I suppose that at first there was the knee. 

Among ailments, frustrations, achilles heels, the sacrosanct knee and associated ligamenture is the keymaster to the fine line between ski season glory and burnout. 

But the knee was fixed. Twice. And none the worse for wear, it seems to be holding its own. We have dialogue, the knee and I. Smack talk. And my trump card usually involves ibuprofen and a brace. Call it denial. At least it’s working. And at least the knee has a sense of humor.

This week, it wasn’t the knee at all, but the mystery funk. All that the physician could tell me was what it WASN’T. It probably wasn’t my kidney. Looks promising that it wasn’t an embolism. Heart seems to be fine. None of this was taking away that I was stuck in the emergency room, life’s funny little way of saying “prioritize, Michael.” Smack talk tally: Body, 1. Michael, 0.

And this is fine, considering that I’m not my father. Or is the relentless passing of seasons catching up with even us invincible block heads?  

All my friends are getting older 

Guess I must be too

So the decree was to “take it easy for awhile.” Easier said than done, since the first real hints of winter are only now at this late hour calling on our square shaped state. Irony? Message from the gods? Life’s lesson? All of that amounts to a pile of crap when faced with significant snowfall. 

Because seeing snow drift lightly down from the sky awakens the primeval inside those mountain people who understand that instead of stocking the fridge with beer and milk, we should be rocketing over impossible passes before the Department of Rusty Plows decides to close them. And if you are one of the chosen few to be helplessly “stranded” on the high side of a snow closure, at inter-lodge, by avy blasting, or plain common sense, then we will greet one another with knowing smiles. 

The “10 out of 10” on the pain scale, however, is still fresh in the back of my mind. And in the back of my back. Even the ebb and flow of efficacy from my high-powered analgesics let me know that the pilgrimage over the pass would, as my mom matter-of-factly let me know, perpetuate my “burning of the candle at both ends.” 

Call it growing up, but the second that I became okay with my body’s victory over my plans, things started looking up. 

Be a sailboat, not a rowboat.

The upslope was keeping the snow on the front range. Den Mother Kim brought some homemade soup. And then there is the one calm-inducing revelation that somehow, sometimes manages to be taken for granted. 

I chose to live next to a mountain. 

It seems trivial, at times selfish, and always just a bit pretentious. But we all make choices. And the breaking of the storm and completion of the igloo in the snow-covered clover field next to the creek behind the house leave but one cure for cabin fever- I can spring from the door of my purple house with skis on my feet. It’s not Jackson. But it ain’t Indianapolis. 

So a portal is opened, through which I have again found triumph over the sound advice of my physician and logged some time alone on skis. In snow. Lots of snow. With a view. 

We all make choices, and the song lodged in my head guides me safely up the draw towards the pine-strewn mesa and back down through the ditch to the comfort of my own house. On skis. The tracks laid down meant to be a declaration to the world, and a beacon of hope to the neighbors. We all make choices. Where to live, how to live, conflict to avoid, conflict to engage in. And, for those who cannot be fully engaged until their hearts are pumping endorphins mined from the pit of winter’s cold heart, the choice of what to do on a snowy day. 

Even when the upslope has stranded us at home. 

But is it on this lack of fallen luck

To dream of things like a little river

To the Golden Ground? 

We flailed our way, sin mapa, north of Santiago, where the white monsters beckon. "Somehow, it would take away from the trip if we actually didn't flail around Santiago," I am assured. Directions are easy enough- keep the big mountains on your right. Claro.

Before long Chevalier proves a genius, and we find ruta cinco a la norte. Los Andes is approached with caution, as miles of Argentine semis are parked alongside the highway. Not just parked, but camping out. A parking lot scene for Argentine 18 wheelers. Fatty veggie burritos and Fanta por todos. After a Chilean version of poutine at a local favorite playing host to the country's happiest three-legged dog, we poach our way up the long valley towards Portillo. Through the bursting metropolis of "El Sauce" and on up the road to Mendoza we troll. Marley is stuck in our heads. We free the people with music. With music, sweet music. So we've got that going for us.

