27 Reasons to Love Colorado in the Summer

Everyone knows about our famously beautiful winters, but Coloradans know that our summers are equally stunning—and, dare we say it, maybe just a little bit sweeter.

No. 16

Because gondolas are standard transportation to summer weddings
How's this for dramatic presentation: Colorado wedding guests cruise up the mountainside in glass-sided gondola cars. These high-altitude chariots—all of which afford jaw-dropping views of ski slopes, mountain ranges, and sunsets—unload guests at on-mountain ceremony and reception sites, where they're greeted with even more spectacular scenery (and hopefully a glass of champagne).

Wanna say "I do" on high?
High-elevation venues abound. Here, a handful of favorites.

• Timber Ridge at Keystone Resort; www.keystoneresort.com
• The Wedding Deck at Vail Ski Resort; www.vail.com
• Spruce Saddle Lodge at Beaver Creek; www.beavercreek.com
• The Sundeck at Aspen Mountain; www.thelittlenell.com
• Allred's Restaurant at Telluride Ski Resort; www.tellurideskiresort.com
• Hazie's Restaurant at Steamboat Springs; www.steamboat.com

No. 17

Because we have alpine lakes instead of swimming pools
{ ESSAY } When I was a kid, my long blond hair turned a noticeable shade of green from early June through late August—a victim of the chlorine in the neighborhood pool. I grew up on the East Coast, where every 'hood had a large community pool with lane ropes and diving boards and lounge chairs and teenage lifeguards. The smells of sunscreen, chlorinated water, and hot, wet cement combined to make the heady aroma of summer. And I loved it—the splashing, the squeals of children, the hours spent perfecting a back dive. It was the first real freedom I had as a teenager. My mom would let me walk to the pool by myself, spend hours there with friends, and come home when I was exhausted from exertion and the heat of the day. That pool is where some of my best memories from childhood live. ❖ When I moved to Denver at 22—just months after finishing up my last summer of lifeguarding—I scanned the city's neighborhoods for signs of unnaturally blue water and black lane lines. Save for a few in city parks, I was shocked and horrified at the dearth of community pools. Where do kids hang out in the summer, I wondered. How do they cool off? Where do they go to be teenagers? ❖ For years I worried about Colorado's kids; I was sad that they might miss out on something that was etched in my mind as a rite of passage. I fretted until last summer, when I hiked into Colorado's backcountry, and set up a tent near the edge of an unnaturally blue-green alpine lake. The sun was high in the sky as I wandered to the water's edge. The air smelled of freshwater and sun-baked pine needles and wildflowers. Three kids—probably in their late teens—had just arrived at the lake after a three-mile hike. I watched as the two girls and one boy stripped down to their swimsuits and slipped into the lake. The water was cold. The girls squealed; the boy dove in without hesitation. They laughed and flirted and splashed around—until they couldn't take the cold any longer. They toweled off and fell, exhausted, onto a nearby grassy area. ❖ I watched them intently as I tiptoed into the water. They were talking, giggling—having the time of their lives. And then they packed up and headed home, a full day spent in the sun and water. As they disappeared, I waded farther, almost waist deep, into the lake. The water was as clear as could be. Had there been lane lines I could've followed one straight across to the other bank. Goose bumps rose on my arms and legs—but they weren't entirely from the cold. —LBK

No. 18

Because the mountain isn't going anywhere
{ ESSAY } When you wrench yourself from a warm sleeping bag at 1 a.m. to scramble up a dirt path in the damp chill of darkness, you better believe there's something worthwhile waiting for you. A beautiful view maybe. A fantastic story to tell. Bragging rights. Something. ❖ Take Longs Peak—the granddaddy of all Colorado fourteeners. There's a certain amount of prestige attached to climbing a peak that's claimed more than 50 lives. Which is why I've tried to summit the beast. Twice. ❖ The first time we attempted Longs, a couple of summers ago, my boyfriend and I reached the lower Boulder Field, about 12,400 feet up, before a ranger turned us back. Safety crews were evacuating the mountain to conduct a rescue; an unfortunate hiker had taken a plunge off the route. Our second effort, this past August, got us as far as the Keyhole, just beyond the Boulder Field. This is the make-it-or-break-it point. We were thrilled to have fought through the hail and blasting wind that had berated us since we crossed treeline. We were this close. But the threat of more nasty weather—and the certainty of defenseless exposure—loomed on the other side of the Keyhole. ❖ We had a decision to make: Take the risk, cross that threshold, and push for the summit we'd spent all summer—two summers, in fact—waiting to reach. Or turn around. Retrace our steps to the trailhead and leave without conquering the most notorious peak in Colorado. ❖ That day, we played it safe. And although I was disappointed—approaching exasperated—I realized just how lucky I am. I live here. I could hike Longs next weekend if I wanted. Or I could return the next summer. And that's exactly what I'm doing, come August. Except this time, my dad is flying out to hike Longs with us. For him, this is it. He's flying nearly 2,000 miles for one shot. If we have to turn around, he'll reach the bottom and fly back to Boston without a view from the top. ❖ This will be my third attempt. And if we don't make it, that's OK. I live 90 minutes away. The mountain's not going anywhere. And neither am I. —Julie Dugdale

No. 19

Because although we all have four-season tents, we really only like to use them in June, July, and August
Coloradans are a tough breed. We have no problem hiking 12 miles, one way, in a single day. We can deal with carrying 25-pound packs. We're actually happy to subsist on trail mix for three days. But, honestly, it's a rare Coloradan that risks camping any earlier than June 1 or any later than Labor Day weekend. You know why? Because crawling into your sleeping bag at night with temps in the upper 40s is nice; stepping outside your tent the next morning to 20 degrees and three inches of snow is not.

No. 20

Because our rivers run wild—really wild
If you're looking for a real rush, check out the Browns Canyon section—a big, rollicking mess of water in a frothy, rapid-strewn gully—of the mighty Arkansas River. The Arkansas, which runs high in May and June, is the most commercially rafted river in the Lower 48. There's nothing like bobbing your way down Browns' bumps, but the Arkansas isn't the only big water to be found in the state. Outfitters raft the Upper Colorado, the Blue, Clear Creek, the Cache la Poudre, and a host of others, all of which makes Colorado one of the best spots to raft west of the Mississippi.