Friend of IT Brian Schott sends us a dispatch from the ski slopes of Utah, where he and others attempted to ski all of the state's 13 resorts in one day.
"Intelligent" was not the word uttered by anyone when I mentioned my upcoming trip. "Insane!" "Absurd." "Ridiculous"--these were a few of the adjectives that slipped easily into email or conversation when I remarked that I would join a team of ten skiers who would attempt for the first time to ski all of Utah's 13 resorts--in a single day.
To set the stage for our gluttony, we loaded into a twelve-passenger van at 2:30 p.m. in Salt Lake City for a 250-mile drive south to Brian Head Resort. As I settled into the back seat, I began to think that perhaps I should have looked more carefully at a map before offering to participate in this road trip that seemed ripe for a bad reality TV show. As we pulled onto I-15, the brakes of the van started to grind. But under an expanding sky, across an empty highway, following an ever-setting sun, I began to get excited.
After dinner on my way to my room in the Cedar Breaks Lodge, I longingly eyed the indoor pool and hot tub before asking the concierge for a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call. The front desk called my room to make sure that I was serious.
"Dizzy." "Skeptical." "Nervous." These were the words slithering through the withered roots of my brain as our dedicated driver piloted us toward the maintenance shop located half way up the mountain slopes. We clicked into our skis and rambled down smooth corduroy on Giant Steps under the big moon. 4:37 a.m. Mood elevated and adrenaline rushing, we took off our ski boots, chomped bagels, and settled down to sleep as the van rocketed us back towards the big Salt Lake.
"Intelligent" was not the word uttered by anyone when I mentioned my upcoming trip. "Insane!" "Absurd." "Ridiculous"--these were a few of the adjectives that slipped easily into email or conversation when I remarked that I would join a team of ten skiers who would attempt for the first time to ski all of Utah's 13 resorts--in a single day. To set the stage for our gluttony, we loaded into a twelve-passenger van at 2:30 p.m. in Salt Lake City for a 250-mile drive south to Brian Head Resort. As I settled into the back seat, I began to think that perhaps I should have looked more carefully at a map before offering to participate in this road trip that seemed ripe for a bad reality TV show. As we pulled onto I-15, the brakes of the van started to grind. But under an expanding sky, across an empty highway, following an ever-setting sun, I began to get excited.
After dinner on my way to my room in the Cedar Breaks Lodge, I longingly eyed the indoor pool and hot tub before asking the concierge for a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call. The front desk called my room to make sure that I was serious.
"Dizzy." "Skeptical." "Nervous." These were the words slithering through the withered roots of my brain as our dedicated driver piloted us toward the maintenance shop located half way up the mountain slopes. We clicked into our skis and rambled down smooth corduroy on Giant Steps under the big moon. 4:37 a.m. Mood elevated and adrenaline rushing, we took off our ski boots, chomped bagels, and settled down to sleep as the van rocketed us back towards the big Salt Lake.
We rolled into the Sundance Resort parking lot at 8 a.m. and performed
a fireman's brigade of skis and poles, and then buckled our boots--ski
shoes that would stay locked on our feet for the next 13 hours. The sun
was painting Mount Timpanogos with pink light as a liftie cranked up
Ray's Lift for us a little earlier than usual. We raced down Top Gun as
employees made their way onto the mountain. 8:36 a.m.
Morning breath and ski glove funk wafted through the air of the van as we arrived at Deer Valley, where we loaded the Jordanelle Express Gondola to Little Baldy Peak. I relaxed in the six-person cabin and gazed at mansions drifting by below us before we made a quick run down Littlestick to the Snow Park Lodge. 9:38 a.m.
After the short hop over to Park City, a small, local media frenzy greeted us and we burned a little time pretending we were celebrities. And we were. For a day. To a small group of people who understand why this stupid skiing stunt mattered.
With the vibe of the group now bordering on manic, we ripped up the perfect grooming on Pay Day. 10:13 a.m. The bluebird sky melted over me as my skis bit into the creamy snow. I wanted to stay and ski Jupiter Bowl. Please, just one lap on Pinecone Ridge. But The Canyons were calling. And the van was leaving.
