Chair Lift Conversations

The gift of gush

I drove up to the Snowbowl through several climate zones on Wednesday. It was raining here in the Verde Valley, which turned to sleet around six thousand feet above sea level at Munds Canyon. It was blowing snow two thousand feet higher at the bottom of the Snowbowl access road. By the time I reached the parking lot just below the Agassiz lift, the snow was coming down hard and there were several inches on the ground, and it was getting deeper. It takes me one hour and fifteen minutes to climb the six thousand vertical feet from Camp Verde to the Snowbowl parking lot in the Trailhawk, just to earn the privilege of getting into my ski boots and hiking up from the parking lot to the lift, which is humbling to do with half a foot of snow on the ground and for the first time of the season. The air is much thinner here at nine thousand, five hundred feet above sea level, and I have to take time to catch my breath.

The trip up on this day reminded me of another ski experience, the longest single descent that I have ever made on skis, of approximately five thousand vertical feet at Mount Rose outside of Reno Nevada. We skied through several distinct layers of snow and weather conditions, from perfect powder at the top of the mountain, to a foot of or more of gush at the bottom. That is my term for powder snow which is saturated with rain water. It is a rare occurrence in the mountains at higher elevations, so many ski resort skiers have never had the pleasure to ski in those conditions. But I have skied gush on many occasions; once I had to do so in a rain slicker at Blue Knob ski area in PA. You don’t have a choice when the slope is not groomed and your favorite little ski hill is just outside of Johnstown PA, AKA Flood City.

On the last day of our BC ski trip last year, we ran into some gush and it got the best of me. After coming to a completely exhausted stop near the bottom of our first run on our last day of the trip, the slippery stuff caused me to slide backwards into a tree well. I try not to use the passive voice much when writing, but when I am making excuses for myself, it certainly helps! Wet powdery snow is very slippery; it has no grip. I managed to pull myself out using the limbs on the tree, but I spent the little energy that I had left in jail and I was done. Toast. That was nearly the end of my skiing right there, and I certainly wondered if I would ever feel normal again. My heart rate was gunning in the red, and my legs and feet were numb from pain.

Contrast that to the endless amounts of energy that I had in my early fifties when a small group of us went under the ropes and out into the back country, from the Summit of Mount Rose, to a remote parking lot off Highway 395 in the valley. Quite an experience; one that I will never forget. I was the only alpine skier among the group of free heeling telemark skiers. They got the best of me in the powder at the top, but as the conditions got moist, they had some difficulty keeping up. Skiing is all about adapting to the present conditions, but if you haven’t had much experience with corn snow, or mashed potatoes, or gush, it is difficult to adjust your style in an instant. Harder to do that when making telemark turns for sure.

Going under the ropes at Mt Rose

The Arizona Snowbowl is a classic little neighborhood ski operation, just like Mount Rose. There is a back country opportunity for those who sign up for it; there is also a tremendous amount of terrain available if you want to hike another five hundred feet or more of elevation from the highest lift. The bowl is worth the climb in my opinion, and can be open for long stretches of the Winter. I have hiked with my skis on my shoulders up Spanky’s Ladder at Whistler Blackcomb, and to Kachina Peak which is the summit of Mt Taos in New Mexico. Other great hikes that I have done to avoid the masses on skis: Catherine Peak at Alta, Non Name at Snow Basin, and just recently the hike to Black Iron bowl at Telluride. I wrote about my epic fail there in a post on this site called Ski the Future. At one point in my life I was really into hike to ski terrain; not so much anymore. I save my strength for staying alive these days!

I have done the majority of my down hill skiing at three small resorts: Waterville Valley NH, Blue Knob Pa, and the Snowbowl. I prefer these kinds of small, friendly ski areas to the other larger resort options like Aspen, Vail, Breckenridge, Snowbird, or Squaw which is now known as Palisades Tahoe. For one thing, I like skiing and at big resorts you waste a lot of time on lifts or traversing to a lift. Its like going to an ice cream shop and having too many flavors to choose from; or facing a toll plaza with long lines. I always seem to chose the wrong lane! You spend the next few hours perseverating over the choices that you have made in life. I do not need that. At the Snowbowl for example, I just head to the Agassiz lift and boom, everything that I need is right there. I can make three runs an hour if I want to. Or, I can take on some difficult terrain in the trees, something that I have never skied before, and the experience can seem to last an eternity.

