20 Degrees
I roll over in my sleeping bag to check the temperature. This is when I realize that 20 degrees is about the coldest I'd be willing to tolerate in the spartan confines of the Uncle Andy Inn. I'll splurge on a hotel if & when the mercury drops into the teens. I pull the bag up over my head for extra warmth as I doze off for a couple more hours.
The location of this particular spate of vagabondage is the overflow parking lot for Schweitzer Mountain Resort, just outside the town of Sandpoint, Idaho. The brainchild of a dentist from Spokane named Jack Fowler, Schweitzer opened for business in the fall of 1963. Dr Fowler, who was hankerin' for a ski hill closer than his typical journey to Whitefish, MT, first noticed the snow-packed peak during a rest stop while returning from a ski weekend with his family in 1960. Likely between reprimanding his children for not peeing at the last stop and wistfully commenting to nobody in particular how they were making great time.
The 85 miles to Schweitzer were much more palatable to residents of Spokane than the 250 to Whitefish. Looking back on the origins of Schweitzer, Dr. Fowler recalled his modest ambitions for the mountain, "some land, an old Chevy engine and material for a rope tow. That was our vision Memorial Day weekend 1960." The ski area opened on December 4, 1963, with one chairlift and a rope tow. While Dr. Fowler founded the resort, its growth was shepherded by Jim Brown Jr., a lumber magnate who wanted to elevate it from a local ski hill to a national destination.
He and his family poured a fortune into the mountain, replacing the original lodge with a 3-story Bavarian-inspired lodge, hotels, condos, lights for night skiing, and a collection of new chairlifts. These substantial investments, while beneficial for the resort, unfortunately put the Brown family underwater. Facing significant debt burdens, they were forced to sell the resort 1998 to Harbor Properties, a Seattle-based ski resort operator. Since then the resort has continued the work that the Browns started, building new condos, lodges, and adding chairlifts.
Now the story behind how Schweitzer got its name is truly a delight. It's a story that belongs in the Emperor Norton realm of wackiness. In the late 1800s an eccentric Swiss hermit lived at the base of the mountain. He, by all accounts, kept to himself, except for one afternoon in 1892. A telegraph operator by the name of Ella Farmin was returning from work when she was startled by a man in full military regalia, rifle and all, emerging from the roadside brush. He took the bridle of her horse and walked for a quarter of a mile before ducking back into the brush.
Mrs. Farmin, justifiably rattled from the encounter, reported the incident to local authorities. The next day the Kootenai County Sheriff moseyed out to the man's mountainside dwelling to ask a few questions. When they arrived, they found the military uniform, but more alarmingly, found the skins of a number of cats that had disappeared from the neighborhood over the past few months. Apparently the man had acquired a taste for boiled cat stew, a plot twist worthy of an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. He was hauled off to an asylum, where his story was lost to history. The mountain, however, still bears his appellation - "Schweitzer," which is German for Swiss.
Boiled Cat Stew does sound like a good name for a dive bar rock band.
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I arrived to Schweitzer the day before, after my unsuccessful attempt to smuggle in a kilo of Columbian bam bam* across the bustling Northern Idaho border. It was just after 2 PM when I rolled into Sandpoint so I decided I'd do a couple hours of work at the library. The town of Sandpoint, ID is home to 8,639 residents and one fantastic library. The two story facility is larger and much more lavishly appointed than what I'd expect out of a library in a tiny Idaho town. I click-clack away on my computer until closing time at 6, when I decided to head up to Schweitzer to check out the mountain village.
*bag of oranges
It's a quick 20 minute drive from downtown Sandpoint to Schweitzer, a few hundred feet up some sweeping switchbacks. As I pull past dozens of condos dotting the mountainside, I see lights up on the mountain and teeny tiny dots zig-zagging their way down the hill. Well by god it looks like we got ourselves some night skiing!
I have only been night skiing once, maybe twice, when I was a youngster so I have to give it a try. I quickly throw on my gear that I had stowed away for tomorrow & set off down the bunny hill next to the parking lot. I hop on a rickety two-seater chair that dumps me off right by the village square. From there I load up on the Basin Express high speed quad next to a nice fella from Texas who is getting his last turns in before he heads back to the Lone Star State tomorrow.
The farther up the chair we go the colder and windier it gets. By the time we reach the top I'm full-on shivering. I slide off the chair and make a hard left for the alighted Midway run. As I start down I realize that night skiing is better in theory than in practice. In addition to the aforementioned frigidity, the light is so flat that depth perception proves to be difficult at best. About halfway down I narrowly avoid a collision with a snowboarder, both of us assuming the other would turn the other direction, like one of those awkward hallway dances we all do.
I make it to the bottom & decide that one night skiing run is more than enough. I pop off my planks and head into Taps Bar in the main lodge for a bite & a beer. I order myself a Cloud Mentality Hazy IPA from 10 Barrel Brewing in Bend and a helping of wings. While I'm enjoying the suds & grub a live band starts in on a kickass set of original tunes sprinkled between covers of The Grateful Dead, Bob Seger, Allman Brothers, Rolling Stones, and Tom Petty.
The music is so good I stick around for another beer, this time opting for the Apocalypse IPA, also from 10 Barrel. The lead singer of the band, after killing it on the banjo the first few songs, switches to an accordion... then a xylophone... then a kazoo... then a melodica... before finally bringing down the house with a ukelele. I don't think there's an instrument she can't play.
