A LAT SIP I T U OF D E S RED
THE CLAMORING SOUNDS OF OPEN MIC NIGHTsteer my friend and me toward Rafters, the legendary bar at Red Mountain Resort where patroller Sparky Steeves is wailing on the guitar and half-empty pitchers of beer sit scattered atop a few amplifiers. A dog scurries along the worn wooden floorboards as an old ski bum, still in his ski pants at 10 p.m., staggers to a table with his fellow comrades. Locals filter in and out as the evening wanes, and I see a guy pull three nuggets out of his pocket, rolling a fat joint in plain view. It’s loose here.
We began our journey 12 hours ago in Salt Lake City. What looked like a final spring storm in a banner season had me slamming the gas pedal north to BC.
Red Mountain Resort has quietly evolved since its humble beginnings in 1947. Scandinavians who traveled to Rossland
