Cotton Harris 1948-2021 | Gunnison times

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Long-time friend to many, Cotton Harris died of a severe brain aneurysm early in the morning on April 19. Born in Colorado Springs on January 9, 1948, Cotton is survived by his 95-year-old mother who suffers from debilitating dementia and lives in assisted circumstances in Kansas.

The leftover cotton will be cremated at the Mesa Mortuary in Grand Junction. His ashes can be buried there at the Western Colorado Veterans Memorial Cemetery, or spread by friends in the landscape he loved and in which he spent his life.

I hadn’t anticipated the difficulty of writing about someone I’ve been friends with for most of my adult life. There are too many of my own memories, made worse by a myriad of friends remembering their good times with Cotton. It is impossible to integrate everything.

Sheri loved to bowling with Cotton. Gene taught her how to row a raft so the two could fish the river. LaDonna ruled with Cotton as King and Queen Flauschink. Kathy and Tony golfed with Cotton in Dos Rios. An accomplished sportsman, Cotton loved fishing and hunting.

Many of us share ski memories with Cotton as he was a top skier. Western State College coach Sven Wiik would have recommended Cotton to the national team if he could have followed the rules (no). Cotton was a ski patroller; I first met him as a patroller at Ski Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. In addition to patrolling Crested Butte, Cotton taught ski lessons to area kids before making his mark in earnest as a Galende jumper. Cotton was a skier.

There is also no question that Cotton liked to party. I first met Cotton in Crested Butte at a party, and the last time I saw him was at the Flauschink Has-Beens party last spring. Several party venues stand out in my mind: We played a lot of Risk at Cotton’s house in Washington Gulch, often with a .44 Magnum on the table to deter the abusers. We golfed and skeeted at my home in Wildbird; Cotton pulverized his share of clay.

But Cotton’s party affinity really shone through the many parties at Coney’s cottage. We ski in the winter to celebrate Coney’s birthday, ski the ridge and celebrate with copious amounts of Jack Daniels. The cotton was still there.

During the summer of July 4, Coney’s was the refuge of madness on Elk Avenue and Cotton was a master of shootings and explosives. I was always grateful that he was a doctor in Vietnam, since I thought that if anyone got hurt, Cotton had the training to administer help.

Cotton was a kind, gentle soul, as Gene Hart recalled: “One hell of a good friend.” In his later years he lived in Gunnison but kept track of all his old friends and almost acted as a clearinghouse for information. During the pandemic, Cotton and I stayed in touch every week to make sure everyone was still healthy and to share more news from old friends. It was the rock!

Cotton, you are gone now and we miss you sorely. We will be celebrating a memory of your life this summer; we will make it a party. Rest, my friend. Go on a ski slope with the boys, shoot a few guns, and always for all eternity: party!

– Room Denis B



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