I drop some scratch in their tip jar on my way out, a pittance compared to what they deserved. Then back partway down the mountain to the overflow parking lot outside the fire station between camper vans & RVs for a cold night at the Uncle Andy Inn.
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The next morning I crawl out of my sleeping back and stretch my legs in the snowy parking lot. It looks like we got around 3" of fresh snow, a good sign for the day's skiing. I set up my camping stove and heat up a can of soup while wiping the sleep out of my eyes. The soup thaws out my frozen bones and I pack up camp before heading back up to the mountain. I was a tad lethargic this morning so I won't be getting the first turns on the fresh pow but I should still get up there pretty early.
As I wind my way up the mountain road past sign after sign that read "LOT FULL" I realize I may not still get up there pretty early. Sunday of Presidents Day weekend after a much needed helping of fresh snow will draw skiers like moths to a flame. I finally find a spot in the very last row of the very last lot, which, at this point, is good enough for me.
As I'm unloading my gear I the car next to me says that I'd be better off waiting for the shuttle, as the line for the little two seater lift I took yesterday will take over an hour. Sheesh. I grab my skis and trudge over to the shuttle line, which has grown distended with alpine athletes.
While waiting in line the parents in front of me attempt to corral their kids as best as possible while ambulatorily challenged in ski boots and loaded down with gear. 3 kids, 2 parents. Outgunned and overworked.
"Hey Jody, don't jump into the snow like that, you'll get snow in your coat," dad says to the little boy as he turns his attention to Jody's sister. Like clockwork a minute later Jody's eyes grow wide as saucers before he breaks into tears.
Poor Jody got snow in his coat. Hate to say dad told ya so little buddy.
One shuttle comes & goes before we pile onto the next one to whisk us up the hill to the mountain village. The shuttle driver apparently thinks he's driving for Red Bull, taking each hairpin turn at maximum velocity. All of us standing up in the back similarly disadvantaged in our ski boots smash into whichever unfortunate soul happens to be on the outside wall of the turn.
All of which was an absolute delight to Jody. The little man was shouting wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee the entire ride up. It was pretty adorable.
The bus drops us at the mountain village, where I click into my skis and head for the Great Escape Quad. As I head up the lift I admire the expansive bowl of skiable terrain. The runs off to the left don't look like they've been skied out yet so I reckon I better head that-a-way. I hang a left off the lift down the Gypsy Ridge and drop into the fresh, fluffy, delicious powder of White Lightening. There are whole sections of the run that are completely untouched, leading me to rip a few laps on this particular section of the hill while it's still fresh.
After perusing the Schweitzer Bowl I drop into the Outback Bowl on the backside of the mountain. The first run I hit was very skied out, with enormous moguls that have me sweating by the time I reach the bottom. I ride back up the Colburn Triple & on my next descent I find a much more enjoyable route. I roam around the back here for a few runs, exploring all that the Outback has to offer. My only gripe about this area has to do with the chairlift layout. In 2019 they replaced the fixed-grip 2-seater Snow Ghost chair with a two lift setup. The bottom 2/3rds of the bowl are served by the Cedar Park Express high speed quad, while the top section is accessed by the Colburn fixed-grip triple. It's a truly asinine layout.
I think what it boils down to is a classic case of overthinking it. Their rationale is that the bottom lift will serve beginner/intermediate-level skiers, while the top lift will access terrain more desirable for advanced/expert skiers. While this is true, beginners can still access the more approachable runs from the top & I'm sure that advanced skiers would prefer a longer run to a shorter one. The unloading point for the Cedar Park Express is maddeningly close to the top of the bowl, if they had just extended the lift a few hundred feet they wouldn't have even needed to build the second lift. As it stands, you need to take a slow-speed triple chair to get out of the bowl, and in ~80% of the bowl you'll need to take two chairs. I have really enjoyed my time here, however this is the one aspect of the mountain that will annoy me to no end.
Anyhoo, on one chair I chat with a couple who tell me that I need to venture all the way to the bottom of the bowl, below the lifts I've been riding, to a great bar called the Outback Inn. So my next run I scoot on down there to get eyes on the bar, which looks like a pretty awesome hang with a mountain cabin feel. It's another hour or so till lunchtime so I decide to come back for some sustenance after a couple more runs. As I slide past the bar I immediately strike that plan from the itinerary. The line for the Stella high-speed 6-pack - the only chair that serves this area - is extensive. I will most certainly not be coming back here, sorry Outback.
After an interminable wait I finally board Stella. At the top I hang a right to the Colburn Triple, which takes me to the top of the bowl, where I can drop back into the front side. I make my way back down to the mountain village for a little mid-day supper. On my way to the lodge I see a small crowd gathered 'round a snowcat parked in the middle of the village. Well what do we have here? I saunter up to the vehicle to find a sign on the side that says "BEER CAT."
10 Barrel Brewing teamed up with pro snowboarder and amateur handyman Mike Basich to create a beer bar on wheels... Or, rather, tracks. He documented the process of building out the Beer Cat, have a look.
I scoot up to the Cat and order myself a Nature Calls Mountain IPA. I enjoy the tasty suds on the brick-lined streets of Schweitzer Village, the first beer I've ever enjoyed from a snow-based conveyance.
