So we left the traffic snarls and smog of Los Angeles to move with our two little boys to Aspen, Colorado, land of outdoor enthusiasts and escaped overachievers.


Singing along with John Denver, we drove a 20-foot Ryder truck containing everything we owned—racing to arrive in time for the first day of baseball practice. It was 1977.

We had enough savings to live modestly for about two or three years before we would have to think about what to do next. However, within the first several months—after we had become familiar with every street in town and had explored the back roads, mountain trails and hidden valleys—Barry and I invested our savings in Aspen real estate. At one point, we had 16 condominiums. We respected each other’s opinions and trusted each other’s judgement. He wrote the contracts—I remodeled the interiors. Practicing law had become a distant memory.

Everyone seemed to know everyone. Ski bums with PhDs pumped gas and waited tables—except on powder days when breakfast slowed to a halt. It was a relaxed community of individualists and outstanding athletes. At least half the town played some team sport, including the women who had a hockey team affectionately named The Motherpuckers. It was a foreign land where vehicles were valued for their traction, not their image.