Aspen

"I HAVE BEEN FLY-FISHING ONLY once in my life. It was in Woody Creek, Colorado, outside Aspen, and I went with a young guide who had come highly recommended by the original chef at Eleven Madison Park, Kerry Heffernan (no relation to my wife, Audrey), an expert fly-fisherman. My guide, displaying wisdom that belied his age, called me over as he waded into a clear, rushing stream, and picked up a small rock. He turned it over and smiled. From a distance, I noticed nothing unusual on its slick underside. I had no idea what he was looking for, or at. “Here, come look,” he said. He pointed out dozens of tiny aquatic insects hatching on the rock. This told him precisely which fly to tie because, as he explained, the trout would only bite on an artificial fly that resembled what was actually hatching. The guide then put the stone back exactly where he had found it. I was intrigued. There was a world of information under that rock, if only one knew or cared enough to look for it."

"In December 1984, he and Jenny took the family to Mexico, where they had many adventures in an old van driven by a hairy old local the girls dubbed ‘Catweasel’. He also rediscovered the joys of skiing. Warren and Sally Paine were frequent partners in mountain excursions. A typical adventure, in Paine’s memory, started with an exclamation from a wrung-out Gibbs: ‘For heaven’s sake, Jenny, let’s have some fun.’ She’d arrange a ski trip to Aspen in Colorado or Courchevel in France with the Paines and the Reynolds. Gibbs found his release through competition. ‘There was only one speed with Alan,’ says Paine, ‘flat out. Being in front of him was like being in front of a freight train, he was always trying to pass, arms and legs were flying and he was yelling and cursing; it was great fun.’ As it was with business, so it was with entertainment: Gibbs threw himself into whatever he was doing as if the fate of the world hinged on the result and by the end of the day he was spent."