I am the sixth man on the six-person chairlift. The other riders are a family of five. To my right is Mom, to her right are the three young children, with Dad on the end. Ms. Mom is chipper and talkative. She asks me where I am from and how I am enjoying my day. Mr. Dad is focused on the children, directing their attention to the trail map, conveniently printed on the safety bar in front of us. He wants them to identify the lift they had just ridden and the lift they are on now. When we are carried over a steep and rocky cliff, Mom says “Never ski down cliffs with exposed rocks.” To which I amend, “My advice is to never ski down cliffs—period.” They do not laugh. I don’t think anyone but the Mom wants to talk to me.
Near the top, Dad says “Ok, does anyone need to pee?” And I say “I do!” And still they don’t laugh.
At the top, the family and I go our separate ways and never see each other again. Which is how life works at a large, bustling ski resort like Vail.
What I want to ask these people was “How on Earth can you afford to be here?” A day at Vail for a family of five—including lodging, lift tickets, and food—is going to run $1500 at the minimum, and easily a lot more depending on choice of accommodation and extras such as rental skis and lessons. For lunch I ski to the village at the base, find a popcorn truck, buy a bratwurst and a blueberry muffin, and the total comes to….20 dollars. Which here is a bargain.
Nevertheless, the resort is full of families with kids. Undoubtedly very wealthy families.
I once was one of those kids, back in the 1970s, when Vail was much newer and less expensive. The doctors’ ski group, led by the wonderful Dave Bloom and his family, sponsored a trip to Vail every winter, and my father often signed us up, and off we went. Every family had their own suite in the same condominium complex, where the kids and teenagers had their parties together while the adults did the same. I remember being a little too young for those parties, meaning the teenagers were kind-of, sort-of discussing kissing and puberty and sex and Lord knows what else, while I was….well, not…despite having a hopeless crush on a girl who was only a year older than I was, and who was also a much better skier.
On the last of those trips, my brother Danny exited the gondola at the top of Lions Head, looked around, and announced “I’m not doing this anymore.” He rode the gondola back to the bottom, and that indeed was his last time on skis. My mother said “If he can quit, so can I,” and she never skied again either.
This left my father and me, and we had many Colorado trips together by ourselves, until he finally stopped, I think due to a bad ankle injury he suffered in Ireland. I have other folks I can ski with, including my son the college student, and we have introduced the sport to the six-year-old. But today I ski Vail by myself, and I do not really feel alone. Part of the reason is my history with the place. I think of runs like Simba and Northwoods and Poppyfields the way I think of old friends. I ski them very well, too.
But I have another reason.
Most ski areas are built along the front face of a mountain. You go up, you ski down to (more or less) where you began. Repeat, repeat again, ad nauseum. But Vail has layers; Vail has dimensions. After you reach the top of the mountain, you have the option of skiing down the back side (aka, the back bowls). Then beyond the back bowls is a whole other mountain, called Blue Sky Basin.
Oh heavens, Blue Sky Basin.
The entrance is marked by a bridge that you have to ski over. The bridge crosses a little stream. I have seen no trolls under the bridge, I have felt no queasiness nor enchantment nor any other unexpected emotion when I cross the bridge from Vail Proper to this other realm, this inner sanctum. Nevertheless…..
Once, in January, 2010, which was my first visit to Blue Sky Basin, I strayed from the blue (intermediate) run on which I had expected to find myself, and I wound up in hip-deep powder in the middle of a forest. Where I had no business being. I am a wonderful skier on smooth, groomed runs of compact snow, but I have no business here in an untamed wilderness.
I flail about, I make my gradual and awkward descent, and eventually I plop in the snow and stare helplessly into the sky. I do not really feel in any danger. If necessary, I could take off the skis and walk, if awkwardly, to the roadway that I know is just below me. Vail is extremely well organized, and you cannot ski yourself into oblivion by accident. Nevertheless…..I say a prayer. I do not generally pray, at least in earnest, mind you, but stuck in the snow and surrounded by trees and with no one in earshot, I spoke my earnest prayer to Whomever might be listening.
And oddly enough my prayer was answered. As science boy I cannot truly justify or explain any cause-and-effect relationship. But still…
So I return to Vail every so often, and always I include Blue Sky Basin. Always I ski that same run, although not the part of it where I get lost in the woods because I’m not that much of an idiot. But always I come to that same slope, and I have come to recognize some of the trees. This is my pilgrimage.
The spiritual side of skiing.
I expect Vail to survive and prosper, regardless of global climate change, regardless of geopolitics, regardless of famine, war, or asteroid strikes. If the apocalypse comes in whatever form, I expect the Vail managers will erect an enormous dome over the whole valley. They will tint the dome electric blue with a few splotchy white clouds for realism. They will find a way to replicate the famous Colorado powder and replenish it nightly, all year long. They will offer entry-level memberships for 1.5 billion per year, current U.S. dollars, which will sell out overnight. Flush with capital, they will construct a second dome, a smaller one, where AI robot overlords will supervise the farms and ranches for raising purple carrots, Wagyu beef, lamb chops with genetically-engineered paper frills and mint jelly, and other necessities. The wealthiest and most superficial of patrons will live under the Vail Dome permanently, and they will come to view the outside world as a bad dream or a campfire ghost story, while their own realm will seem comparable to the Peanuts Halloween special, which featured Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin.
If I had the money, I would be tempted to live under the Vail Dome, too.
My day at Vail ends after the lifts close at 4:30. I need the day to end, too, because my quads are aching terribly, the result of skiing down too many expert runs that I have no business skiing down. Eventually I am driving back to Denver, where I have the next and final chapter of my Colorado sojourn, which is two days at a conference. I do not discuss skiing with anyone. I am dressed in my best business-guy’s attire, and I attend sessions and chat amiably with clients and potential clients, and I enjoy several delicious meals on the dime of my company, and I even write a few postcards.
I am a whole other person.
How many people are we? How do we change from one day to the next and one location to the next, and how do we manage these changes? Me, I keep getting my foot stuck in the door.
At the conference, I am buttonholed by a woman selling thermal heat pads for relaxing the neck, shoulder, and back. The pads work by initiating a reversible exothermic acid-base neutralization reaction, which the woman does not describe as such but I have my degree in biochemistry and we’re at a conference for science teachers—so there! The sales pitch is aggressive and the product is impressive, so I wind up handing over the credit card. On my return home, my wife is very pleased. These pads are her kind of thing. We just have to keep the cats from clawing holes in the plastic.
I am now writing to you from my office desk, my window overlooking the back yard and a patch of forest. The date is April 1st, which is April Fools Day, but I plan not to participate, at least actively. Spring seems to have sprung—we have tulips poking their pointed leaves out of the ground—but snow is forecast for the end of the week, which seems like an April Fools prank of its own. Despite the weather I am done with skiing until next winter, assuming I am blessed to survive that long.
My best to you and yours,
JOE