Before long, it is evident that none shall pass. I used to think that I had fair mastery of the Spanish language. Years of study- junior high through my senior year of college, with hours of field-tested Spanglish with the Colorado hispanic crew. In Chile, however, there is a new level of sophistication that I am not set up for. The most notable difference is the Chileans' fondness for the word "Claro." Literally translated, it means "clearly." "Of course." But it is ubiquitous. A simple "por supuesto" would suffice. Clearly.

With the road closed, we head back towards the Aconcogua valley town of Los Andes, home of the afore mentioned Chilean poutein and three legged dog. Claro. Now with a twist--Chevalier has found a hotel that sits astride a thermal hot springs outside of San Felipe. Claro. We phone the hotel with great results- plenty of room! the hot springs are incluyendo con el precio! Perfecto! The first clue should have come when I asked "so... what's the name of the road that you are on in San Felipe?" "There is no name to our road." Claro. This is now my default contesta. When I don't clearly understand what is being told to me, I reply "claro." Counterintuitive, but it gives the opposing party the false confidence that I am not a total waste of human. claro. We find San Felipe. Claro.

Seems like a nice town--actually quite a bit nicer than Los Andes. Vineyards and views of the greater range. Super markets and great trees. The signage is clear and concise. Until the road runs out. We haul up a road that is clearly marked "cerrado," across gravel and mud, before being stopped by a worker. "Es cerrado." How do we find our way to the hotel? "SeveralfastSpanishwordsspokenunintelligibly." Claro.

We flail our way back into town. Mean and Zip Loc recall a turn at Montenegro. Claro. We turn and follow our noses around some rural dirt roads, clearly in the wrong direction, toward a hand-written sign that tell us "Hay Pan." What is a hay pan? The road workers are more than happy to give us directions around the Andean big dig towards our hotel. SeveralmoreunintelligiblyfastSpanishwordsspoken, this time with the aid of a similarly unintelligible mapa. Claro. Bien, gracias, y vamonos. We flip it and head back towards an unforeseen future.

Somehow we ring the hotel por telefono, and my previously stellar Spanglish is mangled in clear sight of my friends. Me to nice lady at hotel (translated): "We have reservations at your hotel, and the road was closed, and we went left at the church, then the worker told us to go right at the church, and we are on Santa Maria something, and I was wondering if you could help us out with directions." Lady to me (translated): "(Giggling)- okay, well where are you now and what can you see?" Me to lady: "I see the Andes. And a church." Lady (more giggling) to me: "SeveralmoreunintelligibleSpanishdirectionsspokenfast." Me to lady: "Claro."

In the history of translation goofs, there may have never been a cover-up so eloquently blissful in its simplicity. I could be a goof, I could be a genius. But that simple palabra was saving face until my crew could work out the rest.

By some small miracle, the road worker's unintelligible map led us up a hill, past a church, through a plaza, by another church, and into the waiting embrace of our hotel. It is a nice hotel, much nicer than we would have anticipated. Or than we had anticipated affording. And now we are rolling with it, because the smell of Eucalypts detracts from the biting pain of a verbal blunder that landed us in this high-brow spa.

For us, the all-inclusive pampering ends tomorrow as we attack the road to Portillo again, without map, in an attempt to suck the marrow out of Chilean life. For now, the adventure wouldn't have been complete without the epic meandering that took us through the greater valleys of central Chile, and we laugh about the absurdity over local wines and the carefree nonchalance that comes with being on vacation. Will we ski Portillo tomorrow? Hopefully. Because a closed road means that snow still lingers. What is to come of us Ex-pat bums if the road remains closed? Will we face defeat like men? Will we flail our way southward to more temperate skiing climates? The road of travel rolls on, and the high peaks lurk beneath our first view of the Southern Cross on this trip.

Nothing else matters, because we are on the road, and that seems to be the defining trait of a vacation well spent, in the hideous shadow of Aconcagua and among friends. Will we find our snow? Will we find more Chilean chips with random meat product? Will we take cerveza or vino or Fanta? Claro.

I am not a morning person. 

Ask those who know me the best, and they might say that this is an understatement. 

