Back in business

“The drought is over.” These were four words I had the pleasure of writing nearly a decade ago. Eventually, the 16 letters left the late night grind of our beer- and tobacco-laced newsroom, drove 150 miles inside a beat-up truck to the closest printing press, came out in larger than life script atop the front page and the next day were greeted by the eager hands of thousands of happy readers.

A long and unwelcome dry spell had finally blown east toward Kansas, close to 6 feet of snow had fallen in nine days, and the town of Crested Butte had serious cause for celebration during that last week of February.

All these years later, there’s little talk of the drought of 1996-97 in that or any Colorado mountain town. Instead, many look back on the season as one of their best ever. Selective memory tells stories about how much better the powder skiing used to be. You rarely hear about the edgy anticipation of watching the weather map day in and out, hoping the giant, friendly “L” and its cousin the jet stream will grace Southwest Colorado with a visit.

But for well over 10 years, it’s been my job to remember and record the reality. Just like this season on this side of the San Juans, talk prior to that big dump in the Butte revolved around the coming fire season, wells drying up and the tourism till nearly hitting empty. Just like this season, Crested Butte was not a comfortable place to live during that long, dry lead-up.

While this page will not proudly proclaim “The drought is over” this week, I will say that it feels pretty damned good to be . Just in case you’ve been house-bound lately, storms the rest of the world would classify as “cataclysmic” pounded the Durango area in quick succession starting last week. A lengthy dry spell is over. While we didn’t top 72 inches, the last report I saw put Purg at close to 5 feet in five days – not bad for the southern San Juans.

Things weren’t quite so rosy back in early November, when I heard my first prediction of another big fire season. The situation was looking pretty stark up at Purgatory, singletrack had turned to dust and Durangoans were lining up for rounds at Hillcrest.

“This is just like the winter of 2001-2002,” my shorts-clad buddy said over a late-afternoon cocktail. “La Niña is firmly set up off the coast of Baja, global warming is a real deal, and tourists are opting for Canada and the Northwest. Mark my words. We’re in for a dry winter and a smoky summer.”

Now that we have a little midway under our belts, I can candidly say that the next mention I hear of “flame” better be in connection with that whiny Cheap Trick ballad of early ’80s fame. Like all of us, I’ve been wildfired up and down and back and forth for the last four months. And like any of us who watched black ash fall in flakes over Main Avenue in 2002, I don’t want to revisit that place, even if it’s in conversation.

The flakes were a much more agreeable color last Friday as I rolled into the still shapeless Six Pack maze just after 9 a.m. We were nowhere near the first chair, but that hasn’t mattered since that season of 1996-97. More importantly, powder lay thickly on the ground, and the buzz was thick in the air. The hungry were on the verge of being fed, and we knew it.

Fellow “crack-of-nooners” loaded chairs in front of us, the short line snailing toward the front. There was no frustration, no jockeying for prime lift-line position. We’d all been waiting too long to get bent out of shape.

Then it happened. The group in front of us hopped on the chair, and all six of them sent out that universal call known to skiers the world over. “Ooooow!” That familiar primal call said everything. The average snowpack no longer mattered. In our hearts and minds, the drought had ended.

– Will Sands