After lunch I make my way up to the Lakeview Triple chair, which access some great advanced terrain at the top of the Schweitzer Bowl. The line for the chair is non-existent and the snow is fantastic. I take 5-6 spins over here, my only complaint being the brevity of the runs. I finish out the day exploring the rest of the Schweitzer Bowl before calling it a day. A respectable 24,525 vertical feet.
I unstrap the planks and take a load off with a Schweitzer Après pilsner at Taps. Sometimes a beer just hits different after a day of hard skiing. After savoring the cold cruiser I make my way down to the car for the short drive to Spokane, WA. My friend and former co-worker Matt and his lovely wife Caitlin have graciously opened their home to this scraggly rambler living off the road. After sleeping in my car last night I am certainly not too proud to take them up on it.
Spokane
My consummate hosts moved to Hooptown USA in the summer of 2021, when Caitlin matriculated to the Elson S. Floyd College of Medicine at Wazzu-Spokane. It's a nice, easy 90 minute drive to their place, where I roll up just before suppertime. I am greeted at the door by their adorable dog Barley, who gets a full complement of scratches and pets. The human residents receive hugs. It's been a few years since we've seen each other so we have plenty to catch up on. Matt mostly about groundbreaking developments in protein powder technology and bicep curl techniques*; Caitlin about her studies and how much of the Krebs Cycle she can recall.
*We actually had many substantive, erudite conversations. Matt is a great dude. I'm just contractually obligated to make jokes about his beefcakery. It is in no way a feeble attempt to deflect feelings of envious inadequacy related to his ceaseless accumulation of sculpted, lean mass. I would never.
I worked up an appetite on the slopes so we load up and head to Daft Badger Brewing for supper just across the Idaho border in Couer d'Alene. I order myself the pulled pork sandwich and a Mosaic SMASH IPA to warsh it down. We continue to reminisce over dinner, waxing poetic about the halcyon days of the San Antonio office. Those were the days.
After supper we head back to the house & chat a bit more before hitting the sack. The next morning I wake up & rumble into the kitchen for some coffee.
"Mornin!" Caitlin cheerily greets me as she fixes me a cup o' joe. "Have you ever heard of Lookout Pass?"
"Sure haven't"
"It's a little local ski area about an hour from here, I just read that they got a foot of fresh snow last night."
I'm out the door before they can even say bye. The ski area is 80 miles straight down I-80 East. The road is a bit slick in patches but nothin' the ol' Nissan can't handle. I arrive to find the parking lot completely full, with snowplows clearing spots in the overflow area. I gear up and make the long trudge up a slight incline to the lodge. I purchase a modestly priced day pass and slide down to the Peak 1 Quad.
I hop on the chair & start chatting with a couple fellas who also made the drive over from Spokane this morning. I ask advice for a first timer & they tell me the Big Dipper run on the North Side has been skiing great. We reach the top & I thank them for their intel and head towards Big Dipper. Or so I thought. I get a little turned around and bomb down a run by the name of Hercules instead. To be fair with a foot of fresh snow it really doesn't matter which run you go down, it's going to be epic. Hercules is a pretty kickass name anyhow.
In a stark contrast to the corporate ski resorts I've been frequenting with my Ikon, Lookout Pass has a local mountain charm. No glitz. No glamor. Just good, hard skiing. It's the kind of place from 80s ski movies where everyone knows each other, drinks cheap beer, and plots against the evil corporate developers planning to turn the mountain into a Starbucks.
The lifts don't run as fast as the high speed quads & 6-packs, but that just leaves more time for chatting with the locals. And it's mostly locals here at this little hill on the Idaho-Montana border. And when I say on the border I mean on the border. Half of the runs are in Idaho & half are in Montana. I didn't hear any jawing from Idaho or Montana residents about which runs are better but I have to imagine it occurs. At least if people as immature as I live 'round these parts.
All of the runs trundle away from the same peak in different directions, so you don't really need a trail map. You just throw yourself off the top until you reach a lift & ride it back up. It would seem impossible to get lost here but I'd put it at even odds that my mother would somehow find a way. Whatever the case, it makes for a very symmetrical elevation trace on SkiTracks.
None of which is to say that the skiing is subpar. I would love to have this as my local mountain. And this is the best snow I've had the entire trip. I am happy as a hippo.
I spend the afternoon cruising the wide open bowl on the frontside of the mountain, occasionally popping into some nice glades with beautiful fluffy powder. As the day comes to a close I just continue my final run past the lodge and through the snowy parking lot all the way to my car. Thank goodness the whole lot slopes downhill, skiing in two different states in a single day can really take it out of you!
I encounter a minor snafu while loading up my gear when my rooftop cargo box won't lock. It's about 10 degrees outside, which turns my poor hands into icicles while trying to torque the little key. I curse the obstinate cargo box, reluctant to release the key from its labyrinthine chamber. I capitulate before catching frostbite and duck into the car for about 10 minutes to warm up my paws. The second try is a charm, but not without a significant struggle and more cursing.
I make it back to Matt & Caitlin's before sundown, just as Muscle Milk Matt is heading to the gym. He invites me to join him as the gymnasium has a hot tub where I can soak my sore muscles. Y'damn right. We check in at the front counter, where I pay the \$10 vigorish for a day pass. I head to the locker room to change into my trunks before a hastily scribbled sign triggers an overwhelming tsunami of despair in my soul.
