Best Made Guide Bio, Matthew C Beaudin, Colorado On my wall, there’s a weathered old picture of my grandfather and me headed fishing. I came up to his waist. We’re walking away from the camera past the big pine tree in front of the cabin — always, it’s been called just “The Cabin” — that rests at the foot of Long’s Peak. He’s carrying a tacklebox and I have a tiny fishing pole with which I will soon beat the flat water on the tiny beaver ponds into a boil. He’d tell me stories about how he turned the bobcat on the wall inside out with his bare hand, then put it on the wall. I’ve spent most of my life in Colorado, and will probably never stray too far from the Centennial State. When my father decided he would go back to school to become a teacher, he decided we would all camp for the summer. For 60 days without a break. Dad’s idea of a “splurge” — I still don’t know why he used that word — was a campground with bathrooms. Our weekends consisted of backpacking. To keep me entertained as a little boy, he said he’d give me a $100 if I could trap a squirrel using nothing but materials around camp. I plan on getting that $100 one day, and I also plan on babysitting my kids in the same manner. A place like this becomes you. When I drive its highways, I know the places to throw a tent down and where you can let a coiled up Labrador run. Now, I live in Telluride, Colorado where I’m a newspaper editor. I go ski touring in the silvery pre-dawn dark because I like to watch the fresh sun spill over the sharp San Juans. I ride my bike through the aspen stands in the late afternoon light — the kind that comes in red frames between tree-trunks. These days, I’m about six inches taller than grandpa. But every time I see that big pine tree, I think of him. He’s had a stroke and his storytelling has gone from animated and fluid to jagged; his hands and eyebrows do most of the work. But the woods still speak for him, at least to me. I love Colorado — it means everything to me. I grew up in its campgrounds and heard new kinds of quiet amid its deep winters, where the only sound is the breath that spills from you and your ski partners. Here’s to sharing it with you.
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Best Made Guide Bio, Matthew C Beaudin, Colorado

On my wall, there’s a weathered old picture of my grandfather and me headed fishing. I came up to his waist.

We’re walking away from the camera past the big pine tree in front of the cabin — always, it’s been called just “The Cabin” — that rests at the foot of Long’s Peak. He’s carrying a tacklebox and I have a tiny fishing pole with which I will soon beat the flat water on the tiny beaver ponds into a boil. He’d tell me stories about how he turned the bobcat on the wall inside out with his bare hand, then put it on the wall.

I’ve spent most of my life in Colorado, and will probably never stray too far from the Centennial State.

When my father decided he would go back to school to become a teacher, he decided we would all camp for the summer. For 60 days without a break. Dad’s idea of a “splurge” — I still don’t know why he used that word — was a campground with bathrooms.

Our weekends consisted of backpacking. To keep me entertained as a little boy, he said he’d give me a $100 if I could trap a squirrel using nothing but materials around camp. I plan on getting that $100 one day, and I also plan on babysitting my kids in the same manner. A place like this becomes you. When I drive its highways, I know the places to throw a tent down and where you can let a coiled up Labrador run.

Now, I live in Telluride, Colorado where I’m a newspaper editor. I go ski touring in the silvery pre-dawn dark because I like to watch the fresh sun spill over the sharp San Juans. I ride my bike through the aspen stands in the late afternoon light — the kind that comes in red frames between tree-trunks.

These days, I’m about six inches taller than grandpa. But every time I see that big pine tree, I think of him. He’s had a stroke and his storytelling has gone from animated and fluid to jagged; his hands and eyebrows do most of the work. But the woods still speak for him, at least to me.

I love Colorado — it means everything to me. I grew up in its campgrounds and heard new kinds of quiet amid its deep winters, where the only sound is the breath that spills from you and your ski partners. Here’s to sharing it with you.

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