We were starting to excel at our organized brigade of skis and poles in our fight against time. And after a ride up the Flight of the Canyons gondola and over to the Short Cut lift, the softening carpet of butter that the grooming machines had left on Doc's Run and the growing warmth of the air under a tropical ocean of sky, made me almost quit the quest and ski a few more runs here. 11:01 a.m. Five down--eight to go.
Adrenaline dropping, we devoured organic energy bars and the van transformed into a roving media center for the hour drive to Snowbird. iPhones, laptops, cameras, video and audio recorders created a bizarre scene, and the group was beginning to resemble a hilarious combination of teenager-geeks-gone-wild. Maybe it was the taurine in those energy drinks, but the laughter meter needle was on high.
We shot up the Peruvian Express lift to 10,518 feet and the snow on Chips Face was so good that it was like having a master chef plop juniper dusted elk tenderloin in front of you, allow the delicate smells to waft into your nostrils, then swipe it away. 12:16 p.m. A five-minute hop up Little Cottonwood to Alta and we dove down Sunspot, pushing up flares of fluffy snow. If there's a place in heaven for skiers, it looks like these slopes. I begged for another run. Fat chance. 12:40 p.m.
The 45-minute drive over to Big Cottonwood Canyon gave us enough time to devour massive sub sandwiches, fueling us to quickly rip through Brighton, dropping over to Solitude at 1:48 p.m., down Sensation and back in the van at 2 p.m. Seventy miles north lay Ogden and Snowbasin. And everything depended on Snowbasin. We had to be on that chairlift by 4 p.m.
With time to spare (3:53 p.m.), we rolled into the parking lot. We were hot and slightly punky, full from lunch, and weary from the road. As we approached the chair lift, employees slowly rang a large bell, like some ancient ritual as we loaded the John Paul Express. After gazing at the upthrusted rock on Mt. Ogden, we flew down the Wildflower Olympic Downhill course, like a giant funnel, literally sucking us down the mountain. I let my skis run.
Pressure off, we rolled to Wolf Creek, a small, local hill 50 miles away to catch some early night skiing. We chased a young racer down the hardening snow of Barney's Way as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Her smile was as big as the morning moon, twelve hours ago. 4:58 p.m.
Ten miles up the steep road lay Powder Mountain, another rolling massif spreading across 7,000 acres that wound up on my must-return-to-ski list. We lingered on the top of Sundown Ridge for at least 20 minutes, gazing out at the setting sun beyond the Great Salt Lake. The lights of Wolf Creek below us looked like pinpricks of silver in the glistening amber snow below a collapsing sky. 5:48 p.m.
I was not prepared for the pain. It wasn't even my boots. It was all in my head.
The 60-mile, two-hour drive to Beaver Mountain was excruciating. Tired.
Hungry. Smelly. Certainly these were words that now held real meaning.
But finally, mercifully, we saw the sign for the turn, and then the
lights.
We rolled into the lot, performed our final clown-car exit and fireman's shuffle before we clicked into our boards and relaxed on the old double chair for a short ride on the night-skiing slopes. I gazed down from the slow-moving chair at the determined people learning how to carve a turn on skis, like I did, way back when in Massachusetts, on a cold, clear night like this, under the lights.
We lapped the Little Beaver lift three times, wads of lift tickets flapping in the gravity-created wind. The lifties were happy and we hucked a few spread eagles off of a tiny bump. These short, final runs were above words, a language only a skier could truly understand.
Brian Schott is a freelance writer and founding editor of the Whitefish Review.
Morning breath and ski glove funk wafted through the air of the van as we arrived at Deer Valley, where we loaded the Jordanelle Express Gondola to Little Baldy Peak. I relaxed in the six-person cabin and gazed at mansions drifting by below us before we made a quick run down Littlestick to the Snow Park Lodge. 9:38 a.m.