I will always associate Waterville Valley with childhood skiing experiences. It is a great place to learn how to ski, and it is where I was able to achieve some independence and freedom from my parents at an early age as child, at the old Snows Mountain which was the original site of the resort and the famous Waterville Valley Inn. I watched my three daughters grow up on skis there too, and I can still see them in my mind’s eye, especially around this time of year, because we spent a number of Holidays at this ski resort in a quarter share condo unit there, called Mountain Sun. Not many people have luck with ski chalets or mountain homes, but this place was one of the best investments that I have ever made in life.

I have such vivid recollections of Molly, my oldest daughter in her fire engine red ski suit, blazing new trails in the glades, and skiing so fast that I could barely keep up with her. Maureen, my middle child, a graceful and beautiful skier who made her turns in a methodical and painstaking manner. She was up for taking on any kind of trail, but she was also the one who stopped to enjoy the sight of a bright blue Mountain Jay atop a pine tree in favor of following me through a mogul field. Maureen has always been a great conversationalist; a chair lift ride with her was a thought provoking and wonderful experience. I miss those talks; just writing those words reminds me that I have not spoken with her in months and I need to.

My youngest daughter Martha learned to ski, tethered to me on the racer chaser, a harness and straps that she wore around her small waist. We were bound at the hip so to speak. I had to snow plow behind her to keep her from gaining too much speed; she was fearless and a risk taker like me. At the tender age of six, she skied the Snake Pit at Big Sky with me and the big kids, Molly and Ildiko, daughter to my good friend John Rozembersky. He snapped a picture of her skiing down the steep slope, it seemed like she was standing on my head!

John Rozembersky at Big Sky

At ten or so, Martha informed me, after the first run of the day, that she wanted to try boarding. I remember the experience like it was yesterday, it was just before Christmas and the two of us went into the base ski shop and I bought her a snowboard and boots right on the spot. Three hours later when I finally caught up with her on Valley run, she had mastered the thing and we got in a last run of the day together from the very top of the mountain. We skiers, both alpine and free heelers, have a joke about boarders: “What is the difference between an expert snowboarder and a novice? Two hours!”

I skied Blue Knob in my fifties and this is where I caught the bug for back country skiing. There are some who describe Blue Knob as “gas station sushi” and they are correct of course. The place is poorly run, antiquated, and in bad condition, it is just an awful place to try to ski, particularly if the conditions are man made. It is like skiing on concrete; the snowmaking equipment has not been updated in thirty years. I took more than a few of the most painful falls that I have ever experienced in life, right there. On the other hand, if you lived or worked nearby like I did, and you could get there on a whim, it was a great place to be, when it was actually snowing. Top to bottom, you can get in nearly two thousand vertical feet, and if you were lucky, you could do all of that in the trees and in fresh, ungroomed snow.

Blue knob is one of those rare resorts where the parking is at the top of the mountain. It makes for a horrible commute, but after a huge overnight dump, I would arrive at the summit at the crack of dawn and get in one or two runs before the lifts even opened. There was a small crowd of poney-tailed skiers doing the same thing; these guys seemingly came out of the woodwork for these conditions. Several admitted to not having passes; others worked the lifts or the lunch lines, but we all skied down and then hiked up for another run, if the lifts hadn’t started. There was not much talk among the group, these kind of conditions create a sense of competition among powder perfectionists. At Blue Knob you get maybe a couple chances a year to ski an ungroomed line of pure Appalachia powder a season, and you’ve got maybe two hours to yourself to enjoy it.

