Asher on Aspen: Why Crested Butte is the refreshing ski town every Aspenite needs to visit

There’s something about hitting the open road in Colorado that wakes you up from the inside out — windows cracked just enough to let in that sharp bite of mountain air, coffee rattling in the console, and endless peaks unfolding ahead like a moving postcard. Crested Butte was the destination, but it was more than that: It was a much-needed break from the silver-plated bubble of Aspen.

Don’t get me wrong — skiing in Aspen is the holy grail, the top shelf, the smoothest pour in the bar. I’ve skied these mountains for years, and they’re still magic. But sometimes, you need to get out of town to remember there is life beyond Ajax. Sometimes, you have to pack up your ego with your ski boots and go searching for something else. So that’s what I did: I hopped in the car and fled to Crested Butte for a girls’ weekend, a long-overdue reunion with friends, and a mission for new terrain, new stories, and perhaps a bit of tequila-fueled salvation.

I arrived on a bluebird Friday, a day so stupidly beautiful it felt like the mountain gods themselves were showing off — sun slicing through the clouds and fresh snow glittering like it had been tossed from a champagne bottle. It wasn’t my first time in Crested Butte, but it was my first time seeing her under a winter’s spell. I’ve always been a sucker for a town that looks like it belongs on a snow globe shelf, and Crested Butte delivers that in spades.

Shannon — my partner-in-crime, my ride-or-die, my Shan Squared — was born and raised in this mystical hamlet. You want to learn a new mountain? You follow a local. After all, nothing beats being shown around by someone who knows the town like the back of their hand.

Our home base for this renegade weekend was Academy Place, a new collection of luxury cabins and townhomes that’s equal parts rustic charm and polished indulgence. They tucked us into the Penthouse Suite, a glimmering jewel box perched high enough to make you feel like you’re in the cockpit of some high-altitude spaceship. Steam showers, fireplaces, mountain-chic finishes — this wasn’t just a crash pad; this was a statement. And not one of those “look how fancy we are” statements either. Academy Place felt authentic.

Built, managed, and designed by locals, every photo on the wall, every bar of soap, every piece of furniture said this is Crested Butte. Not some copy-pasted luxury fantasy; this was real. And God, what a relief that was. There’s something so refreshing about a place where the locals are still running the show. They don’t call Crested Butte “the last great ski town” for nothing.

Friday night kicked off the only way a proper Crested Butte adventure can: Secret Stash pizza. We stuffed ourselves silly, washed it down with cocktails that tasted like freedom, and then wandered over to Talk of the Town, a dive so perfectly untouched by time it makes every other bar seem like a poser. There was dancing, there was tequila, and there was that unmistakable feeling of being exactly where you’re meant to be on a Friday night in a ski town.

Saturday was a whirlwind of powder and pure adrenaline. We spent the day chasing turns with the crew under a sky so blue it looked fake, carving through fresh snow that had fallen just the day before. And when we finally needed a little hair of the dog? We après’d like pros at Uley’s, which, I was informed, used to be called the Ice Bar because — get this — the bar was literally made of ice. Only in Colorado would someone look at a frozen slab and think, “This would make a great place to serve cocktails.”

By nightfall, we crawled back to Academy Place, peeled off layers of sweat-soaked ski gear, and did what any group of worn-out women would do: pasta and wine. We threw together a spicy vodka rigatoni that, honestly, may have been worth the trip alone, and we closed out the night in the glow of a fireplace, watching “The Princess Diaries” like it was sacred scripture. Because when you’re on a girls’ weekend, you lean in — you embrace the cliché, and let it wrap around you like a fuzzy blanket.

Sunday came hard and fast — legs sore but spirits high. Shannon led me on a tour-de-force of the mountain, zipping down lines only locals know, cutting through bumps like we had a death wish, and laughing maniacally into the cold air like kids on a playground. We skied like we were running from something, tearing up the mountain with a reckless sort of glee that only comes from knowing it’s your last day. Skiing hard. Skiing fast. Skiing until the only thing left was to tumble into the car for the drive home.

And what a drive it turned out to be. Colorado, always the show-off, unraveled her wild beauty around every bend — snowfields melting into sun-drenched valleys, jagged peaks punching into the sky, the whole landscape humming with the slow thaw of spring on its way. The first day of daylight savings stretched the light long and thin across the road, and I drove into that golden haze like a woman reborn.

There are moments in life when you realize you’ve been holding your breath without even knowing it. That drive back from Crested Butte was my exhale. So yes, Aspen, you are my first love. But Crested Butte? She might just be my secret affair — wild, untamed, and refreshingly real.