Ticket to ride

Ah, the milestones of childhood: that unsteady first day of kindergarten, the wobbly-wheeled bike ride, the triumphant first kiss and the rebellious, secret sip of beer. Those were the early scratches on the canvas, the first volume of life’s greatest hits. For me, a different brand of first also topped my list. As a child of a superfund site turned ski town, my brightest early milestone was the day I got my first – the first time I came home with a season ski pass (actually the kiss was probably better, but it was overlapped by the sips of beer so the memory’s a little spotty).

Something about the experience of stepping in front of that black box camera, hearing the click of the shutter and seeing my laminated image atop an early era “Telluride Ski Pass” really stuck with me. For the first time in my life, I had unrestricted access. I proudly owned a small piece of plastic that could take me places.

That might explain why I’ve lined up and exchanged cash for that precious rectangle in many of the past 30 seasons. Even when the ground is thick with dirt, the trees are leafless and the mercury hasn’t dropped quite low enough to make snow, picking up the pass creates a credible high.

Something about that little piece of laminate is like a “get-out-of-jail-free” card. When it’s finally in hand, there’s an unspoken promise. No matter what happens with the 9-to-5, however bleak the headlines may be or how hard the taxman knocks, there will be at least a couple hundred powder soaked turns in the future.

Riding this buzz (addiction?), I’ve managed to work my way from A to F, holding passes (or at least numerous day tickets) at resorts including A-Basin, Brighton, Crested Butte, Durango Mountain Resort and Eldora. I’ve also made nearly a dozen stops in the “S’s” and “T’s” and remain the only person I know who’s done more than one day at Powderhorn. As I move through the alphabet (Flagstaff, Grand Targhee, Hesperus . . .), I’m happy to report that I’ve always gotten my dollar’s worth, even if that unspoken, early promise of powder has been broken a time or two.

You see, even though people talk about the “good old days” – a lost era when drifts filled Durango’s Main Avenue, relocated

small cars onto backstreets and buried one of Main’s original franchises, the United Colors of Benetton, alive – my three and half decades in the San Juans have always been riddled with ups and downs.

For starts, there was the winter of 1973-74, the fabled second season, when the Telluride Ski Area received a bizarre Christmas gift – two days of steady rain and temperatures hovering above 50 degrees. Four years later, Telluride witnessed what was likely the worst winter in its history as a ski area. The January thaw hit hard, melted out the mountain and the lifts stopped running. On March 1, 1977, Mother Nature reversed the tables, bringing a late dump and soaking the San Juans in powder again. However, the fickle Earth Mama changed her mind a few weeks later and turned Milk Run back into thick Colorado mud. Telluride started the next decade in the same fashion. The year 1980 hit with a Dec. 12 opening. Five years later, tropical temperatures arrived in the dead of winter with the mercury crowning 60 degrees in mid-February.

The cycle goes on and on, with desperation striking every three years or so and following me to the West Elks, the Front Range and back to the San Juans. Yep, contrary to popular belief, the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s weren’t always about free love and untracked powder.

That said, I have a happy truth to share. The knee-deep, endless face-shot, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. sessions all kind of blur together in my mind. But those not-so-good-old days, the La Niña years so-to-speak, seem to be the ones I remember best. It’s those skin-of-your-teeth, p-tex laden, rock-ski years that really come to mind when I look into my personal crystal ball.

Back in the early ’90s, a good ski buddy would routinely recite the mantra, “Anyone can ski knee-deep powder.” He knew that it took a special breed to milk the best out of two fixed-grip lifts and a handful of open runs. It was always a tale a creative bump lines, hitting up low angle “stashes” in the trees and getting inventive with only a little bit of the white medium. But those scrimp seasons were the time when the calls and hollers were loudest from the lift, when everyone out there was a close friend and when après ski always showed a little early. It was those lean years that separated the ski bums from the college grads on ski town sabbaticals. And when the ropes finally did start to drop and the terrain finally did open (often in late February), the real turns were that much sweeter because we had waited for them.

And so we sit here at the beginning of November, staring down the barrel of another La Niña winter. I know firsthand that many of us are out there polishing the laminate on our ski passes, praying for a shift in the jet stream. Whatever happens in that long-term forecast, we can always look to the past and have faith. With a ticket to ride in hand, that lone bumpline and après ski are just a few short weeks away.