I find that I can fake my way through almost every conversation with some semblance of grace after about 9 am. Before that, I might as well be a caged lion who was recently prodded in the ass to play nice for crowds at the zoo. A Spanish bull charging after inebriated Pamplona youth has more charm than do I before my morning’s first cup of coffee. 

It’s not that I don’t like the morning. It’s swell, I guess. I just have never functioned in any manner that would be regarded as socially acceptable before the dawn. I certainly respect the morning with great wonder, when I can wrap my head around it. The sunrise, especially from my kitchen window, glows brilliantly on the mountainside. It’s just that the sunset falls at a more reasonable time of day, one that I can appreciate with all of my facilities intact. “Wasn’t that a great sunset?” I might ask a friend, sitting on the deck, beer in hand, capping off a great day of this-or-that heroic feat of wonder. The grill is never involved with sunrise. Much less the beer. Or friends. At least those that know me best. 

I once worked for an entire summer in the Northern Colorado Rockies as a breakfast cook. Ask me how I did it? Easy, on two accounts. First- I was the only one in the kitchen at 5:30 AM. Me, a pot of coffee, and Linda Wertheimer. Nobody to answer to. No chipper individuals prodding for my opinions of something that I could give a damn about before the crack of noon. Second- I had the afternoons free to do as I pleased, which most often also included sitting in some tranquil mountain meadow- beer in hand- sharing a sunset with friends. “Wasn’t that a great sunset?” we might all chip in. 

Sunrise is preceded by cold. Sunset is released into twilight’s warm embrace. Sunrise is followed by the tedium of day. Sunset leads into the wild magic of nighttime. 

How many alpine starts does it take before one becomes used to climbing at o-dark-thirty? The answer is, of course, none. Alpine starts will always be the worst invention ever. The only reason that we would even dream of leaving a tent, hut, or truck bed hours before the sun ponders waking is so that we might have something nice to talk about later that day... as we sit around watching the sunset. “It was a great climb,” we might say, adding little anecdotes to spice up a conversation that needn’t really be fleshed out, as the shared experience of a day in the mountains says more than our paltry words may dare. So, someone says the only thing that need be said. 

“Great day, but look at that alpenglow... killer sunset.” 

The same may be said of early morning starts to surf sessions. Terrible idea. The water is always coldest just before the dawn, as a man once said. Only the surfer knows the feeling. Of ice cream headache at dawn-patrol beach breaks. 

And yet week in and week out, season after season, year after year, I have no problem practically leaping out of bed in anticipation of a day skiing. I am a different person. Not even born anew, it is as if my polar opposite has freed itself at the simple cue of Capilene waiting beside my bed. My joy is not even childlike. I am transcendent in my anxious awaiting of what magic the cumulus I saw lurking last night have left in my favorite haunts. Coffee seems to taste better when skiing waits at the tail end of the first cup. The music I blare seems more poignant than I would dare to remember. 

We meet at the trail head, the parking lot, the front porch of the hut, half-cooled mug in hand, windows frosted, skins too cold to glue to bases, goggles fogged, the last dance of the fire’s smoky curl disappearing into the dawn so blue that it verges on mystery. The potential is enormous. The feelings are mutual. We are sharing the morning with as much eager excitement that can be harnessed. The cold is non existent. Just before we moxy up to the ascent through 14 inches of what Le Rouge is calling “the good dry stuff,” someone fulfills the mandatory roll of putting into words the unbearable beauty of the day’s greeting of orange glow reflecting off of the alpine snowfields that beg our arrival. 

“What a sunrise.”

Baptism is the right of passage, a transformation if you will, in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Common to all of said ceremonies is one key ingredient; water. 

Quoth Warren Miller: “I do know that water freezes at 32 degrees Farenheit, and I like it when it falls on the sides of mountains.” 

Me too.

Ask me to recall my skiing baptism, and I can regail you with my age, the details of my yellow “hot dog” skis, and how even though in retrospect it looks 70’s chic, I really did not care for the orange puffy coat subjected upon me by my dad. But ask about the transformative power of skiing, the total focus and dissociation found in the perfect moment, the literal ends-of-the-earth to which I have trekked in search of my frozen drug, and my first day provides no foresight. My future pilgrimages to Chamonix, La Grave, Kitzbuhel, Zermatt, Verbier and New Zealand, were not inherent in those checkered leather boots. No sooth was said on that winter day in the wilds of South Boulder.