SPA TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.
Sunofabitch.
I was really looking forward to stewing in a sweltry pool of stagnant water with a group of septuagenarians. Well at least my chance of catching MRSA has dropped precipitously. I wait in the lobby while Matt gets his swole on, never one to get in the way of a fellow brother in iron's gainzzz. After the gym we head back to the house for Barley's birthday dinner. We give the birthday girl all the love & affection she deserves.
The next morning we* brainstorm the day's Wordle over coffee. One of Caitlin's classes has organized a Wordle competition and she's near the top of the pack. After a few minutes of deliberations, we** solve the puzzle on the second try. An outstanding result that will keep her near the top of the leaderboard. That's trusting the process.
*I contributed nothing of value
**Again, I'm using the first-person point of view very liberally here
After the big win Matt agrees to stand in as tour guide for the cosmopolis of Spokane. We make the short drive into town and start with lunch at an outstanding Thai place. After Xāh̄ār klāngwạn we head to the center of downtown for a spate of aimless ambling. We cruise through Riverside Park, past art installations and pavilions towards the sounds of crashing water.
We stop at A Place of Truths Plaza, a viewpoint overlooking the lower Spokane Falls and the graceful arches of the Monroe Street Bridge. Bridge you say?
The Monroe Street Bridge spans 896 feet over the Spokane River, the longest concrete arch bridge in the US and third longest in the world when it was completed in 1911. The stately bridge was designed by Spokane City Engineer John Chester Ralston, supervised by city engineers, and built by local labor crews, a truly home-grown masterpiece. The bridge also sports pedestrian walkways on either side, complete with covered pavilions boasting life-sized bas-relief bison skulls at each pier point of the main arch. I'll never tire of the elegant shape of an arch bridge.
After admiring Spokane's civic achievements we stroll over to the Washington Water Power building, the former site of a hydroelectric generation plant built in 1890. Like a couple of scofflaws we step over a chain alerting us that the park is closed due to the snowy conditions. We walk right up to the water's edge for a better view of the falls. A sharp gust blows off the river that chills us to the bone. Yeah, I think I've had enough of the park. We set off back towards the car, straight into the teeth of an unrelenting wind. By the time we make it back my body is shivering like a wobbly washing machine on spin cycle.
Then it's back to the homestead for my last night in Spokane, which totally sounds like a country song.
Watchin' our breath in the cold mountain night
Sayin' without knowin' it's gonna be all right
Layin' in the arms of my sweetheart LuAnne
Tonight is all we got, it's my last night in Spokane
Or somethin' like that.
Just gotta find a nice young lady named LuAnne
Back at the house we have supper before a couple games of Dominion. It's my first time playing so I certainly don't win but it's a lot of fun. It's easy to set up, the games are quick, and the permutations are nearly infinite so you can't just hone in on a certain strategy. This is a game I will definitely be purchasing. After getting demolished one final time I hit the sack to rest up for my drive tomorrow.
Cousin Randy is flying into Bozeman tomorrow for a few days of skiing Big Sky with me. His flight is scheduled for 12 noon and the drive is 6 hours, which means I'll have to leave at 5 AM to beat him there, accounting for the timezone change, of course. We'll see about that.
Big Sky Bound
My alarm squawks bright & early and I lethargically peel myself out of bed after a few smashes of that snooze button. My torpor continues as I languidly load the car and shove off right at 6:30. Sorry Rand, at least the views from the BZN airport are amazing.
The directions from Google Maps are pretty straightforward.
- Get on I-90 E.
- Follow I-90 for 375 miles to exit 299.
- Follow Airway Blvd to Gallatin Field Rd.
I think I can figure that out.
About 20 miles east of town I pass by the beautiful vistas of Lake Couer d'Alene, which was completely obscured by snow the other day when I rolled through on my way to Lookout Pass. Which, speak of the devil, I pass right by about 60 more miles down the road.
As I'm winding through the Rattlesnake Mountains of the Lolo National Forest I glance down at my car's thermometer.
-17°F.
Holy smokes.
Speaking of smoke, it's so cold outside that the frigid waters of the St. Regis River are smoking like a hot tub. The heat from my body has created a thin layer of ice on the inside of my window. It's not just cold, it's fucking cold.
About 15 minutes from the airport I get a text from Randy that they just landed. Looks like I'm not the only one running late today. I pull up to the terminal to wait for Rand to emerge.
And wait...
And wait...
It's nearly 45 minutes before he steps out into the brisk Montana air. We'll just blame their laggardly baggage handling system on supply chain issues. Or wait, is it that nobody wants to work anymore? Has to be one of those. They seem to assuage all episodes of disproportionate indignation these days.
I give Randy a big bear hug & load his gear into the car. We set our course for the Mountainview Lodge a few miles north of downtown Bozeman, one of the very few reasonable accommodation options. The most modestly priced room in downtown Bozeman is over \$600/night and if we want to get near the ski hill it would set us back over a grand. This is my fourth time coming to Big Sky and I have never seen prices even approach this level of lunacy. I've always stayed right by the mountain for a decent rate. Hell last year we got a ski-in/ski-out joint. This time we'll have to drive nearly an hour each way. Dadgum.
