Most of our beloved Colorado resorts opened over the holiday weekend, and let’s face it: No one really cares about the conditions. It’s all about strapping on the ol’ board(s) and getting that wind in your face, riding the lift up the mountain for the easy reward of crisp air and bright sunshine without having to kill yourself on a long hike or a bike to climb up there.
I’ll be the first to admit skidding around on a few icy runs in Steamboat with hundreds of people on the lower mountain is not my idea of fabulous. Still, it’s a Thanksgiving Day ritual, so we went out and made a few turns before someone had the guts to speak up and say, “I think this is my last run” at around noon. Let’s just say some opening days are better than others.
I’ve been to ski resorts all over the world, but I’ve never seen anything quite like opening day on Aspen Mountain in 2003. It had snowed every day for two weeks, and the mountain had the kind of coverage where lines that never had been skied were possible.
Far be it from a community of uncontrollable, liberal hedonists to let a few guys in red jackets stand between them and untracked powder.
The day was lawless and raw, the way I imagine Aspen was before Walter Pupcake or whatever his name is came in and turned it into a rich man’s utopia. I like what he (OK, his name was Paepcke) has done with the place and everything, but I think I would have liked the Old West even more. It’s one thing to brake for the pedestrian right-of-way or pick up dog poop or latch the trash cans so the bears don’t die or put five bucks in the parking meter. But it’s another thing entirely to avoid accidentally drifting into a closed area where the snow is deep and untouched on the first day of the season when the lift lines are a mile long.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore the Ski Patrol and understand they have an important job to do. There is nothing sexier than the combination of mountain-man authority, gruff athleticism, the whole I-could-save-your-life thing, and the way they carry their radios around in holsters like police carry guns. (I love that!)
I have been guilty once or twice of feigning injury just to be carefully wrapped in one of those heavy wool blankets with my head ever-so-gently laid on top of a soft pillow and carried down in a sled with a very manly man on each end of it. I just want to make it clear that we meant no disrespect whatsoever to those hard-working men and women of the Aspen Ski Patrol, bless their red little hearts.
But it’s a pretty tall order to keep thousands of foaming-at-the-mouth snow enthusiasts from getting the goods on the first day of the season, especially when they’ve already wasted half of it waiting in line.
I think everyone dealt the best they could with the whole two-lifts-at-the-top program for about an hour or two, but the tension was electric, like the crack of lightning before the loud boom of thunder. All hell broke loose when Chair 7 (also known as “The Couch” because of its snail’s pace) broke and the crowd was trapped in the maze like a bull in a pen.
Suddenly, a cheer exploded from the crowd like the J-Bar does when the Broncos score a touchdown. Dozens of people started ducking the ropes in huge clusters, with hundreds behind them egging them on. It was total anarchy, or “powder to the people,” as one ski magazine likes to say. The rebels’ mission was clear: Get behind enemy lines and win the virgin territory without getting caught by the red coats. Skiers and boarders were lined up 10 across and conquered untracked powder fields or ducked into the woods, hidden behind curtains of snow kicked up by our own spray.
Like everything in Aspen, once people got a taste of it they couldn’t stop, and totally indulged themselves without any regard for their health or safety. That philosophy continued at 39 Degree’s après-ski party, and then straight into the annual “Pray for Snow” party, where everyone dressed up in vintage ski gear and got impressively funky into the wee hours of the cold, moonlit morning.
Even though this year’s opening day wasn’t quite as exciting as those past, just knowing the potential for a day like that exists is good enough. The bull has officially been let out of its pen.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