...or was it? Because not everyone who has experienced a first day of skiing goes on to experience a second. You may argue predestination. You may claim that it was my birthright, being the only son of a patriarch himself molded from a childhood spent, among other locations, in the German Alps, Alaska, and Colorado. 

Yet nothing about Day One is remotely pleasant. While words can scarcely be expected to grasp the collision of gravity, ecstasy, detachment and oneness found in the bliss of a perfect powder day, the craft takes years to master. Dedication. The subconscious and sublime are absent on Day One. As is pride, comfort, and style (apparently). 

In an attempt to wrap my brain around my own memories, I ask my 4 year old son his thoughts on this most pressing question. Already in his 3rd season on skis, Bryce’s mind still inhabits the primordial ether of adolescence, in which the reality of piracy and giants meld seamlessly into his world view. 

I attempt to coerce a reaction, a diamond of wisdom sprung from Bryce’s youthful innocence and lack of concrete memory distorted by delusions of grandeur.

“Bryce- see this picture? What are you thinking?” 

“I’m skiing, daddy.” 

“That’s right! And when you are skiing, what are you dreaming about?” 

“I’m not dreaming, daddy! I’m skiing!” 

The pantomime carries on, complete with leading photos of Bryce’s own Day One.

“That’s right! And what can you tell me about skiing?”

A moment passes. The freedom of Bryce’s answer is perfect in its simplicity. His reply as to the origin of “the spark” is as true today as it was when Dr. Michel Payot imported  hickory sticks to Chamonix to cure his cabin fever in 1901. So what does Bryce remember about Day One that keeps him from succumbing to forces that have sidelined lesser 4 year olds? 

“It’s fun, daddy!” 

And it always will be.

But there is no sunken treasure

Rumored to be

Wrapped inside my ribs

In a sea black with ink

This is my home, or at least my home away from home. It's where my mind is free, where my inner dialogue has control of my here and now, where the threat of the future lies around the next hairpin, over the next pass, if only I am bold enough to push on, to push on. 

I like how the world looks while driving my truck. The feeling is abundantly more profound when accompanied by my old friend, the nighttime. 

Rocketing head-long down the highway, the darkness blurs the details so that interpretation plays a more prominent role in one's vision. Lights on the mountainside seem more inviting when calling out to the high-country winter traveller. Come in! Come in!

Highway 6 in the canyon is the same road traversed by Kerouac in the opening chapters of On The Road, and Highway 40 over Berthoud Pass is retread in the same book still later. The road at night has seen many anonymous parties borrow its promise of change, of destination, of future obscured. It can mean one million different things to just as many drivers, and it is where I find my most creative moments, here on the powder trail into the high hills of my home state.

Moon hangs in the night 

A spotlight on the world 

Lighting the lands, moving the seas 

And tonight from where I stand on this hill 

The spotlight's on me 

I am young long ago 

I know not a thing 

But you tire of the same faces

And you dream of new places...

The silhouettes of the range looming large to the four winds blowing allow me the illusion of being unstuck in the world at large. Clouds and summits dull the mind's horizon when everything translates as shades of black. 

And you say “just be here now

Forget about the past

your mask is wearing thin...”

I’m waiting for my real life to begin

The past is more readily accessible behind the wheel of a westbound truck at night. Memories are closer to the surface. There is no history, in a linear sense, just right now and the promise of snow somewhere down the road. 

Used to tell Ma sometimes
When I see them riding blinds
Gonna make me a home out in the wind
In the wind, Lord in the wind
Make me a home out in the wind

My method is simple. Fabricate one playlist based strictly on muse. Follow your bliss with no preconceived thought. Oftentimes the songs you choose will dictate the evening's mood for you, or at the very least enhance the ride. Plug and play. Preferably loud. I burn CDs- already an antiquated technology, but it leaves me with a little trinket that I later hang on the cork board outside of the Eldorado Springs post office, paying forward a subscription to my vibe for whomever wishes to take it. My addition to the cosmic library. 

