Spring skiing

The following was written in Steamboat Springs earlier this year, at the end of a February in which Winter Park recorded 0 snow in 21 of 29 days. The weekend I wrote this I skied 1 of 3 days. The opportunity to ski Steamboat was met with ambivalence. I suppose it was either gut check time or time to face reality that the ski season was ending. On the way home I drove over Rabbit Ears... it was tracked out. I stopped and considered a quick tour for a few short laps. Instead I hiked for a few minutes then headed back towards the Front Range. On top of Berthoud Pass again I stopped and considered a quick tour for a few short laps... instead I passed. It seemed winter was over and I was depressed; too much so even to ski.

2/28/2016

It's a ferociously bright day on the Yampa. This winter's frozen and dormant freshwater bounty is awakened - it settles, melts, and drains into the river to begin its journey towards the Pacific. [If it's lucky enough to make it there, this year's humpback babies await. But there are many peaches, tomatoes, and avocados needing nurtured between Steamboat and the Pacific that will probably take priority over a complete journey.] The mallards and the magpies are busy and seem happy about the changing season. [The songbirds have already returned to Boulder but not yet here.] 

I, however, am torn. I am warmed by the sun overhead and cooled by the snow underfoot. Excited about climbing, riding and running but already dreading an exhausting gap of non-powder days between now and December. The new buds on the willows and aspen smell nice, but I'd rather be floating on a foot of fresh. I'm not ready to stop skiing quite yet. [Am I ever?]

Spring, I like you almost as much as I love fall, but you're several weeks early. I hope this is just a preview.

I was sad because this trip hadn't gone the same way as my January trip, when it dumped for 3 days straight and yielded my deepest inbounds turns of the season (bless you, Steamboat, those turns will not be forgotten...). I was sad because it was hot and dry. It looked more like April than February. A season that had started out in an extremely promising way fizzled and was sputtering its way towards disappointment.

And then the calendar turned to March.

How quickly things can change in the spring! Winter Park recorded something like 90 inches. The northern mountains got dumped on. Despite incredible storm totals, avy danger dropped quickly. I decided to tour for 3 straight Saturdays with co-workers. The results were fantastic.

St. Vrain Mountain

East Portal

Brainard Lake

Long live spring backcountry skiing.

After these great outings, the Indian Peaks collected over 4 feet in a 3 day storm. That was a helluva Saturday, needless to say...

Some might say the end of ski season is a foolish and shallow thing to be sad about. There are millions of other tragedies that occur on a daily basis. Yes, I understand that I am privileged and lucky to be able to consider this a problem when there is rampant poverty, hunger, homelessness, etc. But I love skiing, and it's hard to say goodbye. Thankfully I don't have to just yet.

Drawn to some other where...

In the Fall of 2009, I traveled to Costa Rica for the first time. I had an itinerary, some fear and probably some expectations, but found myself completely blind-sided by how that trip would affect me. Put another way, I was well-prepared for the journey but not-at-all-prepared for what it would do to me. I'm not ashamed to admit that it stole a portion of my heart in a way that I wasn't even aware was possible. I'm not sure whether I left a piece of my heart there or if a part of Costa Rica planted itself in me. Whichever is correct, I want to be moved, shaken, molded, changed by somewhere again. I don't think anywhere new will have the exact same effect, but that's not what I'm in search of.

I have a long list of places I want to see. Time to set a goal and make it happen. When wanderlust strikes it strikes deep.