After the short hop over to Park City, a small, local media frenzy greeted us and we burned a little time pretending we were celebrities. And we were. For a day. To a small group of people who understand why this stupid skiing stunt mattered.
With the vibe of the group now bordering on manic, we ripped up the perfect grooming on Pay Day. 10:13 a.m. The bluebird sky melted over me as my skis bit into the creamy snow. I wanted to stay and ski Jupiter Bowl. Please, just one lap on Pinecone Ridge. But The Canyons were calling. And the van was leaving.
We were starting to excel at our organized brigade of skis and poles in our fight against time. And after a ride up the Flight of the Canyons gondola and over to the Short Cut lift, the softening carpet of butter that the grooming machines had left on Doc's Run and the growing warmth of the air under a tropical ocean of sky, made me almost quit the quest and ski a few more runs here. 11:01 a.m. Five down--eight to go.
Adrenaline dropping, we devoured organic energy bars and the van transformed into a roving media center for the hour drive to Snowbird. iPhones, laptops, cameras, video and audio recorders created a bizarre scene, and the group was beginning to resemble a hilarious combination of teenager-geeks-gone-wild. Maybe it was the taurine in those energy drinks, but the laughter meter needle was on high.
We shot up the Peruvian Express lift to 10,518 feet and the snow on Chips Face was so good that it was like having a master chef plop juniper dusted elk tenderloin in front of you, allow the delicate smells to waft into your nostrils, then swipe it away. 12:16 p.m. A five-minute hop up Little Cottonwood to Alta and we dove down Sunspot, pushing up flares of fluffy snow. If there's a place in heaven for skiers, it looks like these slopes. I begged for another run. Fat chance. 12:40 p.m.
The 45-minute drive over to Big Cottonwood Canyon gave us enough time to devour massive sub sandwiches, fueling us to quickly rip through Brighton, dropping over to Solitude at 1:48 p.m., down Sensation and back in the van at 2 p.m. Seventy miles north lay Ogden and Snowbasin. And everything depended on Snowbasin. We had to be on that chairlift by 4 p.m.
With time to spare (3:53 p.m.), we rolled into the parking lot. We were hot and slightly punky, full from lunch, and weary from the road. As we approached the chair lift, employees slowly rang a large bell, like some ancient ritual as we loaded the John Paul Express. After gazing at the upthrusted rock on Mt. Ogden, we flew down the Wildflower Olympic Downhill course, like a giant funnel, literally sucking us down the mountain. I let my skis run.
Pressure off, we rolled to Wolf Creek, a small, local hill 50 miles away to catch some early night skiing. We chased a young racer down the hardening snow of Barney's Way as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Her smile was as big as the morning moon, twelve hours ago. 4:58 p.m.
Ten miles up the steep road lay Powder Mountain, another rolling massif spreading across 7,000 acres that wound up on my must-return-to-ski list. We lingered on the top of Sundown Ridge for at least 20 minutes, gazing out at the setting sun beyond the Great Salt Lake. The lights of Wolf Creek below us looked like pinpricks of silver in the glistening amber snow below a collapsing sky. 5:48 p.m.
I was not prepared for the pain. It wasn't even my boots. It was all in my head.
The 60-mile, two-hour drive to Beaver Mountain was excruciating. Tired.
Hungry. Smelly. Certainly these were words that now held real meaning.
But finally, mercifully, we saw the sign for the turn, and then the
lights. We rolled into the lot, performed our final clown-car exit and fireman's shuffle before we clicked into our boards and relaxed on the old double chair for a short ride on the night-skiing slopes. I gazed down from the slow-moving chair at the determined people learning how to carve a turn on skis, like I did, way back when in Massachusetts, on a cold, clear night like this, under the lights.
We lapped the Little Beaver lift three times, wads of lift tickets flapping in the gravity-created wind. The lifties were happy and we hucked a few spread eagles off of a tiny bump. These short, final runs were above words, a language only a skier could truly understand.
Brian Schott is a freelance writer and founding editor of the Whitefish Review.
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Oh, the "upthrusted rock Mt. Ogden." Brian, you're making me miss home!!!!