Well I know you are strong

May your journey be long

And now I wish you the best of luck

Around each bend little glimpses appear that tickle my mind's fancy. On Berthoud Pass, the tail end of a good line, powder tracks that for all I know could have started 400 miles higher. The steep banks of the Zero Creek drainage and an old hidden friend touch down lightly at the penultimate switchback. Pass summits devoid of everything save for a truck camper humming with propane promise, the warm glow of comfort visible through the tattered blinds.

The road unfolds in a ribbon of mystery, in spite of the scores of times I have passed this way. The snowy burms morph. Are those stars, or blowing snow? Or both? I-70 gets a bad rap, and deservedly so; however after dark, it is my private thoroughfare, and I appreciate the stillness inherent in the surrounding mountain towns. 

I can hear the wheels of automobiles

So far away moving along through the drifting snow

It's times like these when the temperatures freeze

I sit alone just looking at the world through a storm window

Time don't fly- it bounds and leaps

Childhood memories traversing Highway 6 with dad merge with the present, as we always were on the road at o-dark thirty. Creature habits born of his own childhood full of frequent moves and road trips, the early bird certainly stands a better chance of riding first chair. Now I forget if it is early or late, and know only that the orange glow from the canyon's 5 tunnels entreat me to mental trips from Colorado to Switzerland to Austria to Mont Blanc and back home again- a warm mouth in the side of an otherwise impenetrable mountain face urging me and my truck onward, higher, further. 

Then the snow started falling

We were stuck out in your car

You said “ain't this just like the present

To be showing up like this?”

With no external dialogue, there is only you, the music, and the promise of snow lurking. For me driving is narcotic in its euphoria, as my unstuck being again gains awareness through the filtration of lights at the valley bottom. Here I see the childhood vision of snowflakes dancing in front of the street lights as the music tapers perfectly into the present, and my friends' rides are waiting for me outside the very real, very present invite of a hearth fire at the town pub. Mulled wine and chow. Doesn't matter what. I am riding high on the feeling that the world is at my beckon call. Tomorrow will mean the greater reality of riding fresh snow with friends, a feeling that tonight cannot even fully foretell. 

Running just as fast as you can

You jump ship way quick

But maybe it's thicker...

Than water

One day you'll wake up and realize

...just what you're after

The promise is yours for the taking. The price is a tank of gas, a warm destination for the night, a snowy promise for the coming days, some skis and an open mind. This is freedom and happiness incarnate, and I sit now writing the thoughts accumulated through the previous hour's contemplative whirlwind westward into the fresh. Tomorrow, tomorrow... the snow falls lightly through the window and I come unstuck yet again, the product of 1,000 nights spent peering out at the streetlight dreaming of my muse, my passion, and tomorrow's promise. 

Far away over hills and streams

The candle burns a witch’s dreams

Silence is golden ‘til it screams

Right through your bones

The way that we move through the world is at least as important as where we move in the world. 

**Setlist available upon request. More fun to figure it out on your own...

The Chronicles of Mt. Mary Jane

...or the purists guide to antiquitous esthetic...

Part 1: 

In Defense Of Noodling. 

I noticed something the other day. Something strange, something that now keeps me up at night, wondering if I am now in a generation lost to youthful fancy and the ageless stoke known to the snow folk. 

My skis look thin. 

The jokes are running rampant... “does my ass make my skis look fat?” “Do those skis come with a walker?” My legend 8000s are not more than 6 years old. When I bought the orange monsters, I remember thinking that the 8800s and even bolder Legend Pros and Pro Nobis seemed like snowshoes. I wanted something with girth, not snowboards for my feet. And 79 underfoot was a far cry from my old GS Elans. I needed a foot mounted directly to each orange genie, and dropping below 180 cm seemed like blasphemy. After all, my mountain is full of bumps. Terrain. Trees. Wonder. And a dedicated crew of like-minded people who revel in the pure lines found at our skiing home.

I ski at Mary Jane. 

