I’ve been to Telluride three times. Probably more than other folks but I lived in Colorado for several years which means I can really appreciate what a special place it is.

My fist trip had a specific purpose. I had decided to take the second semester of my junior year at CU off to ski. A buddy convinced me that we should take the ski school primer at Telluride, secure jobs and then move there in December and find a place to live……….I can imagine your smirk or was it a chortle…nothing affordable is available in October let alone December. So we arrive and being the hard men we were set up a tent in the town parking lot where we spent two very cold stormy nights. The ski school clinic was lame and as the wind picked up and the sheriff made his displeasure known. We abandon the parking lot for a parking garage that was under construction. After waking with carbon monoxide poisoning we next moved on to the condos across the parking lot that were under construction. The guys on the crew soon discouraged us from sleeping on the brand new mattress’ and we found ourselves in the parking lot for the final miserable night. Needless to say Telluride fell through that winter for lack of a place to live and a vivid picture of homelessness. A month later I found out I had hepatitis and ended up spending one of the best winters of my life in Leadville. Yeah, Leadville. Where real dirtbag culture lived in 1988. Me and a bunch of unemployed miners. The skiing was fantastic.

My second visit was a summer time mountain biking trip where I lost control of my bowels 3 hours into a 6 hour ride and flatted 2 miles from town. The walk of shame has no known bounds.

My third visit was a post-college penniless swing through town to try convince an old love to take me back. I had visions of settling down in her sweet Victorian and finally enjoying the funky mountain zeitgeist of one of the world’s true ski town icons. She accused me of giving her something nasty two years prior and sent me on my way the same night my dog got into a porcupine.

So now I’m a respectable small town business owner/father of two in an eastern ski town who needs to go back to Telluride and reclaim a little pride and reevaluate the agony of defeat. Life is great. All I need is to put Telluride to bed.

Skiing is the closest thing you can get on earth to complete spiritual liberation. As the winter season edges closer every year, I can hear the silent, ever growing hum of my skis; becoming stoked for the next season. I find myself, in late October, walking down to my basement, and grabbing hold of my Karma’s, and putting them on my shoulder, as if it was time to walk to the lift. The excitement and utter yearning has me ready to shred by the time the first snowfall arrives on my doorstep.

I pack my things, and head off into the mountains. It doesn’t matter where, when, or with whom, it only matters that my love for skiing transcends boundaries. Just last week, when the snow had run thin where I live, I grabbed my boots, and hiked over to a cluster of hills about a half mile from my house. As I hiked up, I began to wonder, “Was skiing down this tiny hill going to be worth my effort?” Indeed, it was. While the snow on the streets had been cleared away, the snow here was deep. After making a few quick turns through the shin deep snow, I became ready, to hike back up to the top, and pick out new lines to ski.

Many people have wondered, “Why Ski?” “What’s the point of going up and down and up and down?” These questions have always bothered me, because I cannot see the sense in them. Where ever you are in the world, skiing can let you access places, and people, that you would have not otherwise encountered. Those skiing nay Sayers, will never reach the potential of their life, because they do not ski.

Shredding big mountains, with the wind whistling about your helmet, is extremely exhilarating. I am stoked before I get to the mountain, I am stoked while I ski, and I am still stoked as I rest my bones at day’s end. During any ski run, I am enthralled by it. The skis are not something I put on, no, they are an extension of my leg, and I can easily carve the turns, until the run flattens out at the bottom. Even then though, I get back to the lift, and with as much enthusiasm as I had during the run, I ascent to the top once again.

Many have said that skiing is unsafe. This is very true, and I have been asked time and time again, why keep skiing crazy steeps, with all the risks. What I think that makes skiing unlike any other sport, is that if you’re really good at it, you won’t get hurt. You have to be completely stoked, very skilled, and ready to shred. Without these, there is no hope to enjoy what mountains offer. Every minute I am skiing, is when I am completely alive. I am all stoked up, and that little bit of fear, keeps me in check when I try some steep lines out West. There‘s nothing better than finding new lines to ski, and new stories to tell. While the best part of a run may not last very long, it is the memory of how you felt at that moment that makes it all worth it. Passion for skiing is what makes it worthwhile.

No matter your skill level, or where you ski, passion is what skiing is about. I have seen skiers, more skilled then myself, with no passion for the sport, and who were not having fun. On the other hand, I have seen people who are horrendous skiers, who are having the time of their lives. The key to skiing is to enjoy it, and always live it up to its fullest. You really have to be stoked on skiing. You have to want to keep improving, keep pushing the limits of what’s possible to ski.

