Avoiding the crowds

The Spring Break crowds rolled into town last night. I can already hear the new, temporary neighbours bashing around next door, getting ready for their day of skiing. I can also hear the steady dripping of melted snow pouring off the roof outside my window. Flipping open my computer, I head for the weather report. The Weather Channel website confirms what the sounds outside my window alluded to: perfect weather for Spring Break skiing crowds.

Leisurely pulling on my woolen thermals, I consider my options for the day. Ski locally and battle the holiday crowds in Breckenridge, or jump on a bus and hope for a queue-less day at Arapahoe Basin. Without much deliberation I make my decision. I pull a bus timetable out from under a pile of discarded papers and am suddenly kicked into gear. Any more dawdling and the bus to A-Basin is leaving without me. I dash around the house, picking up the last few pieces of skiing paraphernalia I’ll need for the day. Jamming my feet into my boots and throwing my skis onto my shoulder, I don’t forget to pick up a banana for later on from the kitchen.

I am momentarily blinded as I close the front door behind me; the weather report wasn’t lying about it being sunny today. As I round the bend towards the bus stop, my heart sinks. The bus is pulling away, belching out black exhaust, obscuring the mountains behind it. Fighting the urge to turn around and head home, I walk on past the bus stop and make for the gondola connecting the town of Breckenridge to the base of the mountain. To my surprise the line at the gondola is non-existent. My spirits lift slightly.

Smiling quietly as the sun beats through the gondola window, I think back to a skiing trip with weather similar to today’s. Camped out on Victoria’s high plains in late September, the suffocating heat in our tents forced us out of our sleeping bags early. In an effort to stay cool, with the potent Australian sun attacking us from above and reflecting off the snow beneath our feet, we were forced us to eat our breakfast in our underwear while we discussed the possibilities for the day ahead. We all agreed a day trip to Mt Fainter was within our capabilities and headed back to our tents to pack our bags and put our pants on.

I wince slightly as the gondola cabin bangs loudly against the guardrail. The doors slide open to reveal hundreds of people standing in line for the chair lift. I shrug and join the back of the shortest queue.

With the sun low in sky, the white, orange and pink bark of the snow gums glowed vibrantly and the snow-covered ridgeline we had traversed earlier in the day took on a golden tinge. Because we spent so much time exploring the gullies and knolls littered along our route, we didn’t reach the summit of Mt Fainter until late in the afternoon. Unable to linger long, we pulled headlamps out of our packs for later on and started to slide back the way we had come.

“Is there snow in Australia?” a man from Boston, in Breckenridge for the week with his family, asks as we ride the T-Bar together. Despite the good snow, I am getting tired of waiting in lines. Although there are plenty of good conversations and people watching to be had, the novelty is wearing off and I make one final run back down to the gondola.

Everything looked different as the shadows around us faded to grey and eventually disappeared completely. “Does anyone remember this gully?” someone called from the gathering darkness. We all huddled together to consult the map, illuminated by six headlamps. “I think we dropped down too early. Let’s head back up onto the ridgeline.” Having regained the ridgeline, we all peered into the murk in between the trees as we skied along, trying to pick up something familiar. Just beyond the next clump of trees, the light from our headlamps shimmered off something manmade. Having recognised our tents, we all relaxed and our pace quickened, with dinner at the front of our minds.

At home, reheating half a calzone – leftovers from last night’s dinner – I consider the possibilities for tomorrow. I flip open my computer and check tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Work's out for winter

After three months of work with the Paralympic Team it's time to hang up the ski boots...and then pull them straight back down again.

Training wound up on Sunday and on Monday a U-Haul van, filled with 38 ski bags, drove away from Avon bound for Australia (via a container ship). Thankfully, my ski bag was not in it, but rather with me on its way to Breckenridge. It was with some regret that I waved goodbye to the rest of the team, standing outside the house that was going to be home for the next few months. Regret that I wouldn't get the last few rays of summer fun back in Australia; that I wouldn't see family and friends for another few months at least; that I might have forgotten the code to get into the garage of the house and would be stuck outside until someone got home. But that all quickly washed away when I turned to look at the mountain looming above me and found the piece of paper with the code on it in my pocket. 

So after three months of skiing Vail - albeit, mostly one small area - I thought I'd be ready to ski somewhere else. That's why it was odd that I found myself sliding skis into the back of the car and throwing boots over the back seat on Wednesday morning, preparing to head back to Vail. Maybe the car also thought this was slightly odd, because when I turned the ignition - nothing. Not a cough, whir or hum from the engine. Not even a light on the dash made itself known. After much frowning, trying, retrying, phone calling and bashing around the garage, a battery charger was found and my mechanic skills could be put to the test. (Yes, attaching a battery charger to a battery is counted as mechanic skills.)  An hour of impatient foot tapping and prodding of the charger later, things were back on track and I was finally on my way to Vail. 

The engine that sat between me and a day of fun.

Grilling, skiing and margaritas were the order of the day, so it was straight out to the Blue Sky Basin grilling deck. Hot dogs were already sizzling on the grill so it was just a matter of throwing one in a bun with some sauerkraut (we were with a Czech Republican) and mustard and kicking back to enjoy the view.  

It ain't called Blue Sky Basin for nothing.

With ski patrol ushering us away from the grill and with bellies full, some achingly so, it was time to hit up the Minturn Mile for a few turns. The Minturn Mile is a popular backcountry route from the top of Vail to the nearby town of Minturn, home of the Turntable Diner and Minturn Saloon. Although it was late in the day and the snow was crusting up after copping a pounding from the sun all day, we could see the appeal of the route; a consistent, uninterupted fall line, wide open turns, trees if you want them and one hell of a ski out along a several mile long luge track disguised as a valley.

The luge track to Minturn.

Waiting for us in Minturn was a Saloon full of margaritas and a weird dude in a pick up truck offering lifts back to Vail for $7. I've already described the real American experience provided by the Turntable Diner in Minturn, so it will be of little surprise that the Minturn Saloon provides another one of those experiences. Locals fill the bar, with signed photographs and letters from the likes of John Wayne, Yogi Berra, Glen Plake and Joe DiMaggio filling every square inch of wall space not taken up by giant snake skins and buffalo heads. 

Just don't look at anyone the wrong way.

The day was capped off when, with a bit of wheeling and dealing, we managed to escape the sting of the $25 parking fee at Vail.

And so with work done and still a few months left in the US of A, here's to hoping a fair majority of days end up similar to this one. But maybe without the flat battery, even though I wouldn't mind showing off my mechanic skills again.