Frank Guy Rupp
April 4, 1949 - May 12, 2025
Frank Guy Rupp—retired archaeologist, armchair philosopher, bedazzler of personal lore, hot springs monkey, piddler, and full-time collector of everything—passed away at his home in Kremmling sometime in early May 2025. He spent his career slinging consciousness-enlivening plants in the late ’60s and ’70s, driving a snowplow through the San Juan Mountains, fighting wildfires, wrangling river rangers, occasionally working on oil rigs, sifting through the dirt of western Colorado, and, in retirement, digging through piles of old mail, National Geographics, and objects of his great interest.
He was a brilliant man with a mind like a well-worn library—full of knowledge, random facts, and the occasional bat. He had a deep love for history and could talk for hours about the ancient peoples of his homeland of Colorado. Frank could strike up a conversation with lots of folks—and strike up a conflict in his own mind with the rest.
He was also wildly and oddly creative. He played guitar in his own unpredictable style, drew surreal Dadaist sketches that made no sense but were somehow perfect, and possessed an absurd, often nonsensical sense of humor that was entirely his own. You couldn’t replicate it if you tried—and we wouldn’t dare.
He was charming, infuriating, hilarious, frustrating, and occasionally profound. Frank had a compassionate heart and was deeply sensitive, never really healing from the wounds of losing his father when he was barely into early adulthood, losing his mother—our beloved Maria Hortense Dussart—experiencing an unresolved estrangement from his first-born daughter, and then losing the man who probably “got him” better than anyone, our Unk Karl Rupp. He protected that fragile heart by building up his collections around him and retreating into his own life.
Grief is complicated when love is too. We remember him not only for what was difficult, but for what was beautiful—for his brilliance, his stories, his unique mind, and the love he tried to give. Our greatest wish is that in those last moments, he was elated. Our hope is that he was not angry or sad or scared; rather, relieved and welcomed into the unknown by the love of his family he so dearly missed.
Our relationship with him was not simple. He struggled with mental illness and the weight of his own mind, and that often kept him at a distance when we needed him close. He did love our sister, his two grandchildren, our mother, his sister-in-law, his exes, and us—in the ways he could. He took pride in us, even when he didn’t always know how to say it. There were glimpses of connection, moments of tenderness, worry about our well-being, and a genuine, if imperfect, bond.
He leaves behind a legacy of archaeological contributions, an impressive (and questionable) collection of “artifacts,” two daughters, Alice and Grace; his two grandchildren, Milo and Ruby; his dog, Marty; and some good friends who carry forward the grit, curiosity, and stubbornness he passed down.
May he finally rest in peace—somewhere with plenty of books, no clutter, a guitar, and a good view of the stars. We carry the whole of him with us—the brilliance, the mess, the humor, the gaps, and the love.
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