We drop our bags at the hotel and head towards downtown Bozeman, a delightful little mountain town with stone buildings, ski shops, saloons, and boutique stores where you can spend a small fortune trying to look like a cowboy caricature from Yellowstone. Speaking of which, as we near downtown Randy asks how far it is to Yellowstone. I know the north entrance is just south of here a piece and after consulting Google Maps it appears to be an hour and a half. Since we have nothing better to do we decide to bomb down there to check it out.
We head east for 25 miles to the Yellowstone River Valley, just to the east of the Gallatin Canyon, home of Big Sky. We are treated to stunning views of two dramatic ridges of mountain peaks flanking a wide valley dotted with farms. As we're driving we begin to notice the road conditions deteriorating. Before we know it the entire road is covered in a layer of snow & ice. The sun is starting to sink low in the sky & we find out that it will set just after we get to the park. So it will be cold, we won't be able to see much at the park, and the entire drive back to Bozeman will be in the dark. After a quick discussion we make the prudent decision to cut our losses & turn back now.
We probably should have thought of that before setting off on this foolish endeavor, but sometimes you just gotta give into your impulses. And we got some great views anyhow.
We make it back to the hotel and decide to have supper at the 19th Hole Bar & Grill right next door. I order myself a Haze Trip Hazy IPA from Bozeman Brewing and a jerk mango chicken sandwich that's surprisingly good for a little pub-grub watering hole on the outskirts of town. After supper we hit the sack, ready for some Big Sky skiing.
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"Well the crazy bastard actually did it"
"Huh?"
"Putin. He invaded Ukraine this morning"
"Well shit, that's not good"
We lethargically pull on our ski gear while watching the news and doomscrolling Twitter. We head down to the lobby for some coffee & brekky before our southerly trip to the heart of the Madison Range. As we emerge from the sliding doors of the hotel the needle of a thermometer catches my attention. 0°F. It's gonna be a cold one out there.
Randy and I hit the road, winding through the scenic ravines of the Gallatin River canyon. Fortunately the roads are clear. Unfortunately we're behind a semi truck that refuses to use the roadside pullouts so we're forced to trudge along at 30 mph the entire way.
After an intolerably slow drive with a car train stretching as far as the eye can see we finally make the left turn into Big Sky - the place where the ski bug bit me right in the ass back in 2018. As I mentioned, this is my fourth journey to The Biggest Skiing in America. The second was the first weekend in 2020, right before everything shut the fuck down, and the third was February 2021 after I caught the plague & my immaculate immune system was on full alert.
I absolutely love Big Sky. I would probably consider this my home mountain. After that first trip I was talking among the fellas how great it was and the gals encouraged buying a vacation home there. We kicked the tires on it but didn't get too far down the road but boy do I wish we had. That sucker would have probably at least doubled in value. Y'know hindsight and all that.
We find a parking space and get all geared up. Geared up and layered up. Layers are essential today with these bone chilling temps. Speaking of which, when I open the cargo box I find that the delicious bottles of wine I purchased in Oregon are not a fan of the cold either. Pretty dumb to leave them out in the cold, although it honestly didn't even cross my mind. Glad they were in the cargo box & not inside the car at least.
The shuttle swings around and we hop on for the short ride to the hill. This is when my enthusiasm for Big Sky begins to wane. When we first came here in 2018 there were some nice amenities, sure, but it was mostly about the skiing. You still felt a bit grimy walking into Scissorbill's Saloon. By the grace of god Scissorbill's is still here, however around it has sprung up bistros, gastropubs, cafés, boutiques, lounges, and ristorantes. It's sickening.
When Covid hit, one of the pyrrhic beneficiaries of the disgorging of the roiling masses of jagoffs from Northern California was Bozeman, MT. Its housing supply bulged at the seams, causing skyrocketing prices that are displacing locals and making it nearly impossible for service sector workers to find a place to live. A Bozeman local even took to "begging" for a home, having been outbid for dozens of others.
As we slide up to the Swift Current chair we see the temperature is still hovering around 0 °F at the base, -5 °F at the summit. Frigid. The Swift Current, which used to be a high-speed quad, has been upgraded this year to a high-speed 6-pack with heated seats and a bubble visor. The seating capacity of the chair has increased by 50% yet the line is ridiculously long. It's the longest line I've seen anywhere at Big Sky. What in the hell is happening to my beloved mountain?? I came here for the skiing not for the heated seats. The "Don't Vail Big Sky" sticker I saw my first time is really hitting different right now. I'm a flatlander from Oklahoma but this place holds a special place in my cold, dark heart. As one of the gentrifying outsiders I hate to see all these gentrifying outsiders ruin my home of one-week-a-year.
As Randy and I make our way to the top we hear some Boston accents. For fucks sake, we're getting gentrified by Massholes. Californians are bad enough but Massholes?? If it weren't for this bubble I might just peel out of this contraption and leave these suckers behind.
We find out that they are the reason for the huge line, apparently everyone on the East Coast is on their "winter break" from school and they all decided to come to Big Sky. Fuckin East Coast elite shitheads. What the hell is winter break anyways? Kids these days are soft.
