“The right place, at the right time, with the right people.”

I would wager that most, from the early days of Summit County (as a resort) would agree. There were many who said the same at a recent celebration of life. Some attending were around back then, some who had never left. All were there to pay tribute to a great lady 

To see the resort now, it takes a great imagination or memory to picture it back then. The ski area opened in the early ’60s. My buddy Keith and I rolled into town in a $700 Volkswagen station wagon in 1974.

Many of the streets weren’t paved, the sidewalks wooden, and you might occasionally see horses tied up in front of bars. My first alert that I had an East Coast accent was when I ordered a “cupala beeas” from a bartender at the Gold Pan.

He did not even glance at my fake ID but rather took my dollar (for 2 beers) and said, “You sound like a Damn Yankee.”

Keith, hearing that exchange said, “We have Boston accents. If we want to fit in we should make sure to pronounce our R’s.” Fifty years later, I still don’t.

Both of us were coming off a summer on Cape Cod where I was waiting tables and Keith worked as a doorman at a popular bar. After paying for gas and food to get us here, between the two of us, we might have had about $800 when we landed.

Walking into that bar on our first night in town was like walking into a new world — a world we did not quite fit in. We had recently extricated ourselves out of some legal troubles in Boston; our attorney’s suggested we keep our hair short for the trial. We were younger and more clean cut than most of the clientele. 

Our first order of business was to find girl friends and a place to live. One need was easily met. 

Believe it or not we were able to find a 2 bedroom shack for $300 a month with furnace that smelled like burning fur and a hot water tank the size of my bladder. Actually, running water turned out to be our entrée into the Breckenridge social scene. A large segment of the population, at that time, lived in old restored mining cabins heated by wood with no running water. 

Many of our first friendships were forged over our invitations for folks to come over and bathe. The small size of the water heater sometimes required we join them.

I was delighted to learn a working bathroom seemed to make up for my lack of personality. 

Depending on who you asked, the vision for the town/resort differed. The lodging community and the fledgling resort were sometimes at odds with the crusty locals who were suspicious of the changes they saw. 

But what was ironic that the resort’s image was equally forged by those hoping for growth as it was by the iconoclastic and counterculture vibes provided by the hippie mountain men and gals seen on the streets and bars.

In other words, the locals were much of the attraction. 

There were residents like Don, a gold miner and a chess master. Murph, who would travel bar to bar on roller skates. Ron, was from a wealthy Philadelphia family, voracious reader, expert pool player. He had grey hair to his shoulders, seldom seen in daylight, and resembled a cadaver. Rumor was he had been working on his doctorate, came up for a weekend and never left.

Along with them there was a host of colorful characters: mountain men, hippies, Vietnam vets, draft dodgers — long on hair short on grooming.  

There was also no shortage of strong and beautiful young woman. Many lived off the grid in cabins. Others had plumbing. Surprisingly all were able to resist mine and Keith’s charms. There was one gal, not a beauty but formidable —Terrible Terry. I once saw her knock her boyfriend off his bar stool with a back hand. He got back to his feet, told her he loved her and they walked out holding hands.

Many from those early days returned last month to honor Gretchen, who was there back then and never left. She passed last fall. 

Many had returned, and many, like Gretchen, had never left.

Granted, some had gotten so old they did not recognize me, but all were emblematic of what makes this place special. 

It was the right place, at the right time, with the right people. And still is….. 

Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stop lights. Contact him at biffbreck@yahoo.com.

Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron has worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stoplights. Contact him at biffbreck@yahoo.com.