I rode the Agassiz lift to the top with a homeless man on Wednesday. We compared notes, he was about to turn sixty, and he was a self proclaimed ski bum. He was living out of the back of his ten year old Subaru; camping nearby in the woods, in one of the thousand places in Arizona where you can legally camp, without being hassled by the authorities, as long as you do not overstay your welcome. He had been skiing all week; he had the same weekday pass as me. We talked about winter camping and I told him how impressed I was that he still was doing that. His eyes grew wide and a big grin formed on his face, and then he added, “You know that I don’t do this by choice right?” It was then that I noticed the mottled and dirty scarf around his neck, a large length of it dangling behind his head. “Scarfs are not the greatest things to wear on chair lifts” I said matter of factly. “Every year you read about a person getting hung by one!” I added. “Exactly” he replied and we left it at that.

So there we were on the chair together, talking about the places that we have skied and the snow conditions that we have experienced over the years. It was not a competition, I did not feel the need to one up him with tales of ski cats and exotic ski destinations. We talked about first memories on snow, about the feeling that you had as a child gliding down a small slope in deep snow. He grew up in Michigan; he taught himself how to ski behind the house. We talked about near death experiences and about how it feels to be alive when you first realize that you survived a bad crash without getting hurt. Your brain taking stock and checking out bodily systems. All systems go. We talked about other ski bums that we have known, skiers who took it to a whole new level, a couple that are no longer with us. And then we talked about how it feels to be at this point in your life, when your are down to the last few turns that you will ever make, and when you have to face the reality, which is that you will be making most of these on your own, without anyone to enjoy them with. That is just how it goes for some of us who ski.

Strangely I did not feel sorry for my homeless chairlift partner; he did not envy my retirement either. In many ways we were just alike; a couple of old guys trying to prolong the past and hoping that the future will not bring us too much pain. Enjoying the present moment, which is what skiing is all about. His resolve was inspiring. He would not have to go home to anyone and explain how great he felt this day on snow. He was not accountable to anyone; he was not constrained by some useless errand that had to be run on the way to his humble abode. He had no home and he was quite proud of that. Skiing was a completely personal experience for him, as it is for me, since I almost always ski alone. I could relate and we had another thing in common: we both enjoyed the luxury of a cold beer, downed in silence on the Agassiz deck at the end of a day that was filled with twenty thousand vertical feet at the Snowbowl. Perfection.

I pictured him later, talking to himself from the back seat of the Subaru, about to crawl into the makeshift cocoon in the back for the night. He claimed that he wasn’t cold at all and that he actually enjoyed the discomfort, and I told him that I could relate to that. He changed in locker rooms at ski areas and he bathed in sinks and got all he needed of people in the lodges and lift lines. He was headed to Pajarito Mountain in New Mexico next, and then after that he was going to head north to Purgatory, and then back over to Brian’s head in Utah. I have skied these places in the Southwest and I approved of his plans that sounded perfectly sane to me. We would look each other up when he returned to the Snowbowl in February we agreed, as we reached the top of the Agassiz lift at eleven thousand five hundred feet in elevation. But we both knew that this would never happen and that chair lift conversations are like great powder days, meant to be enjoyed in the moment, then forgotten. To be remembered at some point in the distant future when your spirit needs a lift up some particularly difficult terrain. We skied off in two different directions as if to accentuate that last point.

My fellow Substack writer Stuart Winchester, who writes comprehensively about the lift served ski business (see link below), recently sent me a suggested read from another ski bum, Eric Weinberger. I was taken aback by his efforts and the strength of his voice. I found someone who uses more semicolons than me! I also found someone who thinks the same way that I do about writing and skiing. He’s all over it, from a similar love of Updike, to an appreciation of James Salter, a relatively lessor known but important American author, who wrote the screenplay for Downhill Racer, one of Robert Redford’s best movies. I do not ever cede the last word in my stories or essays to another writer, but in this instance I will make an exception.

“Writing and skiing are still two of the things I think most about; perhaps, if I’m honest, they’re the only things I’m really interested in. They belong to the private sphere. They can be shared as much as one likes, or not at all.” The Skiing Life. Eric Weinberger