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Telluride had just gotten a foot of snow.
I reminded myself of this while I helplessly watched a friend do the slide for life down an obscure, sun-baked, rock-riddled chute somewhere on the upper reaches of Whistler. One ski popped off, then the other, as she continued her unplanned, high-speed descent. The self arrest was of no use on the cruel Canadian crust. Somehow, she miraculously dodged the boulders and skidded to a stop in the run-out zone about a hundred feet below. She waved her poles to signal she was okay, but this was only a partial relief, for I still had to make the descent and pick up her far flung skis in the process - all with free heels.
Fortunately, the token male in the group decided to step up and do the chivalrous thing. He went in for the rescue mission before I could even stop my knees from shaking long enough to drop in. He made it about half-way down before meeting a similar fate, minus the yard sale.
Sure, the shot looked innocuous enough upon first inspection, but after witnessing two crash test dummy runs, I decided I wanted no part of it. I dug my edges in until every muscle in my legs ached and delicately side-slipped my way down. I fetched the first ski, held my breath while I made a death-defying kick-turn, and skied across the hill to the other ski, which was firmly wedged in a rocky outcropping. I then eased myself the rest of the way down in a slow-motion skid, stopping every so often to catch my breath and give thanks for still being upright.
I must admit, it wasn't exactly what I had envisioned when I signed up for the trip a few months prior. It was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime: a week experiencing the most vertical in North America, all at a highly advantageous U.S. exchange rate that made the Kokanees flow like water. It wasn't until a day or two into the trip - and a hellacious trip down the Blackcomb Glacier in a downpour and pea-soup fog - that I learned the truth.
"It's our worst winter in 20 years," the trip instigator and Vancouver guide divulged over pitchers and video trivia, our new pastime in light of the horrendous ski conditions.
Meanwhile, an early morning call to Colorado told a different story: that of fluffy, knee-deep powder.
Granted, I didn't need to make that call. The fact that it snowed at home while I was 1,000 miles away was a given. See, over the past several years, a predictable pattern had emerged: I would plan a ski trip, and the minute I did so, the skies over my intended destination would dry up like the Great Dustbowl. Of course, by then I'd already paid my deposit or bought my nonrefundable plane ticket - forcing me to suck it up and ski groomers for the duration.
However, this time, I strayed from the formula. After one too many trips down an intermediate sheet of ice, I was fed up. After all, being at one of the largest swaths of lift-served skiing on the planet, there had to be something worth skiing, somewhere: corn, slush, hell, even "packed powder" would suffice. Just as long as it didn't have the sheen of finely polished marble, I'd be happy. Which is what led us off the beaten track to the chutes of insanity in the first place. Normally, at home in the San Juans, I would know to steer clear of any east-facing aspect in the absence of fresh snow until a dependable freeze-thaw cycle hit, sometime in late spring. But something about being in a foreign land caused me to temporarily lose my bearings - mentally and physically - and to say, "Hmmm. Sun-baked. Lots of rocks. Looks icy. Let's go for it."
Needless to say, I didn't learn my lesson. Which is why, against my better judgment, I once again am packing up skis, going through the mental checklist, and loading loved ones into the family truckster in search of some northern Rockies white gold. I'll admit, the stats are not in my favor. Even as I write, Southwest Colorado has a lopsided snowpack advantage over its sister ski areas to the north.
See, that's the problem with ski vacations. If you're going to the beach, you know it's going to be there, and save for the random meteorological event, you know exactly what to expect. Ski trips, on the other, hand can be a gamble. But, some would argue, the payoff also can be that much higher. As a result, I still haven't given up on the dream that someday I'll hit the jackpot. The planets will align and the snow gods will smile upon me, granting me copious amounts of snow and nothing to do all day but ski it.
-Missy Votel
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