Although the prototypical grooming equipment was developed on the other side of the hill at Winter Park, the narrow passages and steep fall lines of the Jane never lent themselves to grooming. As a result, the skiers of the day found that our pitches led to the growth of a brand of mogul absent at nearly every other Performers-friendly resort. We laugh at Vail’s “morale bumps” and thumb our noses at A-Basin’s paltry Pallavicini. We have exposed roots and double fall-line. And a trio of fixed-grip doubles to escort us there. 

Our kind have spent the better winters of our formative years paralleling with soft knees through the mogul fields, comparing notes on preferable lines... left, center, right... trough, mid-line, crest-to-crest... and we still do. Styles emerged that were as unique as the riders crafting them, and our niche was safe. 

But skiing evolves. Ask most any skier who never put in the effort to learn bump skiing, and they almost always respond in an identical manner: “I never really liked the moguls... I prefer powder.” Or “I never really liked moguls... I prefer groomers.” To us, this is not an offense, but a clear admonition that said responder never had the stones to conquer our terrain. Good riddance. We were the keepers of the craft. You can ski Vail and try your hand at Highline for a pleasant little bump run. Maybe we can meet apres ski at the cinema to catch a matinee of “The Notebook” while we’re at it. You might have well said “I never really liked moguls... I’d rather pull out a Barbara Streisand album.” 

The truth is that none of us enjoy the moguls. While your mind finds total focus in a minefield of small VWs, we would all prefer to be skiing powder. Although we will never admit it, we even enjoy the corduroy now and then. But skiing bumps and the necessary esthetic involved is as essential to our identity as silly hats are to Shriners. In a world that now embodies ski-bikes and boot skis, bump skiers are as true to the technique of our fathers as anyone before. An ill-fated attempt by Barry and Intrawest to groom Outhouse led to local outcry, and the still-omnipresent bumper sticker reading “Don’t Groom Mary Jane. -God.”

And here is where I grow concerned. With the advent of fat skis and rocker and pontoons and gimmicks galore, the parallel turn is in danger of becoming extinct. I’m not talking about over-exaggerated pole plants and the clown that makes every bump turn look as if his life depended on his mid-riff bending 90 degrees. I’m talking about the core, man... overlapping ski tips and boots that touch. Leaving a single track in the snow. Respect. 

There is new style. Style evolves, and we all appreciate this basic truth. But the lift lines have evolved into a ski-show more intent on gnar than on function in day-to-day realities. The art of the turn is being lost in favor of a ubiquitous ‘tude, like every one is too cool to ski forwards, and couldn’t be bothered with a pole plant. 

I’m not saying that my way is the best way. I’m not even saying that it is a legitimate way. I think these thoughts because this is how it has been done for decades, since the advent of Arlberg technique. No, I’m not saying that it’s the best way... but it is the way of Mary Jane. And when noodlers are endangered at the Jane, we need to consider the future. Are we plunging into it head-long without a game plan? Sure the ski companies are selling their sick sticks that are great in AK and on epic powder days. The gritty trenches are where we live, however, and the gritty trenches are where we work. And in the gritty trenches we make due without Chugach powder and endless steep descents on a daily basis. We are the children of the trees, of the fall-line, of classic esthetic and fixed-grip doubles. 

This is a story with no conclusion. Take a look for yourself at your local hill, still the beating heart of skiing in America, and start evaluating style for yourself. Not to bring down someone’s stoke or day on the mountain, but for a more important concern... to raise the awareness of a lowered bar, a weaker expectation. 

Say what you will about me, but on most days you’ll find me at the Jane. My people live there. 

...and another...

Miss Melis called him “SKI THING!” and sent him to Ullr Fest without his supper. 

That very night in 2-Bear Hollow a party grew...

and grew...

...and grew until the walls hung with ski propaganda, and the TV screens became the snowy world all around. 

And a magical DVD transport came by with a private movie for Chevalier and crew...

And the participants travelled through night and day, and in and out of weeks, and over a year

Until they came to the place where Snow People are. 

And when they CAME to the place where the Snow People are

they ROARED their terrible ROARS

and strained to keep open their terrible EYES

and fed with chili their terrible TEETH 

Until Mean Jean said “BE STILL!” and tamed them all with the magic trick of feeding them mother’s chocolate cake. And though Choi’s room was still spinning, the Snow People made Meanie QUEEN of all Ski Things. 

