mapadu
New member
05/16/05
It was a snooze fest. Winter dug herself a cool bed of earth, I kicked back in the sun near the snow of a ski trail and cracked open a beer. Halfway through it, I thought to myself that this was a day worth waxing on. Then the sun?s warmth put us both to sleep for over 90 minutes.
Much earlier, cold blasts of wind were whipping while we waited for the sun. Lunchtime had passed in what remains of Briar Rose Mine. A crude shelter full of holes, graffiti and refrozen snow. Wind was howling through the cracks, the sky was gray and I was wondering when that big patch of blue would ever pass overhead. We kept looking out the window to try and pull it closer, but no will of ours could keep clouds from stacking directly over Fourth of July Bowl, the triangular Peak 10 above Breckenridge Ski Area - at 13,6fortysomehing'.
It would be an hour before we?d give in and go, despite the bowl in a shadow.
Two skiers played the same game atop the peak and had also conceded that the sun simply was not going to shine. There would be no softening surface to ski on today. So they dropped down as I skinned up, when I paused to take a listen. As anticipated, it was loud and clear: A hockey player coming to a stop. An ice scraper clearing off a windshield. Finger nails on a chalk board.
To his credit, unknown skier #1 attacked the fall line anyway. He was succeeding admirably, until he caught an edge and ejected. It was a painful looking tumble, and then he climbed back up to retrieve a ski. Skier #2 subsequently scratched out careful, loud loopy turns. So this was what I had in store for me. This is why I?d skinned 4,000 vertical feet from below Beaver Run. To have my expectations crushed by an icy skid fest.
Great.
You take the good, you take the bad. You take them both and there you have? the same rationalizing it would take to put the ?fun? in ?funeral.? To think that this isn?t all bad, and actually believe it.
But then something changed. No sooner had we summited when wind died down and hanging gray gave way to white and baby-blue. The sun was directly on us now, and the slope below began to cook. Pure, dumb luck.
It simmered for a while and I slowly looked for 360 degrees.
The first thing I remembered when I awoke from my nap, low on the side of a Breckenridge ski trail, was the view from hours ago, way up there. For some reason I had one of those songs stuck in my hazy mind, spliced with the mental snapshots streaming like a slideshow in my head.
Stand in the place where you are.
Now face north.
Think about direction.
Wonder why you haven?t.
Now face west.
If wishes were trees, trees would be falling.
Listen to reason, season is calling.
Think about the place where you live, wonder why you haven?t before.
The sound of chirping birdsongs helped me lose those lyrics as I sat up. The snow of the ski trail at my feet glistened and blinded. I squinted and wondered how long I'd been out. When I found my watch I saw it was time to gather my mess and ski the remaining 1,500 feet to town.
How would the rest of this run be? As good as the top of Peak 10 when I threw a snowball for Winter and then chased her down the silk, skier's left of the others?
http://www.uvm.edu/skivt-l/image_upload ... 160517.avi
Smooth as a baby?s bottom like the gully between Breck mountains 9 and 10?
Well, it wasn?t quite the same pitch, but it was just as velvety. This time, though, groggy dog didn?t bother running. If I?d just climbed and skied four-grand, then she easily did twelve. The last bit of which was no more than a tired trot down to 9,600 feet.
The only sad note of this day was when I meant to take a break at one of Breck?s many hidden shacks, and I found it destroyed. Logs were torn down and strewn about the forest. The powers that be have made good on their promises to eradicate these relics. It was a hot topic of discussion in the local paper recently, and whichever side is right, there would be no cozy shelter for my enjoyment.
Instead, I got a tan sleeping cozily in the sun next to a sparkly ski trail, and my little dog, too.
I guess it wasn?t really all that sad, after all.
Sweet dreams.
It was a snooze fest. Winter dug herself a cool bed of earth, I kicked back in the sun near the snow of a ski trail and cracked open a beer. Halfway through it, I thought to myself that this was a day worth waxing on. Then the sun?s warmth put us both to sleep for over 90 minutes.
Much earlier, cold blasts of wind were whipping while we waited for the sun. Lunchtime had passed in what remains of Briar Rose Mine. A crude shelter full of holes, graffiti and refrozen snow. Wind was howling through the cracks, the sky was gray and I was wondering when that big patch of blue would ever pass overhead. We kept looking out the window to try and pull it closer, but no will of ours could keep clouds from stacking directly over Fourth of July Bowl, the triangular Peak 10 above Breckenridge Ski Area - at 13,6fortysomehing'.
It would be an hour before we?d give in and go, despite the bowl in a shadow.
Two skiers played the same game atop the peak and had also conceded that the sun simply was not going to shine. There would be no softening surface to ski on today. So they dropped down as I skinned up, when I paused to take a listen. As anticipated, it was loud and clear: A hockey player coming to a stop. An ice scraper clearing off a windshield. Finger nails on a chalk board.
To his credit, unknown skier #1 attacked the fall line anyway. He was succeeding admirably, until he caught an edge and ejected. It was a painful looking tumble, and then he climbed back up to retrieve a ski. Skier #2 subsequently scratched out careful, loud loopy turns. So this was what I had in store for me. This is why I?d skinned 4,000 vertical feet from below Beaver Run. To have my expectations crushed by an icy skid fest.
Great.
You take the good, you take the bad. You take them both and there you have? the same rationalizing it would take to put the ?fun? in ?funeral.? To think that this isn?t all bad, and actually believe it.
But then something changed. No sooner had we summited when wind died down and hanging gray gave way to white and baby-blue. The sun was directly on us now, and the slope below began to cook. Pure, dumb luck.
It simmered for a while and I slowly looked for 360 degrees.
The first thing I remembered when I awoke from my nap, low on the side of a Breckenridge ski trail, was the view from hours ago, way up there. For some reason I had one of those songs stuck in my hazy mind, spliced with the mental snapshots streaming like a slideshow in my head.
Stand in the place where you are.
Now face north.
Think about direction.
Wonder why you haven?t.
Now face west.
If wishes were trees, trees would be falling.
Listen to reason, season is calling.
Think about the place where you live, wonder why you haven?t before.
The sound of chirping birdsongs helped me lose those lyrics as I sat up. The snow of the ski trail at my feet glistened and blinded. I squinted and wondered how long I'd been out. When I found my watch I saw it was time to gather my mess and ski the remaining 1,500 feet to town.
How would the rest of this run be? As good as the top of Peak 10 when I threw a snowball for Winter and then chased her down the silk, skier's left of the others?
http://www.uvm.edu/skivt-l/image_upload ... 160517.avi
Smooth as a baby?s bottom like the gully between Breck mountains 9 and 10?
Well, it wasn?t quite the same pitch, but it was just as velvety. This time, though, groggy dog didn?t bother running. If I?d just climbed and skied four-grand, then she easily did twelve. The last bit of which was no more than a tired trot down to 9,600 feet.
The only sad note of this day was when I meant to take a break at one of Breck?s many hidden shacks, and I found it destroyed. Logs were torn down and strewn about the forest. The powers that be have made good on their promises to eradicate these relics. It was a hot topic of discussion in the local paper recently, and whichever side is right, there would be no cozy shelter for my enjoyment.
Instead, I got a tan sleeping cozily in the sun next to a sparkly ski trail, and my little dog, too.
I guess it wasn?t really all that sad, after all.
Sweet dreams.