We finally reach the top and peel off to the right for the Powder Seeker lift. This lift accesses a wide bowl of great terrain & one of my favorite places to run laps. The top of this lift also accesses the Lone Peak Tram, a cableway strung from the top of Lone Peak that shuttles two glorified buckets to and fro up a sheer vertical face to an elevation of 11,150'. On a clear day you can see three states and two national parks. Most of the best skiing at Big Sky spreads out from the top of the tram. Unfortunately that makes it a popular destination and wait times have been known to eclipse two hours.
Bottom: the view looking up the tram line towards Lone Peak
This year the corporate bigwigs running the mountain have decided to begin charging for access to the tram. Today it's \$80. Yikes. When we reach the top I peek over to the tram and see that the line at least an hour long. \$80 and an hour wait for each ride. Double yikes. I'd love to show Randy the outstanding views and killer lines from the top but it's hard to justify. If it were \$80 and no wait or an hour wait and no charge I think we'd give it a look. But not both. Ain't nobody got time for that.
So we take a few laps on Powder Seeker before heading over to Moonlight Basin. This isn't my favorite area, the skiing is just ok and a ton of runs funnel down to a single lift, which results in some pretty long lines for the Six Shooter chair. But I figure I should show Randy the whole mountain while he's up here. As we're cruising down some groomies towards Six Shooter I hear a horrific scrape and a tug on my right ski. What the fuck? Did I just hit a rock? On a groomer?
I can't describe the feeling deep, deep down in the pit of your soul when you gash the very first pair of skis you've ever owned. In fact, I don't think the English language can adequately describe it. German has a word, Weltschmerz, that's been said to be untranslatable into English, but has been approximately described to mean "the weariness that comes with knowing that the world is going to let you down no matter what and there's nothing you can do to stop it." That might come close.
But as they say in the skiing community, "they're tools not jewels." I was bound to rough em up at some point but it's still painful. We make it down to Six Shooter and thankfully the line ain't too bad. Unfortunately, though, the mercury has continued to sit at 0 °F and my feet are starting to turn into popsicles. We ski back down to the main area and dip into the lodge for a bit to warm up my tootsies. I buy a set of toe warmers, the first performance enhancers I've needed since buying these Rossignol ski boots in 2017.
After about 15 minutes we gear back up and head out there. I decide to take Randy around the backside to show him the Shedhorn & Dakota areas. We make our way around yonder and the snow ain't much better back here. Dakota has some of my favorite glade skiing but almost the entirety of the glades are exposed stumps and boulders. It's a pretty sad sight. We end up grabbing a quick bite at the Shedhorn Lodge, a yurt on the backside that specializes in chili and cold beers. While at the yurt we see a nice looking run that just might be accessible from the Dakota chair. Figure we should give it a shot.
We head over to the Dakota chair then traverse hard right at the top. It's a hell of a workout, across the bottom runout of the Liberty Bowl and through a small ribbon of snow cut across a rockfield. Finally we reach the ridge and peer over the side to find a nice steep bowl of decent looking snow. We drop in and it skis like a dream. Steep & open with great fluff to link turns all the way down in one go. Whoooo boy that was fun as hell, we should do it again. So we do.
It's getting late in the day and the lifts back here are about to close so we head back over to the frontside. We have another hour till quittin' time so we load up on the Ramcharger 8 seater for a few laps on the far Eastern flank of the mountain. The runs aren't too challenging but we go full send anyway. We was goin' fast.
All things considered it was a decent day. Not great, not terrible. Six Shooter all the way over to Dakota plus Ramcharger is a pretty full survey of the mountain. Plus scrounging together 25,000' of vertical on the worst snow conditions I've seen here is respectable. At the base we talk with one of the workers who said they didn't even groom last night because the coverage was too thin. My lord.
Bozeman
Randy and I head back to the car and load up for the drive back to Bozeman. While we're driving I remember a couple friends-of-friends that we met last time skiing out here that are good people. I text my buddy Petey (he's a good egg) for their information and shoot Luke & Lindsay a text to see if they want to hang out in Bozeman. We agree to meet up at The Cannery at 6:30, which should give Randy and I some time to cruise around downtown a bit.
We park the rig and set out on foot, wandering about with no purpose. We pop into a ski equipment and apparel store, where a shirt sporting a bison inside a Grateful Dead stealie catches my eye. Randy grabs it and says he'll buy it for me for driving. Gee thanks, cuz!!
We head back out onto Main Street for some more rambling when I see an old clock & watch shop that draws me in like the Sirens of Odysseus. We walk around and admire the horological treasures, chatting with the young fella working. They have a couple nice Rolexes but my favorite watches they had were the Zeppelins, a German brand from the same manufacturers of Junkers, named after aviation pioneer Hugo Junkers. I'm a sucker for pilot's watches and the guy at the shop notices the IWC Pilot Spitfire on my wrist. I see myself go up a notch in his book.
Before we know it it's time to meet Luke & Lindsay so we head over to The Cannery & belly up to the bar. They join us a few minutes later and we catch up on everything that's happened since we last saw each other in the beforetimes. When they ask how the skiing was I don't hold back. I lay into Big Sky about both the new yuppie developments and the horrendous snow. Luke tells me he can't help me on the former but may be able to on the latter. He just got done snowboarding at Bridger Bowl, a smaller resort popular among locals for its proximity to Bozeman and its playground of advanced and extreme terrain. He says the snow conditions are great, which causes Randy and I to perk up like a of couple middle aged divorcées on half priced cosmo night at Margaritaville. We look at each other and decide right then and there to rip up Bridger Bowl tomorrow. Big Sky is for the birds.