AND NOW, cried Mean, LET THE WILD ULLR FEST START!

Then all around from far away across the front range, Ullr began heeding their call, and good stuff started to fall. For Ullr was lonely from the summer and wanted people to come see his work, people who loved him best of all. And the crew headed westward over the year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the wonder of their very own playground- 

and the snow was still cold.

“You are all-in with skiing, aren’t you...” 

This accusation had never been voiced before. Passionate? Yes. Dedicated? Yeah sure. But “all in” seemed a bit... judgemental? After all, I do enjoy some other activities. Writing, for example. Although it should be noted that I mostly just write about skiing. 

Nevertheless, our annual call to Ullr was sounded through his namesake party, and according to tradition the snow began falling the very next day. This was, of course, too much for us to bear. We resort to skiing all sorts of late summer nonsense that passes as “snow” just for the sake of the thrill. August and September’s ski days are especially cruel, though their lean nature builds stoke for the coming season. 

So here we are. Le Rouge, Professor LaVanchy and myself, an alpine start on a flawless autumnal Friday, choosing our toil. Why? “I just want to get out of this rat race and breathe in some mountain air!” pipes Professor. Le Rouge’s reply is identical. Nevermind that we have all opted to bring plastic boots and P-Tex... “just in case.” We scan the front range, and set our sights on James Peak, a 13,000 foot matriarch splitting Berthoud and Rollins passes. At the foot of the eastern flanks of James sits what summer has seen fit to leave of St. Mary’s Glacier, a year-round snowpack that should guarantee at least a few turns. Can dirty snow yield pretty lines? Ugly skiers still make pretty turns, I point out.

It should be mentioned that the previous night we had seen Andrew McLean present a slideshow of his ski-mountaineering adventures in Denali. Images of descents from 20,000 feet put an early winter back country day in its place, but the stoke is universal. I imagine that somewhere in Vermont some poor soul is skiing today out of their apple tree, and feeling every bit as fired up as ourselves and McLean. 

LaVanchy is our social caffeine, and his barrage of incomparable stories livens our rusty heads. “My neighbor has a pet turtle named ‘Tardy Slip’ that she recently lost... and he wasn’t even riding his turtle skate board that she made for him.” The dictionary definition of somebody who shouldn’t have a pet, adds Le Rouge. Tardy Slip is an appropriate name, we concur. Professor notes that a local Ft. Collins bar has a drink named after him- a sort of “hush-hush” drink that currently enjoys the same cult status as In-N-Out’s secret handshake menu. “It was originally made with organic wormwood, but now they just use absinthe.” 

We are the only car at the glacier trailhead, and not a cloud in the sky. The familiar rhythm of touring will have to be postponed today, as low-elevation talus and scree is not kind to our bases. I lock into rhythm on the alpine-steps. Mumford & Sons, and all inherent jollity-ridden angst. Before long we are above the mayhem, in the fond and desolate surroundings of the alpine. There you are, winter wind! Where have you been all my life, endless panoramic views? 

Professor missed skiing all twelve months of the year due to a particularly dry September, coupled with his New Belgium trip to the West Coast. We decide that today should qualify as the opening day of the season. It MUST qualify as the opening day of the season. And to that end, turns, however unspoken the prospect may have been this morning, seem inevitable. Opening day is opening day.

We pause at a windbreak at the foot of our skiing objective, digging for whatever morsels we had the common sense to pack last night. True to form, LaVanchy digs out some crunchy granola, while I find my stash of Oreos. Somewhere between hatching a plan to ski Washington’s Desolation Peaks as an homage to Kerouac and Gary Snyder and Professor telling us that his Mystery Ranch Sweet Pea pack has a feature that makes time travel possible, we spot the porcupine quills. Must have died recently, we comment. At least he bade farewell to the world with a nice alpine view. He was a good porcupine, we lament. I respectfully commandeer a single quill to remind myself to avoid being buried in snow. Brotherhood of the quill, we are. LaVanchy’s stories about skiing Mt. Shasta with a friend donning a fake sheriff’s badge bring us back to the moment, back to the Oreos, back out of the brush and into the wind. Upward. 

