Semple: You get what you put into Aspen’s soul

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The soul of Aspen is the hot topic of late. Where is it, who has it, what does it look like? Is it for sale? Can I touch it? Can I feel it? Can I smell it, or has Elvis left the building? Maybe our rubber soul is right there in front of you, like a set of car keys or a wallet that you’ve temporarily misplaced. It didn't just vanish. Just because you can't find something in the moment doesn't necessarily mean that it's gone forever.

If you’re lamenting Aspen's lost soul, what are you doing personally to bring it back to life, to resuscitate the corpse? Are you contributing to the very decline then bemoaning its loss, or are you making a conscious effort to embody the spirit of the place you live, love and call home? Soul is as soul does. Be the depth you wish to see in the reflection pool of Aspen. If you’re reading this, we have a commonality. We are the soul of Aspen.

Some people say that Aspen's a big fat fake, like a cubic zirconia of a gem on a tinfoil engagement ring preceding a sawed-off shotgun wedding. She's an over-priced hasbeen. Not to me, she's not. I still try and gain her notice, catch her eye, bend her ear, and beg her to suffer my foolish companionship. I kneel at her feet like a pauper and kiss her hand every chance I get. When I return home with a chill in my bones from her cold in winter with a wiry hat head, or mud on my shins from her muddy puddles in the spring summer and fall, I‘ve succeeded. When I badmouth her looks, her wardrobe or the company she keeps, I’ve failed my community. She gracefully pulls me aside and whispers in my ear: Lift our citizens up, don't beat them down.

Some say big money has ruined her. A pricetag hangs around her neck like an albatross. She's a rich girl gone too far, too fast around the technical hairpin turn of opulence. They crow she’d sell the ground you’re standing on to pave the way for her next suitor. The Aspen I know can't be bought or sold, but you can rent her for an hour or two. Many a man has turned their back on her and fled a jilted lover, a disgruntled former employee, casting parting shots and slights like insolent cannonballs over her perky bow on the way out. It's not her fault you couldn't make her orgasm.

I’ve done my best to keep the prices and the property values low, but nothing seems to work. I ski in a one-piece suit. I take spectacular falls underneath the chairlift for the world to see. I often have bad breath, disheveled hair, and utter swear words in public. I wear the same clothes for days on end, and shower infrequently, rarely washing behind my ears. I talk too loud, have dirt underneath my nails, and her musky scent still on my fingers from the debauched night before. I even ride an e-bike. It's hopeless.

The soul of Aspen is not all benevolent. A peek behind her gilded curtain will have your eyes as big as basketballs. She wields a razor sharp, double-edged sword that will lop your head clean off. Not "real" enough for you? The Aspen I know is deadly real. She’ll chew you up and spit you out in a ski season's time, even before the chairlifts stop running. You’ll leave town in a helicopter strapped to a gurney, if you’re lucky. She's remorseless as she is caring, depending on the day or what kind of mood she's in.

I’ve been told that when you endure a tragic personal loss beyond comprehension, like the untimely death of a child or a spouse, the soul of Aspen shines on you from above like a spotlight, or a comforting heat lamp.

The price of admission to her freakshow is an adherence to her ethos. Aspen's a movie you can get up and walk out of anytime. Don't be surprised if you fail to realize the return on your investment that was peddled in the glossy five-color, triple-fold brochure like a golden carrot. That was only a pitch. The rest is up to you.

The soul of Aspen is alive and well. But where exactly does one unearth it? Consider the search an Easter-egg hunt. If you don't want to find it, you won't. If you’re struggling to locate the spirit of Aspen right now, I understand. I’ve suffered her whims and addictions. I’ve lost my way home many times, but always ended up whimpering at her doorstep like a dog out in the rain all night.

Contact Lorenzo at [email protected].

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