We have a couple more brewskis before Luke & Lindsay have to skedaddle. We close out our tabs & venture out into the blustery Montana winds. We quickly find out that it's going to be damn near impossible to find a table for supper so we load back into the car and head back to the ol trusty 19th Hole. This time I wash down the steak mushroom & swiss sando with a pint of Strange Cattle IPA from MAP Brewing. Again, I am surprised at how good the food is here. By god.
After supper we head down for a soak in the hot tub. We slowly sink into the tub and I mean slowly because it's probably the hottest water I've ever felt in a hot tub. It feels magnificent on muscles that have already skied 5x more than I normally do in a season. After a few minutes Randy climbs out of the tub and jumps in the pool.
"Ohhhh man this feels great!"
"Really?"
"Yeah it's great for your body, hot to cold back & forth, the Romans used to do it"
When in Rome I suppose.
I hop in the pool and Randy ain't lying. This feels exhilarating. All those Bay Area schmucks may have their villas and their bistros and their vegan mocktails but they ain't got this. And boy do they not know what they're missing. We do a few hot-cold cycles before cleaning up and hitting the sack. Got more alpine athletics tomorrow.
Bridger Bowl
The next morning we wake up refreshed & excited to check out Bridger Bowl. I've heard great things but never skied it because we've always stayed down by Big Sky. Maybe those East Coast assholes taking up all the hotels down yonder are a blessing in disguise. The drive to Bridger is much shorter, only about 15-20 minutes compared to Big Sky's hour plus.
As we pull into the ski area we drive past a sign that reads "Ski Bridger Bowl - Ski the Cold Smoke". Cold smoke is a reference to the dry, light powder that tends to fall on the Bridger Mountains. The North-South orientation of the ridge protects the cold smoke from the prevailing winds that can whisk away even the deepest dumps at Big Sky.
The ski area began in 1950 as a modest operation with one employee and a rope tow operated by an old car. Soon the Bridger Bowl Association was formed, a not-for-profit entity founded by a group of Bozeman skiers. The association was governed by a nine-member volunteer board of directors and still operates this way to this day. All of the operating profits since day one have gone back into the mountain, creating incremental, yet organic growth. Membership in the association is open to all Montana residents over the age of 18 who can scrounge together \$25 for the application fee. Any new development needs to be approved by the membership, which means we won't be seeing any luxury lodges heated lifts like down south at Big Sky. And that's just the way they like it.
We find a decent parking spot and hoof it up to the ticket counter. Bridger isn't on the Ikon pass so we order a couple of day passes, which are affordably priced as far as lift tickets go. After getting set up with our passes we wander over to the Sunnyside chair to meet Luke and a few of his buddies.
This is Luke's home mountain so we'll let him chaperone; we're just along for the ride today. On our way up we can't help but notice the imposing cliffs of the Ridge looming over the ski area. Looks like some pretty gnarly terrain up there, most of which is accessed via hiking. There are a few places that look reasonable, but I think we'll just stick to the lift serviced terrain today. Perhaps I'd be willing to try out a Ridge shot with fresher snow & more familiarity with the mountain, but alas.
Off the Sunnyside chair we head right and do a few laps on the Powder Park & Alpine chairs, darting through the trees for some nice patches of fluffy snow. We start to work our way back to the left, to the Bridger chair then Pierre's Knob. At the top of Pierre's Luke & his buddies split off to ski an area that requires you to carry an avalanche beacon. Randy and I drop down into Emil's Mile, a steep & wide chute that is right in our wheelhouse. We do a few spins here at Pierre's, alternating between that run and a sick line we find on Last Chance.
After a few runs we head back down to the lodge for some lunch where we see Luke & the fellas. They are finishing up and are heading back to Bozeman so it will just be Rand & I for the rest of the day. We head right back up to our spot, taking run after glorious run between Bridger & Pierre's.
On one of the trips up the Bridger chair I lose Randy. He's sitting there right next to me one second. Gone the next. Like a fart in the wind. A little context: Bridger has a mid-way unloading station for folks who don't wish to conquer the terrain near the top. On this particular trip, near the end of the day, Randy inadvertently unloads at the midway station. We're right in the middle of a conversation when he stands up and slides down the offloading ramp just as the chair starts back skyward. All I can do is look down & laugh as I wave to him on my continued upward journey.
At most mountains, I'd simply text or call him to setup a rendezvous. However at Bridger Bowl there is absolutely no cell reception whatsoever. Not even a single 3G bar. So we're on our own now, hopefully destined to bump into each other in a lift line. I ski back down to the bottom & don't see Rand. Oh well, if I ain't see him on the hill I'll just meet him back at the car.
