Couple keep marriage alive 4 dark miles from civilization

Norm and Louise Barker live on the other side of the tunnel of love.

The side that's difficult to reach. The enduring side.

For 16 years, the Barkers have made their home -- absolutely alone -- at 10,600 feet in a remote basin southeast of Aspen. The Barkers' only way in or out for most of the year: driving four miles through a dark water tunnel 10 feet in diameter.

Except for vacations and an occasional weekend away, they spend all their time caring for a 1930s-era tunnel, dam and reservoir system that sends snowmelt from Grizzly Reservoir west of the Continental Divide to Twin Lakes, where it eventually flows to Colorado Springs, Pueblo and the farmers of Crowley County.

Most folks who meet the Barkers immediately pepper them with questions about their dank driveway, surely the most frightening in Colorado. But it isn't long before they get around to other questions: Cut off from civilization, alone 24/7, don't they end up fighting like cats and dogs?

Surely, they get on each other's nerves?

Nope, says Louise Barker: "If you can't get along, this is sure not the place to be, because you're here."

In fact, on the far side of the tunnel, amid the soaring peaks and avalanche chutes that encircle their log home, the Barkers, both 60, enjoy a most unusual bond. It's been forged by danger, isolation and the need to count on each other.

Norm calls Louise "Mom" and dotes on her. Louise, obviously still smitten with her husband, often says "Norman!" and taps him playfully on the shoulder when he makes a wisecrack, which is often.

They grew up in the sticks of eastern Colorado and have known each other most of their lives. But they didn't get married until 17 years ago, blending a family that now numbers six children, 22 grandchildren and three greatkids.

The long, paneled hall of their home is lined with family photos, and the grandkids visit as often as they can.

"They're all hers when they're good and they're mine when they aren't," says Norm, earning a "Norman!" from Louise. In the spring and summer, Norm raises and lowers the level of the reservoir, controlling the rush of water through the tunnel.

When Louise has to go to town, Norm closes the head gates to the reservoir about an hour and a half before she leaves, so just inches of water are left in the bottom of the tunnel.

"Mom doesn't like her car dirty," he says.

The journey through the narrow tunnel takes 15 to 20 minutes, ending in a streambed on the Independence Pass side. "My wife is a little bit claustrophobic," says Norm. "But she knows this tunnel has both ends."

In the winter, Norm monitors snowpack -- 41 inches on the ground so far this year from 183 total inches of snowfall, about normal.

The couple doesn't get out of the yard much in the winter because of the threat of avalanches. Norm reckons 40 snowslides have rumbled down the surrounding mountains so far this season. Depending on the time of year, Norm cares for the pumps that raise the head gates to the tunnel, patches cracks in the concrete tube and keeps snowmobiles, heavy equipment and the generators running.

He also has to mow the lawn surrounding the house three times in the summer, because Louise waters the heck out of it. It's a little patch of suburbia in a teacup basin that emanates a powerful sense of wildness.

Louise is a full partner in keeping the water flowing. Except for the road grader, which shudders too much for her, she can operate all of the heavy equipment, including the big backhoe. She insists on being at the controls when Norm has to work under the shadow of its bucket.

In mid-May, Norm clears the 16-mile dirt road to Aspen and their closest neighbor, actor Kevin Costner. Louise follows Norm in a truck, watching him from safe zones when he works beneath avalanche chutes. She even kept the Twin Lakes Reservoir and Canal Company's operation running smoothly two winters ago when Norm had to leave for two months to oversee another water diversion system.

"I didn't spill a drop of water," she says.

In the shadow of cliffs that bear down on the Barkers from the north, Louise has made a comfortable home, full of the couple's interests and hobbies. The two-bedroom, two-bath house, one of two in the compound built by the tunnel company, is awash with knickknacks depicting owls, Louise's favorite animal.

Two commercial generators power all the normal conveniences, including a TV and phone. But the couple doesn't spend much time just sitting.

Norm spends free time in his shop making wooden cars and fire trucks, which one of his grandsons calls "heart toys."

Louise has a sewing room crammed with cloth and crafts, raw material she fashions into things to dissolve the distance between her and her family.

"The girls will send me pictures of the kind of doll they want," says Louise. "And the boys get an afghan when they turn 15, a quilt when they turn 16 and a bigger one when they go to college.

"We just stay busy all the time. I don't like that word 'bored.'"

They haven't thought much about when they'll finally come out of the mountains. Their health is good, and neither has been injured seriously in a place where help is a long way away.

They like their neighbors: the fox that occasionally sidles up to the kitchen door, the hammerheaded blue jay and squirrel that compete for crumbs, and the lynx, deer, elk and bears that roam the basin.

Louise especially likes the two owls she's glimpsed on the far side of the reservoir.

In a situation that would surely reveal every weakness, bad habit and personality flaw, the two are comfortable, loving, easy on each other.

"We enjoy being together," says Louise, taking in the view of the wilderness with Norm as sun breaks through snow clouds. "We never make a decision without talking about it, and we call twice a day if we're away from each other."

"We just figured out who's boss a long time ago," says Norm, earning another "Norman!" from Louise.

The real deal: "I married my best friend," Louise says. "We count on each other all the time. Anything can happen up here."

A few minutes later, just before Norm climbs into an SUV to drive through the tunnel on a 35-mile trip to get his wife some medicine, he bends a shoulder toward her. Louise slips an arm around his neck.

"I love you," she whispers.

Copyright 2005
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