Those snow plumes just below the Mighty Death Star are the snow we'll be riding on next weekend when Paradise Bowl opens up (Goddess willing).
Resort skiing is the epitome of the midcountry. One minute you’re cruising silently through the woods without another soul around, and the next you’re sitting on a mechanized lift, 30 feet in the air between one guy with jeans and a Dallas Cowboys parka on, and another guy sporting a neon purple onesie. And you’re all chatting on cell phones.
Crested Butte Mountain Resort opened their chairs on the day before Thanksgiving. By the weekend two lifts, 64 skiable acres, and 4 strips of snow were available to ski bums and tourists alike. But, in end-of-the-road Crested Butte, most of the early season riders (like me) are skiing on employee passes. And schralp we did. Nary an inch of corduroy remains; nary a convexity has been unaired. The park rats are jibbing to their hearts content on fun boxes, rails, even an old truck tire. Knee droppers, knuckle draggers, sit skiers and two-plankers are carving where the snow is soft, sliding where it’s icy, and smiling in the lift line.
Ra takes down Ullr in the second round. Meager coverage at CBMR.
Last year I lived in CB without a ski pass. Sure, I hiked for plenty of turns in the easy access backcountry, and generous friends helped me with comp passes and discount tickets once in a while. But I felt I was missing out on some important social experience that happens when skiers sit for turns. And, being a 24-year-old bachelor, social experiences are hugely important to me.
This year I’ve gotten a pass by volunteering one day a week as a “Bumble Bee,” also know as Mountain Safety. We wear yellow vests on top of dark colors, carry a radio, and spread safety like pollen wherever we go. I think of myself as a good Samaritan on skis. “Need a courtesy ride down, ma’am? Sure thing. I’ll radio that right in.” I watch the posted slow zones, help little groms put their gloves and helmets back on, and call in ski partrol when I come upon an injured rider. The pass also gives me some free days at other restorts in Colorado, so I’m stoked to check out Breck, and ride at my alma matter, Ski Sunlight.
Don't let the menu de esqui mislead you; only four runs open.
I’ve been up to the ski area three times now, and I’m relishing the scene. All around me are happy humans living diverse dreams.
Take the Dude I rode the bus with this morning, for example. Dude barely runs down the bus as it’s pulling away from the grocery store stop, puts his fatty twin tip park skis in the rack, and rushes up the steps. His ski poles are strapped to his back pack, and they tangle in the bus’s roof handles as he heads for the bench. He wrestles himself free and sits down across from me. He’s a skinny kid with bright baggy clothes, shaggy hair and an iPod on. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing hard.
“I just walked from CB South!” he tells everyone on the bus. (He means Skyland, I imagine.)
“How long’d it take you?” another rider asks.
“Well, it’s about one and a half miles, so about 30 minutes.” (CB South is actually about 7 miles away, while another community, Skyland, is about 1.5 miles from town).
Paradise Bowl. Word on the street is, the ropes drop on Friday.
I look at his shoes. He’s got house slippers on.
“Did you try hitching?” I ask him.
“Yeah, no one picked me up, man.”
“Bummer. Were you smoking a cigarette or walking a dog?” I’ve found the key to hitching in CB is to be doing neither of these things with a thumb out.
“Nope. Oh well, some exercise is good,” Dude says, opening up a water bottle. He takes a big swig, and gulps it down. “At least I got my Tang! Gotta get that vitamin C.”
The Patagonia-clad free-heelers next to him scratch their beards and look nonplussed. They could have made the walk in half the time, at least, with or without Tang.
Dude and I chat all 15 minutes of the bus ride up to the mountain. He’s new to town, he tells me excitedly. Just surfing a couch until he can find something permanent. When I ask him where he’s from he says “Well, Phoenix, kind of, but I’ve just been staying with friends all over. Bumming, you know?” I learn why he’s so skinny: Dude has been living on noodles, Tang and V-8 for months. “The carbs I got down,” he says. “Carbs are cheap and easy. But fruits and veggies? Those are tricky when you’re on the move, ‘cause you gotta refrigerate them, you know?” I know dude, I know. L-T-D, Brother.
Tuning the ol' schtick. Just because the runs are few, short and flat doesn't mean a guy can't go shred, right?.
The novelty of riding the four runs of man-made snow quickly wears off, but another novelty never does and never will, I imagine: that’s the novelty of sliding. Really fast. Downhill. Or, as fast as blue and green runs allow, anyway. While the skiing isn’t great, I’m thankful we’re not riding on congested white strips of death like they have in Summitville. And the limited terrain leaves plenty of room to chill out, enjoy the sun (it hasn’t snowed in over a week), and discuss the really important things in life. For example: I pulled out my snowboard last Tuesday and took some runs with my friend Molly. While we were strapping in at the top of the lift, the topic of sickness came up.
“This sickness is unparalleled,” I said.
“Totally unparalleled,” Molly replied in her Midwest accent.
“I mean, nothing is in anyway parallel to this sickness.”
“It’s like, fully perpendicular.”
“Yeah. Not even like, 70 or 80 degrees or anything. All other sickness is 90 degrees perpendicular to this sickness.”
“The corduroy is parallel though.”
“True. That sickness is parallel.”
Then we rode down Houston – southern tourists’ favorite green circle – for the bajillionth time and hopped back on the lift.
Molly's got a party ON her pants.
The unparalleled parallel sickness. Rose blooming from outhouse midway up CBMR. Someone out there really does shit flowers!
Dude, thanks for the link to our blog, but what’s with the jab at “Summitville”…?! Our “white strips of death” have become a little less death-like in the last 24 hours- we caught some sick pow turns today.