Steve Borbas sits inside of a small shack at the top of Tenderfoot Mountain, waiting for a radio signal to flip the switch and light up a Christmas tradition that he and other volunteers have prepared for weeks and maintained for decades in Salida, Colo. (pop. 5,236).
On the Friday evening after Thanksgiving Day, a crowd of spectators has gathered below in downtown Salida to watch the city’s annual Christmas parade, capped off with a visit by Santa Claus and the lighting of Tenderfoot Mountain for the holidays.
“Ho ho ho!” Santa belts out before waving his arm to lead the crowd in counting, “One, two, three!”
As if by magic, the mountain suddenly glows with red, orange and white lights outlining a 750-foot-tall Christmas tree above the town. Complete with ornaments, garlands and even a star on top, Tenderfoot Mountain transforms into Christmas Mountain while local firefighters shoot off fireworks overhead.
“This mountain is the heart of Salida,” says Felicia McQueen, huddling on the sidewalk with her daughter, Jordan, 4, during last year’s lighting ceremony. “This is something this town looks forward to every year. It’s a symbol of what Salida is.”
Old West meets New West in Salida, where the Victorian-style downtown district hearkens back to the town’s 19th-century mining days. A thriving arts community dots the city with galleries. Running alongside, the Arkansas River is a playground for rafters, kayakers and anglers. Fifteen nearby peaks top 14,000 feet, drawing hikers and adventurers during all seasons.
Most of the year, Tenderfoot Mountain is adorned with a giant lighted “S” for Salida, and a big red heart, a nod to the town’s nickname “Heart of the Rockies.” Come Christmastime, however, these symbols must share the hillside with thousands of festive lights in the shape of what locals call the world’s largest Christmas tree.
The holiday tradition began in 1989 when electric contractor Chris Schirmer enlisted his crew to decorate the mountain with 220 colored floodlights powered by 22,000 watts of electricity. However, the effect—which looked fabulous from overhead but like a bunch of big light bulbs from the town—wasn’t quite what he hoped for.
“I’m not one to say die,” says Schirmer, who went back to the drawing board to come up with another plan.
The next year, surveyors sketched out a mountain-size tree, and volunteers strung extension cords and Christmas lights in accordance with their specifications. When the switch finally was flipped, Christmas Mountain was a shining success—and a tradition that townspeople have embraced ever since.
“It’s taken on a life of its own,” says Schirmer, 61. “It’s really cool that it’s been loved so well through the years.”
Weeks before the holiday lighting, Borbas and about 20 other volunteers string 4,500 bulbs in a mile-long strand that zigzags the mountainside. Another 12 volunteers take them down again six weeks later.
“I really enjoy the spirit of it and of all our volunteers,” says Borbas, a local motel owner who has kept the tradition going, and glowing, for the past 14 years.
Private donations have covered the cost of burying a half-mile of wiring and purchasing longer-lasting LED lights. Now when stringing lights,volunteers simply plug them into green electrical boxes that dot the mountain. Local realtors cover the cost of electricity—$1,200 to light up Christmas Mountain, plus another $800 a year for the “S” and the shape of a heart. Students at Salida Middle School hold a penny drive to help out. Local residents chip in with donations and manpower.
The payoff comes each Thanksgiving weekend when Santa arrives, Borbas flips the switch and Christmas Mountain shines over Salida.
“The big thing,” says longtime volunteer Stew Brown, “is seeing the reaction of the town and kids—how proud they are when the lights go on.”
