TELLURIDE — In most major cities, snow is a burden. The recent storms in the mid-Atlantic paralyzed the region. But where I live, high in the Rockies, snow is something else. It’s an offering not just to the hills, which are in a permanent state of drought. It’s also an offering to the people.
You may find this shallow. You may find it small-minded. No matter; it’s the truth. People who live in a ski town want snow. That’s why they moved here. Snow occupies a full quarter of their being.
When it didn’t snow during the first two weeks of January, the mood around town was grim. Conversations in the post office and the grocery store cycled through the same theme:
“Loving this sun.”
“Really? I’m ready for some snow. I’m sick of the rocks.”
“Yeah, hopefully, weather’s coming soon.”
“One to two inches, maybe Friday. Total dust on crust on the slopes.”
The two grunt and move on. Buy their stamps or their fettucine and step out into the bright, snow-less air. Such is life in paradise without snow.
When the flakes finally start to fall, people are cautious at first about changing their moods. It’s like a train going up a hill. If it snows a few inches, you may see some smiles. Yet, no one is going over the edge.
When the snow starts to unload, and falls faster than our footsteps, the biggest change you’ll notice, especially if it’s about 10 at night, is the silence. Everyone in Telluride has gone home, to bed. So they can be rested for a morning of powder skiing.
If you’re out walking Telluride’s Main Street the next morning, you’ll find the town emptier than it is during off-season. Nothing catastrophic will have happened. It has just snowed hard, and everyone’s skiing. You could indeed re-enact Telluride in the late 1800s and rob a bank on powder days.
If you’re on the hills, you’ll see the whole town. The last time I skied on a powder day, I started to wonder who was actually running Telluride. I saw the mayor. I saw firemen. Bankers. Waiters. Real estate brokers. Postal employees. Policemen.
There are several things that are different about a small ski town. It’s OK to ski down the street. It’s even OK to bike down the street while carrying your skis. One thing unites us all: When the skiing is good, we get after it, whatever the cost.
And just like that, after a morning of powder skiing, the mood of the town changes. By the following afternoon, everyone’s pulling their powder-weary bodies through town. The only difference is they’re ecstatic. It’s as if someone has thrown the switch, and the train is now barreling full speed ahead into elation.
Instead of cranky conversations about dust-on-crust, everywhere you walk, you’ll hear about how “it was so sick out there” and “the most epic day on Gold Hill ever.” No one cares about stamps or fettucine anymore and instead walks through town in a kind of delirious stupor. They are that drunk on snow.
So if you’re visiting Telluride in the winter, and the mood seems grim, just wait a few days. Telluride, like most ski towns in the West, is enchanted by snow.
Emily Brendler Shoff (ebshoff@gmail.com) teaches in Telluride.