I love skiing. Plain and simple, it is an addiction to me, although I live in Massachusetts. I remember riding up the Thunder Quad in Jackson Hole, with a ski patroller. We were chatting it up, and he asked me where I was going to ski. I told him I was going to rip up The Tower Three Chutes. Having told him I’m from the Boston Area, he gave me a look that said “Kid, you can’t be good if you’re from Boston, don’t ski at Jackson.” I didn’t take offense to it, because I was too busy looking at how sweet the powder looked from the lift. I took special care to rip up Tower Three, because I wanted to prove, that I could handle anything Jackson Hole threw at me, and I did.

People can be addicts to many things, but at skiing addict is the best. It allows me to shred mountains when I can, and has me stoked up all winter long. This addiction is one that I will not need to take part in a program to stop being addicted, because being a skiing addict, is perfectly fine.

The Adventure Life, I leave you with this. This contest should only be won, by those who truly love skiing. And I am a person that gets stoked on skiing all the time, and is a skiing addict. Skiing is a sport where only the passionate few reach the highest peak, and I am the burning sun of skiing passion.

Let’s try this again…

snow-sliding stoke:

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1123906427507

The passion in the East resides in the heart. I have spent over 20 years living the dream in Switzerland, California, Washington, Alaska and B.C. but only in the north east have I truly understood that the stoke is inside of you! Please enjoy Easy Living!

http://burton.kontain.com/pumalogy/media/single/14/videos/date/179400/1

Snow is a four-letter word. Or at least that’s what I thought until I found myself in Whistler, B.C., suited up as if I was landing on the moon and carrying a pair of skis. What was I doing? I’m a sun-loving, heat-craving Texan! But those beautiful white peaks were calling to me, so I signed up for a power class and headed for the hill.

Knowing I was clueless, I started with two other beginners, but within 15 minutes the instructor was looking for a space for me in the next level class. Apparently some basic athletic ability was giving me an advantage, so I ran with it, despite my fears of finding myself flying off the mountain like a hurtling projectile.

In the new class, actual skiing started to happen. At first, I felt unbelievably awkward, but the basic movements started to come, and as I had those intermittent moments of balance and grace I could feel my smile getting wider and wider. Soon the instructor was sending me ahead to ski on my own while she worked with the other two students. At the end of the day, she put the others on the gondola back to Whistler Village, then turned to me and said, “you and I are skiing back to Whistler Village. You haven’t stopped smiling all day; you were meant to do this and I know you’ll be skiing again!”

She was right, although it took almost a year before I found myself on skis again. This time I was at Sundance, in Utah. Figuring I would remember nothing from my previous adventure, I spent the morning with an instructor, making sure he understood that I didn’t know what I was doing. We started on a green run, then spent the rest of the morning skiing every blue run at Sundance. He gave me some good pointers and in between telling myself to keep my shoulders back and lean forward I once again found those moments of balance and grace. And I loved it. By the time the lesson ended my fears of pointing my skis downhill and picking up speed were fading, replaced by a lightness of being that felt like dancing as I made my way down the hill.

I was hooked. Even falling off the chair lift and skiing in fog and snow the next day at Powder Mountain didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. When the sun shone the following day in a cloudless blue sky, I was back on the slopes, this time at Solitude, testing myself on every blue run with a local guide. When she stopped midway on a run, looking panicked and apologetic, I looked over the edge to see a long mogul run below us. Figuring I wasn’t going back up, I told her “I follow you, let’s go!” and made it down without falling. I was jazzed! And she was amazed. “I thought you’d take off your skis and walk down the hill,” she told me. It never occurred to me. I had skis and I was going to use them.

I’m still a novice, but I’ve been bitten by the ski bug and the infection has taken over my thoughts and dreams. I think about skiing as I sit in Austin where it’s 70 degrees on a January day. I see myself, in my mind’s eye, moving smoothly and gracefully down a run, my movements becoming smaller and more nuanced, replacing the large “C” shaped traverses that I started with in those first lessons. I can feel myself gliding smoothly over the snow, with just enough resistance for control but not enough to mar the sensation of total freedom as I float down the mountain, exultant.

I want to ski those deep powder, pristine peaks where no lift runs; I want to hike up with my skis or drop from a helicopter, and carve my own path down. Friends tell me I’ll have to spend two winters in a ski town, logging 100 days, before I’ll be ready to try that. OK. If that’s what it takes, I’m ready. Snow may be a four-letter word, but so are love and lust, and the cold mountain air feels warmed by my burning desire to ski.

“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”
Coach Darrel Royal

Back in 2004 when I was courting my wife-to-be, we were hanging out in her cozy New Hampshire cabin near the base of Mt. Washington on a particularly snowy weekend. We had just finished off a day of tele skiing somewhere (can’t divulge, but we’ll call it the “backyard”). We were upstairs in the cabin loft which has views of the White Mountains, smooching on a day bed near a window that looks out on a snow covered meadow. As I was gazing in her eyes thinking only pure thoughts of our great day of skiing (yeah right), I couldn’t help but notice just how serious it would be to ski off the cabin roof! It looked perfect. It has a nice gentle 25 plus degree angle with about a twelve foot drop to the ground. If I could get enough air, I surmised, I could overtake the flat (about ten feet), hit the steep drop-off beyond it, and nail a perfect landing.

