roosevelt had given a speech. I thrust my hands a little deeper into my pockets, smug with the idea of being at a place so full of history and legend. That’s the point of staying here for me personally, it connects me to something greater, kind of makes me part of history, not just observing it from afar.