I love to be awed. Who doesn’t? For just a moment, or several, a current of emotion sweeps through the body and disrupts our usual perceptions. Perhaps our vision sharpens, and we’re able to see things as if for the first time. The afterglow of this rush can always leave us a little lighter.
Astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson describes the phenomenon well: “If you think of feelings you have when you are awed by something — for example, knowing that elements in your body trace to exploded stars — I call that a spiritual reaction, speaking of awe and majesty, where words fail you.”
Living here, in the splendor of this valley and its people, the stage is perpetually set. For many, the awe begins on the approach from Highway 135, where the Butte’s shadowed, towering frame rises, a silent and permanent anchor to the dramatic landscape. This powerful view has wowed countless, including John Norton, who, when first moving to town in the ‘80s as the new marketing director for Crested Butte Mountain Resort, was so captivated by the sight that he famously wrecked the company’s Subaru.
Awe is a complex emotion. Nowadays, it’s the spiritual kin to wonder and amazement, but its linguistic journey traces back to the 13th-century Old Norse word agi, signifying “fright” or “terror.” Its meaning evolved over time, transitioning from fear and dread in the Middle Ages’ religious use to transcend in modernity to a blend of profound reverence and wonder. The feeling is usually triggered by something immense or overwhelming that challenges our understanding of the world — like gazing up at the vastness of the cosmos or watching a powerful storm gather over the West Elks. It’s also one of my favorite onomatopoeias as it’s literally the sound we make when overtaken by the emotion — awwwwwe!
What evokes this gush of emotion is different for everybody. I’ve been keeping a little awesome list that includes stuff like watching a pair of neighborhood hawks coast the thermals in wide, endless patterns, their shrieks sending shivers up my neck. Or the quiet splendor of a lush snowstorm — the kind that covers every inch of the landscape in wall-to- wall whiteout and momentarily mutes the hustle-bustle. But most often, the list includes jottings of small, silly moments with my daughters that draw up an unfathomably deep wellspring of love.
My husband Jason, who, it should be noted, is a bit of a stoic and didn’t cry when either of our daughters was born, is moved to emotion when hearing bagpipes accompany the ceremonial playing of “Flower of Scotland” before an international rugby match. A stadium full of athletes, and thousands of fans singing together, it’s a real scene. In those moments, I watch his face slacken and his eyes well, full of soul-stirring awe (he would like me to assure you that he, too, loves our daughters dearly, but “just doesn’t need to cry about it”).
I believe that big parts of our lives are consciously or unconsciously oriented around the pursuit of the awe-some, not only for the pop of dopamine, but because the meaning we make from its aftercurrents can be profound. To be awed is to be inspired, and here in Crested Butte, we enjoy one of the most authentic, and offbeat communities, perhaps because we all drink from the fountain of perpetual awe — though the accessibility of hallucinogenics can’t hurt.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the many locals who regularly motivate us through their work, creativity, and guile, especially those cherished members who have recently passed. They did their bit, lovingly, for this community in ways that could be felt — and all of them animated the pages of this magazine at least once. None were born here, but all were seemingly born here. It’s something to consider who we become by simply living in this valley, and what parts of ourselves evolve, animate, unwind, or are let out to play as a result. Would Frank have been “the animal” anywhere else? Could Gene (and Barbara) have raised such a wild bunch of next-gen locals in any other town? We’re so fortunate that Vic shared his deep civic contributions and culinary talents here. Don’s mountain biking pioneership is so foundational to Crested Butte that an alternate history is unthinkable. Though I didn’t know any of these members well, they were an insulating cast to the greater balance of the community. An inspiration worthy of awe.
The writers and photographers in this issue are also an integral part of the cast, and they succeed in peeling back the layers to expose the deeper beauty of this valley. They give us stories like tracking the evasive snowshoe hare in deep winter (Skiing with the master, page 98), illuminating the valley’s rich and diverse multicultural traditions (By the light of many, page 84), embarking on a perspective-shifting ski streak (The art of streaking, page 105), winter angling and the Indigenous leader reshaping the sport (Adventure angler Erica Nelson recasts her line, page 47), or catching up with Olympian and native son Aaron Blunck (page 36), among many other excellent stories and images that celebrate and preserve that awe.
But here, on the precipice of winter, we begin to wonder one of the great mysteries in life: how much snow the season will bring. Hopefully, future reader, you’re knee- deep in it, or watching shimmering waves bury the landscape. Whatever your current view, I hope you’re momentarily arrested by the feeling of awe.
Drop us a line and tell us, in 100 words or fewer, your most vivid moments of awe. We’ll publish a selection in the summer 2026 issue. Email [email protected].