On my next trip up I witness one of the funniest dad moments I think I've ever seen. It reminded me so much of my old man that it hurt. About halfway up I see a kid, probably 5 years old, pizza-ing straight down the mountain like a madman. He's absolutely booking it. As you can imagine, he eventually wipes out, which isn't a big deal for a 5 year old because they are bundled up in puffy suits and their bones are made of rubber. So little man goes full-on yard sale, pauses for a sec, then starts wailing like he's been injured, injured bad. Right then I glance about halfway up the run to see dad, side stepping in his skis towards brother #2 who is in a heap about 20 yards further up the hill. Dad is laboring heavily. Dad is sick of this shit. Dad is questioning why he brought these little snots to the mountain today. As he's slogging his way against the force of gravity he hears the echos of brother #1 hollerin' from the spill. Dad turns, sees kid #1, and slowly dips his head in a tormented display of complete, tragic, and utter exasperation. Before my very eyes I have witnessed the transformation of a man into the true embodiment of pure and unequivocal despair. He's found himself wallowing in a deep, dark pit of Weltschmerz.
It's tough out there for a dad. I take a few more runs off Bridger and call it a day. I head into the lodge to see if I can find Randy to no avail. I grab a beer and post up on the patio to see if I can watch him come in. I see myriad skiers but none of them are ol' Rand. Maybe he's already at the car? I head down towards the rig & stop off at Grizzly Ridge, an outstanding ski bum watering hole where you'd probably get your ass kicked if you said the word "après". Seeing as we're doing as the Romans do on this trip, I order myself a tallboy of Montucky Cold Snacks for the walk to the car. A walkin' boy. I get to the car and still no Randy. Hmmmmm.
I peel off my ski boots and slide into some more comfortable footwear and head off back towards the lodge. Just as I'm nearing the base of the mountain I see cuz heading right fer me with the last stragglers off the hill. I gotta give it to Randy, he always manages to squeeze every last bit out of the day when he's on the slopes.
We load up the gear and head back towards town and the healing waters of the Mountainview hot tub. The tub feels extra relaxing today and I think I overstay my soak. As I slip into the pool for the Roman cooloff I start to feel a little lightheaded & slightly nauseous. I down my extra large water bottle and fill er up and down it again. I continue sippling off the water bottle in the pool for the next 15 minutes when the malaise begins to wear off. I didn't feel terrible just a little off. Tub time is best enjoyed in moderation's what I always say.
We're both pooped from a couple days of hard skiing so we don't even attempt to head downtown for supper. 19th Hole. If it ain't broke don't fix it. This time I order the French dip and even after adjusting my expectations to what seems unreasonably high for a joint of this caliber the 'Hole exceeds them. It might be some of the best food from a place with the words "Bar & Grill" in the name. Just a delicious little hidden gem on the outskirts of Bozeman.
After settling up we wander next door to the "casino," which is a room about the same size of the restaurant with a couple dozen slot machines and video poker stations. I snag a beer from the makeshift bar and watch Randy breakeven on a few hands of poker before he loses interest and we head back to the room. One more day on the slopes with ol Rand before he needs to git on & git back home to Vegas.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
We wake up the next morning and cram everything into our suitcases. Randy's flight isn't until later in the afternoon so we should be able to get almost a full day of skiing in. We load into the car and head back down to Big Sky, enjoying the balmy 15 °F weather.
We gear up & head right up to Powder Seeker for some warmup runs. Our first time up we peek over at the tram line and once again, it looks like it's at least an hour. The price even increased today to \$100. So if you are buying a day pass (which luckily we aren't because of the Ikon) and a tram pass you're shelling out \$330: \$230 for the main lift ticket & \$100 for the tram. Good god almighty. We settle for a couple spins in the shadow of Lone Peak before deciding to head over to Challenger. Outside of LP, this is probably my favorite section of the mountain. It's steep, it's fun, and it's a workout. Last year when all my friends called it a day I lapped Challenger until last bell. It was great.
On our way up the lift I can already see it's not going to be great. Sections that normally have pretty good coverage are full-on rock fields. We'll have to avoid some of my favorite lines because of the exposed rocks. Yikes. We do spot what looks like some good snow off to the right so we plan to head thataway. Off the chair we traverse over to skier's left and drop down into a run called Moonlight. And we quickly discover that it's not much better over here. We left skiing behind at the unload station and began a game of rock dodge. The first rule of rock dodge is dodge the rocks. The second rule of rock dodge is there is only one rule. I'm not very good at rock dodge. Rock dodge is no fun. I'm ready to be done with rock dodge.
After scraping the bottoms of my beautiful M5 Mantras on at least a dozen jagged extrusions of dacite porphyry we finally reach the ridge we peeped from the lift. It's a smallish steep-sided bowl that appears to have held its snow pretty well. We drop in and finally experience the thrill of beautiful, smooth, delicious snow. It's about damn time. The run is outstanding but much, much too short. We reach the bottom & decide that despite the great run at the bottom, getting there ain't worth it.
We head back up to Powder Seeker for a few more laps before venturing back to Dakota for a couple runs on our favorite little honey hole. The last time down an older fella at the bottom complimented us on our run. Y'damn right! Then it's back to Powder Seeker, the best area from a cost/benefit standpoint in our opinion. By the end of the day we tally 13 runs there, easily the most I've done off that lift, but typically there are a lot of other areas that aren't full of rocks.
Around 2 PM we call it a day and head to the car with a couple hours to spare before Randy's flight. Cuz makes a quick change into some more comfortable clothes and we git on down the road to the airport. I drop him off & give him a big hug, another successful ski trip in the books.
Next up Wyoming. Giddy up.