Rifle Remembers Monty McBride, From Kentucky Farm to Western Slope

Rifle —The air in the Veterans Community Center of Rifle probably smelled like stale coffee and floor wax, a mundane backdrop for the end of a life that had anything but a mundane trajectory. It is a question that haunts us when we think about the folks who pass away quietly in their final years: how much of the wild, colorful journey did the world actually get to see before the dementia took the volume down?

Monty Edwin McBride died on October 26 at the age of 84, according to the Vail Daily. He had been battling dementia since his late 70s, a condition that likely obscured the "hilarious, audacious optimist" he was known to be. But to understand why his departure matters, you have to look at the path that led him from a lemon ranch in Santa Barbara to the heart of the Western Slope.

His early life was defined by movement. Raised as an only child on a ranch in California, Monty’s childhood ended abruptly when his father left the family. By the time he was eight, his mother had already moved them to the Central Valley. It wasn’t until a series of altercations with a school gang that his mother made the decision to send him on a train to Lexington, Kentucky. There, he lived and worked on a seven-acre farm with his aunt and uncle, a veterinarian who cared for Kentucky Derby horses. It was while mucking stalls that he was spotted by a casting director and landed a role as a barn boy in the 1957 Pat Boone film April Love.

Hollywood, however, didn’t hold him. The basketball court did. He enrolled at the University of Kentucky, played on their team, and then joined the Navy in 1961. His athletic prowess carried him to the elite All-Armed Forces Team, where he competed in the Military World Games. After leaving the service, he moved to Stanford University — where he majored in biology and continued to play basketball. It was during this time that he met Wilt Chamberlain, who introduced him to the world of beach volleyball.

Monty’s career took a turn when he left academia for the hospitality industry. He started at Chuck’s Steak House in Palo Alto before following a friend to Denver to help open the restaurant The Hatch Cover. It was in Denver that he met John Purcell, who recruited him for Purcells in Lionshead. Years were spent working at The Ore House and Purcells, where he met his wife, Nicki. She thought he was better at socializing than bartending, but she fell for him anyway. Together, they started Monty McBride Tile, a business they ran side-by-side.

His life was a tapestry of high-profile encounters and low-stakes moments. He played golf with Bob Hope at a Ford Invitational, chasing down a ball named "No Hope" on the ninth hole to settle a private two-dollar wager. He collided with a chandelier at a party, showering figure skater Scott Hamilton and his entourage with candle wax, and quipped that there was "no extra charge for the wax museum face." He offered Glen Campbell a ride to the golf course in his car, a gesture that speaks to the ease with which he navigated the upper echelons of society.

These weren’t just anecdotes; they were evidence of a man who charged through doors with confidence. His intellect and athletic prowess opened many doors, and he never stopped walking through them. He truly lived life to the fullest, a phrase that often feels hollow but fits Monty McBride perfectly. He was a man who loved avocados, played basketball against legends, and built a tile business with his wife. He was a neighbor, a friend, and a force of nature.

Now, he is gone. The Vail Daily reported his passing with the quiet dignity it deserved, noting the loving care he received from the staff at the Veterans Community Center. It is a small comfort, perhaps, but it is a comfort nonetheless. We remember him now, not just for the celebrity encounters or the athletic feats, but for the warmth of his presence. He was a man who made the world a little brighter just by being in it.

As we reflect on his life, we are reminded that the greatest journeys are not measured by distance, but by depth. Monty McBride went deep. He dug into the earth, into the game, into the people around him. And in doing so, he left a mark that will outlast the years. The dust settles, the lights dim, but the echo remains. You can hear it if you listen closely, a faint laugh, a confident stride, a voice saying, "Let's go." It lingers in the air, a sensory detail that refuses to fade, a lingering image of a man who lived loudly in a world that often prefers the quiet.