Lo-Fidelity: The $300 million listing

There’s no other way to view real estate in Aspen other than a cruel and unusual joke. Case in point? The recent news — “Most expensive house for sale in America hits Aspen market” — of the nation’s highest-priced listing right here in Aspen, a compound titled the “Little Lake Lodge” built on land formerly owned by the Benedict family. 

Have you noticed, all the rage these days in Aspen real estate is naming your house and property? Though my home is valued around $300,000 — a mere .1% of the Little Lake Lodge’s asking price — I, too, have taken the liberty to name my house, as all homeowners in APCHA employee housing should. I aptly call my rustic ranchette the “Chateau de Relax-O” Sorry, it’s not for sale. Don’t ask. 

Were it not for the absurdly stratospheric, pompous, and braggadocios nature of Aspen real estate, I’m not convinced our town would be able to prop-up two daily newspapers, let alone pay all of these rambunctious columnists. My father once invented the ultimate, omnipotent Aspen realtor, a hybrid of two of his friends named “Stirling Ritchie” — a suave salesman, faster than a speeding Range Rover, more powerful than a construction bulldozer, able to leap monster homes in a single bound. It’s a bird, it’s a private jet — no, it’s SUPER-REALTOR!

I had the honor and privilege of growing up with the Benedict’s son, Nicholas. Though I was several grades and some years younger, I always ended up hanging out with my oldest sisters’ peer group. “Nick,” as we called him, was a charismatic ringleader of sorts, always full of devious ideas. There was a constant dialogue amongst themselves about how I was being “corrupted” by their admittedly questionable behavior. Turns out, the joke was on them. I was the one doing all the corrupting. 

Lazy, summer days would often find us hanging out at the Benedict’s house and their sprawling property just below Stillwater, with wildflower meadows, aspen groves, river bends, clusters of mature spruce trees, and a shallow body of water referred to as the “gravel pits.” There was a dude named Grant who was a caretaker of the land. Grant lived in a teepee on the shores of what’s now named the “Little Lake.” When you’re inside the Little Lake Lodge, you look out upon the gravel pits.

I think I was 13 years old when I first went swimming naked at the gravel pits. Keep in mind this was an era when it wasn’t uncommon to go up to the Devil’s Punchbowl and see Aspen High school girls sunbathing topless out on the smooth rocks, much to the curiosity of passing motorists, tourists, and assorted looky-lou’s. 

I don’t know about you, but for some reason, I’ve never been comfortable being naked around my friends or in public. Occasionally, I’ll have that stress dream where I’m nude at school. One afternoon, though, we were passing a joint around on the shores of the gravel pits when my oldest sister shed her clothes and jumped in. Everyone else quickly followed suit. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. I reluctantly disrobed and jumped into the surprisingly warm water for my first ever skinny-dip.

Another “swimming” experience I had with the Little Lake/petite puddle was when I was learning to drive. By “learning to drive,” I mean after they had fallen asleep, stealing my parents’ red CJ-7 Jeep and driving licenseless around Aspen. My circuit was: warm up by doing a few donuts in the music tent parking lot, head up Smuggler to the upper mine dumps, do a victory lap through town, then return the car to its parking spot just outside our garage.

That fateful Saturday night found me at the end of Ute Avenue, where you could access a Jeep road that went along the far shore of the gravel pits. Carrying way too much speed, I Tokyo-drifted around a sandy corner, over-corrected, and tea-bagged the Jeep right into the gravel pits. The water was all the way up to the bottom of the door. The car wouldn’t start. I got out, waded back to shore, and did the walk of shame all the way home to the corner of North and 8^th Street. 

The next morning, there was a rap on my door, startling me awake from a fitful sleep. It was my mom. “Let’s go out to breakfast at the Hickory House,” she said. I knew when we pulled out of the garage she’d notice the Jeep was missing. She didn’t. When we returned from breakfast, she’d definitely take note then. Still nothing. “Thanks for breakfast, Mom. I’m going into town — I’ll be right back.”

I ran up to the 8^th Street bus stop, took the bus into town, darted out to the gravel pits where the Jeep was still parked in the lake like a sitting duck. I waded out, turned the key and much to my surprise the Jeep started right up. I put the thing in reverse and miraculously drove right out. When I retuned home, I wowed my mom of what a good son I was by voluntarily offering to wash the Jeep. 

Today’s Little Lake Lodge: $300 million. Memories of the gravel pits? Priceless. 

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.