– Will Sands

Ticket to ride

Ah, the milestones of childhood: that unsteady first day of kindergarten, the wobbly-wheeled bike ride, the triumphant first kiss and the rebellious, secret sip of beer. Those were the early scratches on the canvas, the first volume of life’s greatest hits. For me, a different brand of first also topped my list. As a child of a superfund site turned ski town, my brightest early milestone was the day I got my first ticket to ride – the first time I came home with a season ski pass (actually the kiss was probably better, but it was overlapped by the sips of beer so the memory’s a little spotty).

Something about the experience of stepping in front of that black box camera, hearing the click of the shutter and seeing my laminated image atop an early era “Telluride Ski Pass” really stuck with me. For the first time in my life, I had unrestricted access. I proudly owned a small piece of plastic that could take me places.

That might explain why I’ve lined up and exchanged cash for that precious rectangle in many of the past 30 seasons. Even when the ground is thick with dirt, the trees are leafless and the mercury hasn’t dropped quite low enough to make snow, picking up the pass creates a credible high.

Something about that little piece of laminate is like a “get-out-of-jail-free” card. When it’s finally in hand, there’s an unspoken promise. No matter what happens with the 9-to-5, however bleak the headlines may be or how hard the taxman knocks, there will be at least a couple hundred powder soaked turns in the future.

Riding this buzz (addiction?), I’ve managed to work my way from A to F, holding passes (or at least numerous day tickets) at resorts including A-Basin, Brighton, Crested Butte, Durango Mountain Resort and Eldora. I’ve also made nearly a dozen stops in the “S’s” and “T’s” and remain the only person I know who’s done more than one day at Powderhorn. As I move through the alphabet (Flagstaff, Grand Targhee, Hesperus . . .), I’m happy to report that I’ve always gotten my dollar’s worth, even if that unspoken, early promise of powder has been broken a time or two.

You see, even though people talk about the “good old days” – a lost era when drifts filled Durango’s Main Avenue, relocated small cars onto backstreets and buried one of Main’s original franchises, the United Colors of Benetton, alive – my three and half decades in the San Juans have always been riddled with ups and downs.

For starts, there was the winter of 1973-74, the fabled second season, when the Telluride Ski Area received a bizarre Christmas gift – two days of steady rain and temperatures hovering above 50 degrees. Four years later, Telluride witnessed what was likely the worst winter in its history as a ski area. The January thaw hit hard, melted out the mountain and the lifts stopped running. On March 1, 1977, Mother Nature reversed the tables, bringing a late dump and soaking the San Juans in powder again. However, the fickle Earth Mama changed her mind a few weeks later and turned Milk Run back into thick Colorado mud. Telluride started the next decade in the same fashion. The year 1980 hit with a Dec. 12 opening. Five years later, tropical temperatures arrived in the dead of winter with the mercury crowning 60 degrees in mid-February.

The cycle goes on and on, with desperation striking every three years or so and following me to the West Elks, the Front Range and back to the San Juans. Yep, contrary to popular belief, the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s weren’t always about free love and untracked powder.

That said, I have a happy truth to share. The knee-deep, endless face-shot, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. sessions all kind of blur together in my mind. But those not-so-good-old days, the La Niña years so-to-speak, seem to be the ones I remember best. It’s those skin-of-your-teeth, p-tex laden, rock-ski years that really come to mind when I look into my personal crystal ball.

Back in the early ’90s, a good ski buddy would routinely recite the mantra, “Anyone can ski knee-deep powder.” He knew that it took a special breed to milk the best out of two fixed-grip lifts and a handful of open runs. It was always a tale a creative bump lines, hitting up low angle “stashes” in the trees and getting inventive with only a little bit of the white medium. But those scrimp seasons were the time when the calls and hollers were loudest from the lift, when everyone out there was a close friend and when après ski always showed a little early. It was those lean years that separated the ski bums from the college grads on ski town sabbaticals. And when the ropes finally did start to drop and the terrain finally did open (often in late February), the real turns were that much sweeter because we had waited for them.

And so we sit here at the beginning of November, staring down the barrel of another La Niña winter. I know firsthand that many of us are out there polishing the laminate on our ski passes, praying for a shift in the jet stream. Whatever happens in that long-term forecast, we can always look to the past and have faith. With a ticket to ride in hand, that lone bumpline and après ski are just a few short weeks away.

– Will Sands