The higher we hike, the more promising the snowpack. Opening Day, we muse. Mumford & Sons remains in my head- the slow pulsing a good mental companion. Although we have been hiking all summer, it is rarely in plastic boots, much less with skis on the pack. Too thin to skin means sore backs tomorrow. All skis are rock skis, we repeat. 

Descents on the fall’s first snow tend not to lend themselves to an epic telling. Turns are made, smiles are had. McLean made the same point in his show last night. Pretty turns don’t come easy on death cookies. Or in willows. But skiing is skiing, and the endorphin rush exhausts all pessimism in favor of the feel of the turn. The lower we ski, the warmer it becomes, and our turns resemble the corn glory of a Colorado June. People are arriving as we finish the day. Professor drawls that the early bird has gotten the worm. Le Rouge reiterates that the late bird gets the girl with the $2 perm. On the drive home we descend out of an early vision of ski season 2010 / 2011 and back into the perfection of a flawless fall day, the rat race, and the reason that we plan our weekly escapes to begin with. But fall being what it is, our fires are not likely to go out anytime soon. After all, our season has already begun...

So am I all in? I wonder again after slaying 8 inches of icy nonsense on a windy morning in which my more reasonable friends were enjoying the front range? Perhaps. Maybe this is my life’s love’s investment. And then I apply the day’s song to the moment, and a smile grows slowly on my face. The brotherhood of the quill is but another name for anyone whose blood begins to boil when the peaks turn white- not for bravado or in the name of one-upping the crew, because today’s turns certainly are not worthy of bragging. Only another deposit in life’s chest of tales, of memories, of... what’s the word? Leave it to Mumford. Opening Day is behind us. 

In these bodies we will live

In these bodies we will die

And where you invest your love, 

You invest your life...

Cry out for everything you ever might have wanted

We dusted off the Maltese Flamingo looking for inspirado, wondering if a September ski day would still count if there were no snow involved. One borrowed camper, two sets of old skis, and one serendipitous invite from Kim Hedberg, the Den Mother of the Boulder area Backcountry Snow Sports Alliance, and it seems that the stars are aligning for us. The seasons are changing; no matter if the snow is scarce.

The best part of the sand scene in Maltese Flamingo is not the skiing (which is still exemplary), but the soundtrack. Stumpy didn't realize the time-capsule effect of the New Wave, but it has served us sweetly. Like sugar. Echo and The Bunnymen rock the sound system. 

We arrived late on Thursday night, but already a sock hat is warranted. It was only the next day's epochal sunrise that signaled the dawn of the new season, as the flanks of our Sangre De Cristos were painted red and gold. 

The soundsystem rolls on.

I'm not expecting to grow flowers in the desert  

But I can live and breathe and see the sun in winter time 

In a big country dreams stay with you like a lover's voice cross the mountainside... Stay alive... 

Kim's crew descends and we plot the attack. One sandy 4-wheel drive road north leads to the annual pilgrimage spot. Dave and Carol have been skiing here for 12 years. Kim for even longer. And costumes are mandatory. We have dresses, grass skirts, Arabian robes, graduation gowns, and one Luchador mask. There are spandex and nonsense, and a dozen wide smiles. 

Skin tracks seem out of place on the dunes, but the esthetic harnesses the bug, and the bug signals joy. This is vertical. We wonder aloud, can sand aspect be affected like snow? I've never seen you look like this without a reason...

At day's end we have determined that skiing the sand in September should count. Not only was skiing accomplished, but we logged more vertical than we would have on the residual snowpack, and probably in better conditions. Top that off with Kim's Dark And Stormy and the great headlamp caper, and spirits are high in the San Luis Valley. 

The return trip guides us to the Geo-thermally heated Sand Dunes Pool to rinse and relax. De-sand ourselves. Somewhere on the mountainside leaves are changing. Taos to the South, Wolf Creek to the West, Monarch to the North, and our eyes are on the summits of the mighty Crestones, where we could all swear that the earliest hint of frost was winking at us in the autumn sun. 

In a big country dreams stay with you...