At this point, the aforementioned wife-to-be could tell that I was no longer in our little blissful moment but deeply and lustily somewhere else! I was very busy calculating the maneuver and, frankly, running out of daylight. I jumped out of our little nest and ran and got my tele gear. She asked “where are you going?” and when I came back up with my skis, boots, and poles she then asked “what the hell are you doing?” as I was hastily putting my boots on. I said, “I am jumping the roof – it’s perfect!” I asked her to go outside and take a quick photo to chronicle this for future generations that might stem from us. She told me I was crazy and I asked why. She replied, “You’re in you long underwear!” I said “No worries, I’m gonna stick the landing.”

I did stick the landing and the photo has found a home on the cabin refrigerator and has been a source of laughter ever since. My three year old, who now skis, says whenever she sees the photo, “Papa why you skiing off the big cabin?” I think someday she will understand why, don’t you?

Link to photo:

http://users.rcn.com/whitfrost/offtheroof.htm

Two years ago, I fell off a 60 foot cliff while skiing off-piste in Canada as my brother watched from below in disbelief, convinced that I was plunging to my death. In the helicopter on the way to the hospital, I was told that a man had died on that same cliff two years before. I had narrowly missed several large protruding rocks on the way down and am lucky to be alive.

The next time I see that cliff, I’m going to huck it – and I’m going to ski away in a cloud of powder, a smile frozen to my face.

I ski because a pair of skis on my feet is to me what a pair of wings is to a bird. An ironic statement after mentioning the cliff story, you may be thinking, but a bird learns to fly only after first learning to fall. I have had my fair share of falls – big and small – and I’m still here, hungry for more.

Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I’m a college senior at a northeastern university with barely enough beer money, much less any idea when my next chance will be to ski a big mountain out West. Nevertheless, I’m there all the time – ripping up fresh powder while I’m dozing off in class, foregoing homework to read about skiing and watch ski movies, checking snow reports around the country for the hell of it, brushing my teeth in the morning with my helmet and goggles on as if I’m about to go use them. My education matters very much to me because I plan to use it to find a way to maximize the amount of skiing I will do after I graduate.

As I think about what I will do after college, I consider that sometimes in life one is lucky enough to experience moments of true happiness – and these moments can be worth devoting an entire life to pursue. I have experienced these moments on the mountain. The whole world seems at peace as you connect with nature, your skis and three feet of fresh pow. Nothing matters – life is good. This is how a bird must feel as it dives playfully through the air.

I’m going to huck that cliff if its the last thing I do. I’m going to do it because I love skiing – it’s the only way I really know how to live. I’ll send you the photo that my brother will take from below; it would look great with a pair of custom Wagner skis on my feet.

Well the season is upon us again…the anticipated water crystals flying through the air, our loyal companions are waxed and ready, sleds are primed from weekends in the garage fondling greasy tools and beer and some of us even have our season passes. With another winter biting our heels like a pit bull puppy, we should all take a moment and think about our friends and ski partners, what they mean to us and how we are going to dedicate THIS year to be the best ever! Again…this year.

Man, she was blue…yellow and blue. Yellow and blue make green. Green means go. She was always ready. You really had to hear her to get her right and make sure it was a two way street. You didn’t just have to hear what was being said, but you had to listen. You had to really be there. Like any relationship, we had to practice a lot to really make things work. After couple’s courses, working with other people, and even taking classes, we became like one. Last I remember, I left her in Boulder at a friends house…I’m sure she found a new partner or…who knows. While sometimes in my mind that old F1 avalanche transceiver is irreplaceable, I’ve moved on.

So many a day skiing has been spent with friends – and not just the beacon / probe / shovel, but real friends of flesh and blood since then. My wife and I live in Crested Butte, Colorado now. Needless to say, our home is a revolving door for friends, families, and flops to come and live the ski dream. Recently, one of my oldest, dearest friends was out visiting and talk quickly turned to backcountry. We are climbing partners, biking partners, drinking partners, and even ski partners…though he’s on one plank and stands funny on it. I definitely love that about him – viva the differences – as long as you are getting out and enjoying the experiences, we are all the same.

We’ve done very little true backcountry riding together and most of it was slack. With the majority of my skiing the past 10 years avoiding lifts and him out for a visit, we took things seriously, pouring over the gear, borrowing a split board, making sure that all was good and he was prepared to go equipment wise.

