But the concept and the rights to the name Frozen Dead Guy Days, the gleefully ghoulish late-winter bacchanal of ice and death and beer — that’s up for grabs. The Nederland Area Chamber of Commerce here in the mountains northwest of Denver owns the registered trademark to all things Dead Guy and has put those rights up for sale.
“It has grown out of our grasp,” said Blue Hessner, the chamber’s president. Mr. Hessner said that the board would consider all offers, with no pre-set price, and that depending on the buyer, “it could become a little more commercial.” He said discussions were under way with two potential buyers, but he declined to name any names.
Celebrating the mortal remains of an 89-year-old Norwegian named Bredo Morstoel, whose body became stranded here in 1993, is already a big local economic engine. Upward of 20,000 people came this year over a three-day weekend in early March to mark its 10th year and its packed agenda — the coffin races, the parade of hearses, the crowning of an Ice Queen and the not-to-be-missed frozen salmon toss.
Mr. Morstoel, or so local lore has it, died in 1989. His body, already frozen, was brought to Nederland by a family member who dreamed of opening a cryogenic-body-storage-in-the-mountains business. Local officials subsequently found two frozen bodies, including Mr. Morstoel’s, in the family’s possession and outlawed the practice of storing dead bodies. One of the bodies was relocated, but Mr. Morstoel’s was allowed to stay.
A caretaker was hired by the family, charged with keeping Mr. Morstoel in fine frozen fettle against the advent of a scientific breakthrough that would someday allow his revival. Tours to view the shed and the sarcophagus, about 10 minutes outside town, are offered separately by the caretaker during festival times.
The festival, meanwhile, moved on its own trajectory starting in 2001 as a way for the town to capitalize on the weird, unlikely tale. A spokeswoman for the chamber stressed that what is up for sale is the festival itself and the name, not Mr. Morstoel’s actual remains or responsibility for his upkeep.
Frozen Dead Guy Days falls right into the longstanding Western tradition of hyperbolic, manic absurdity in ways that Mark Twain, who chronicled the jumping frogs of Calaveras County, Calif., would probably have appreciated.
Fruita, Colo., holds an annual fete for a chicken named Mike who supposedly lived for 18 months after his decapitation on Sept. 10, 1945. Ainsworth, Neb., trying to make lemonade from lemons, holds a Middle of Nowhere festival in June. And Conway, Ark., has something called Toad Suck Daze.
Here in Nederland, at least one corporate sponsor has been on board for years. Tuff Shed, a maker of, well, sheds, spotted opportunity when the original outbuilding used for body storage started deteriorating — the company donated a new space for Mr. Morstoel and his ice (which gets replenished periodically). T-shirts with the company tagline: “Frozen Dead in a Shed, a Tuff Shed, That Is,” are sold on the chamber’s Web site, along with DVD copies of a documentary, “Grandpa’s Still in the Tuff Shed.”
In a place still tinctured by hippie-era tie-dye, where corporate franchises are widely unwelcome (people threatened to shoot out the Best Western motel sign when that company had the temerity to come to town some years back), the idea of Dead Guys going brand name has already set off a heated discussion.
“Anything corporate and people would be angry for sure, myself included,” said Jon Ridnell, 46, a musician. “That’s why we live here — to get away from that stuff.”
Other residents said they thought Frozen Dead Guy Days had already drifted beyond its original roots — for the worse, some said, in its emphasis on alcohol — and that it could perhaps use a little cleanup.
“By noon, everybody is three sheets to the wind and you want to get your kids out of there,” said Joe Cleveland, 35, a construction contractor who has 5-year-old twins with his wife, Stephanie Bowyer, 38.
Others say that in a town dependent for its livelihood on tourism, a new festival owner with deeper pockets could only be a good thing.
“It brings in revenue — we depend on it,” said Heather Taylor, 31, an artist. “Besides, I was Ice Queen once — I can’t complain.”
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