From the 1956 Real Adventure magazine (cover right)

We did a little sightseeing after our tour of Juarez. We didn’t reach Denver until September 28. We stayed there one day and then continued to Estes Park, the rip-roaring resort area that has made Springtime Sextime in the Rockies. For scenic grandeur, there’s nothing to beat Estes Park. Nor has any vacation spot come up with the appeal that Estes Park has for the love-starved and the sex-hunter. It’s all unofficial, of course. No hunt of the shenanigans is ever allowed to leak. It’s a good bet that most of the honest, decent people who live there year-round don’t even know what the hell is going on! However, the college kids at Denver and Boulder know. They helped create the situation in their own, sophomoric way. The cheating husbands and wives of Denver and points east, west, north, and south also know. For Estes Park is a perfect place to hide and play house. The main community is 7522 feet above sea level, and it’s ringed by mountains that tower almost 13,000 feet. Scattered around in the valleys and on the rugged slopes are cabins and resorts hotels and camp grounds. There are 31 “lodges” and 180 cottage and motel groups. The year-round permanent population is around 2000. During the vacation, or to some, mating, season, this figure skyrockets to 30,000 and even higher! And that’s where the fun, literally and figuratively, begins. There are plenty of natural attractions. The headwaters of the Colorado River are nearby, so are countless lakes and trout streams and animal preserves. But who cares? Undergraduates and co-eds get together for week-long romps. Someone rents a cabin. As long as there are plenty of beds, who gives a damn if they’re all jammed into one room? A suspicious husband is going to have one hell of a time finding his wife if the competition takes her to a cabin high on the side of a towering peak. And where there are people, there are bound to be single males. This brings great floods of not exactly professional, but not entirely amateur, female talent into Estes Park. Again, these doxies pose as nurses, secretaries, and salesgirls. Estes Park was Joan’s target. She’s young and looks younger. Tricked out in typical Kampus Klothes, she managed to worm the secrets out of every one of the college kids she met during the four days we hung around “The Park” Mostly, I loafed in the bars along Highways 66, 34, and 262 - the bars maintained by lodges and hotels. I listened and watched. Period. Each evening, I’d check with my wife - and this time it was my turn to get a little green around the gills. “Certain college fraternities and sororities come up here,” Joan gasped in amazement. “Each group maintains a roster of names. On the first day, the boy whose name tops his frat list gets the girl who’s on the bottom of her sorority’s roster. The second boy from the top gets the girl who’s number two from the bottom - and so on.” “Yeah? Then what?” I goggled. “Uh - he gets she for the day and the night. The next morning, the shifting starts. Number one boy gets number two girl. This keeps up until everybody’s been around the course at least once - or the vacation comes to an end!” “My God!” I exclaimed. “What else, bright eyes?” Or can there be anything else?” “Hold on, laddy buck,” she grinned. “It’s only the beginning. The kids have come up with a great gimmick. Remember midnight swims and beach parties? Well, now, it’s nude horseback-riding parties.” “Huh?” “Uh-huh. They rent horses, take them into the woods, and shed their clothes. Then, my innocent child, they - uh, well - they go riding.” Taking the cue from the college kids, some “exclusive” clubs for men import entire bevies of pay-as-you-enter girls and establish them in cabins. They’re hired by the week to be on consult calls. “The adults? Get anything on them?” I asked. “Waal, podner, it’s thisaway. There’s something about the clean, invigorating mountain air that makes them want to kick their heels. There’s a little game that’s mighty popular up here during the season. It’s called ’Switcheroo’ - and it takes two or more - couples that is - to play. Get it?” I got it. I’d been hearing the same sort of thing myself, from visiting firemen I’d met over ryes and soda. They’d also told me about the pro-teams that operated in Estes Park, pretty much without the local officials’ knowledge. “The resort area is too spread out for anyone to be sure of what’s going on,” a barkeep informed me. When the folks get tired of sex, they can always gamble. Some of the cabins are rented to characters who use them to house their fast-moving gin games. Joan came back with a story that revealed that many big money boys had exchanged as much as $100,000 in one night’s play. Dope. Not much of the “heavy” stuff. But Joan did discover that the college crowd got a lock of kicks during communal marijuana parties. None of the locals handled it, but peddlers did come up from Denver periodically to supply the kids. “One more choice item,” Mrs. C. leered. “You males aren’t the only ones who get attention up here. For the last couple of years, somebody’s been running a stud farm in a big ranch-type log cabin out on 262. They import big, virile characters to make frustrated spinsters’ and bored wives’ hours pass more quickly, to turn a phrase.” “For money?” “Not for love, Buster. And, young man, it may be a terrible blow to your ego, but the male prostitute fee is less than what the girls in the same business are getting!”