Having spent a long time behind a counter and even longer playing with things in real life, my dear friend and I went to the store to buy him a beacon. Inventory narrowed it down to three and one was the clear winner for my friend. We did a quick clinic, chose terrain that was safe, stable, and known and enjoyed the skin up and ride down. He felt a little better about the very limited knowledge he had and anxiously wanted to jump in with both feet, later signing up for a class from our house via the internets back in Oregon.

It was total bluebird, the tracks were set and we were under good conditions for fresh lines and lower avalanche danger. At the trailhead my trainings, refreshers, practicing, more practicing and more refreshers are all in the front of my mind. But, I’m with a friend that hasn’t had any.

Having never been on a split board, we took our time to make sure it was dialed in. The sky was open and we were anxious. The aspen groves and clean lines looked down at the trailhead seeming to mock us. “Come on, already!” The chill in the air was palpable, but the anticipation and adrenaline was much stronger.

The gear was set, our attitudes were good and game and then…right then…it really sank in. Was I an idiot? What if something goes wrong? Over 18 years in the outdoor industry and it’s still true: The gear does not make the person. (And it reminded me of buying my first snow shovel. The hair-farmer answering my questions said, “Look…between these two, I want my partner to carry this one.”)

My first beacon it instilled a since of responsibility to my community for whatever reason. It wasn’t about getting my bacon saved, it was about being a good partner and backcountry citizen and saving some bacon if it really came down to it. I’ve taken my courses, done my practice, and when meeting new partners, is it something I ask about? Sometimes. Is that really an acceptable answer? Well, if I’m the one saving bacon it doesn’t matter now, does it? However I’m not psyched to be another martyr for backcountry skiing because my partner was inept.

Backcountry snowplay is amazing. The anticipation of getting further away to a quiet natural sanctuary to fully appreciate life is often overshadowed by a little preparedness, education and common sense. I felt better having introduced him to the realm of backcountry responsibility we all have. Not just as individuals, but a community. Knowledge is power, get some. And the best part? Our shared backcountry experience and more of it to come. He said, “On that last pitch, those three turns made the whole damn day…hell, maybe even my season.”

That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

“Mountain”

Lisa Montierth

She came to Colorado with a mountain in her mind. The scene was blurry, gray, impossible to see if she tried to concentrate on it. For months, the mountain lived as a specter in her periphery. Black birds circled the peak.

It was some time before the mountain came into focus. First, it was in the eyes of pink-cheeked men. Sometimes she would talk with them at length, about books, music, the weather, the world. She could smell the wind in their hair. Conversation would lull, quiet. The mountain flickered across their faces, painting ridges in the curves of their jaws.

The mountain began to speak to her in the words of strangers. She overheard strange stories about dangerous people – people who knew the mountain well. She learned there was a way to ride the mountain, a way to feel its ebbs and flows, to stand at a peak and navigate divine descent.

Then, it showed itself to her. It stood; proud, curvy. It was real. She was scared. Months of living in its shadow had made her heart weak. The fog circling the icy rock was more than vapor – it was expectation, disappointment, failure, loneliness. She turned away.

And she chained herself to a florescent prison, a sickening hum of mindless production, a cardboard box of roaches. She dragged her feet. She dreamt of stagnant streams, festering with algae and buzzing with lower life. It was more than the mountain she was losing. The fire in her burned down to coals.

The winds changed, and it was spring. By now, she didn’t trust the bones of her own hands. But as the web of stars spun above her, and she stood as a husk in her small life, she saw herself reflected in the blooming tree limbs. She remembered herself. And so she was brave.

Her heart grew stronger. The sun came, and river-water washed her days. She slept on beds of Columbine. She loved a bicycle. She loved a man. In the early evenings she would sit in her backyard, the summer blazing in Colorado primaries, and one day, the mountain came back. It was green.

The leaves changed, the wind cooled. It snowed. It snowed again. The mountain whispered to her.

She went to it. And she brought a pair of skis.

The hill was icy, not soft and light like she’d imagined. After a particularly maddening fall, she held still and laid her face against the snow to feel the sting of the mountain. Her clothing was heavy and moist from the inside.

Frustration burned a tight bump into her throat. She wanted to scream and cry and curse the snow. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. She was suddenly, relentlessly alive. This mountain covered in snow had set her on fire.

She tried again. She fought self-sabotage. And she saw that the blades of her skis were wings, and she could fall or she could fly. She flew.

The day waned and her legs fought fatigue. Turns became smooth, wide. The terror in her belly eased into exhilaration. By the time the sun disappeared behind the peaks and shadow overtook diamond white, she was in love.

As she left the mountain, she caught her reflection in the side of a glass building and she stared at it. Her whole body smiled. She couldn’t remember a time she’d felt more beautiful.

And then the mountain was always there, always hers. The surreal freedom of fresh powder sang in her ears. She knew now that she didn’t have to fear falling. She could always stand again, and fly.

Slowly now I glide
Then faster faster I go
Vanish in the pow