Hey Matis!
"I fell into a bowl ah powdah chowdah!!"
I look over to see Branch chest deep in fluffy Utah powder.
Eric (Lee?) Branch is a born-and-bred Masshole who moved out to Utah a few years ago and apparently couldn't afford a flight for his accent. He still pahks his cah before shredding the powdah at Pahk City.
Branch calls me "Matis" because he thinks I look like Mathisyahu. He spells it "Matis Yahoo."
Branch doesn't do things like the rest of us.
Where you or I might enjoy cold beer, Branch will down a bowl of loudmouth soup.
Where you or I might ski some powder, Branch will dip his oystah crackahs in tha powdah chowdah.
Branch hasn't met a soup based reference he didn't like.
Branch is fantastic.
I know Branch through my best good buddy Patrick, who went to college near Boston. And like two luminous supergiant elliptical galaxies, it was only a matter of time before the gravitational attraction of these two behemoth personalities collided.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The Crossroads of the West
I ring the doorbell in Holladay, Utah and I'm greeted with open arms by Bob, LaGayle, & their roving gang of canine rapscallions, Geno, Crosby, Paco, and ChaCha. They show me to my room where I unload my gear. They have a beautiful home and I'm less than half an hour from 4 incredible ski resorts on my pass. I feel like I've died & gone to Utah.
We catch up over a delicious supper that LaGayle has prepared - me of the exploits of the previous ten posts of this ridiculously preposterous road trip extravaganza - them of their goings on since our family took a ski trip out to Utah. That was spring break 2001 so my visit is long overdue.
One story from that 2001 trip has stuck with me - Bob was once skiing with a young relative or family friend when he decided to duck into the glades for a tree run. He told the youngster to continue on down the groomer & he'd meet him at the bottom by the lift. Well apparently the lad didn't get the memo and followed Bob into the trees where he found himself in quite a bind. He ended up alright but not without giving Bob quite a scare.
The thing that stuck with me so strongly as a 12 year old flatlander when I heard the tale is that someone could possibly ski through the trees. It blew my mind. I thought Bob must be an Olympic caliber skier, which to his credit, he wasn't far from - he was on the ski team at Dartmouth and a virtuoso on the slopes.
Unfortunately, he was forced into early retirement after a terrible car accident that he & LaGayle survived way back in Y2K. They are fortunate and grateful for their health but after the accident Bob's doctors advised him to hang up the planks. It's a damn shame because I can see a glimmer in his eye every time we talk skiing. As I recount the mountains I've skied, he asks the runs I took & I can see him visualizing every turn. He is simultaneously grateful for the mountains he has skied and rueful of the mountains he had yet to ski. It's a moment that forces me to reflect on my good fortune and feel a deep sense of gratitude for my health and the circumstances that have allowed me to partake in this incredible adventure.
We continue to chat after dinner, LaGayle telling stories of the fun that she used to have with my mom & grandpa in Tulsa. Those were the days.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
On the very first leg of this journey, as I matriculated my way westward, I had planned to crash one night with Patrick's sister Katie in Phoenix. Unfortunately that fell through due to a Covid contretemps. Well in a surprising stroke of serendipity I received a text out of the blue from Katie last week:
Katie's daughter Blake plays on a dominant volleyball team who has a chance to make the national tournament if this weekend goes well. My plans for Utah are fluid so meeting up with them should be easy peasy. Speaking of plans, I've been prodding Bob & LaGayle for a few tips from the locals for my Beehive State sojourn. They quickly warn me that the roads to most of the ski areas will be a parking lot tomorrow due to the overwhelming popularity of fresh pow Saturdays. Unlike the contributing members of our economy I am not beholden to weekends for my recreation so I don't have to go on a Saturday. The main reason for the gridlock lies in the unique topology of the Wasatch Range, which we'll take a look at in today's geography lesson.
The Canyons
The most iconic ski areas in the Salt Lake City area reside in The Canyons, more specifically Big Cottonwood Canyon and Little Cottonwood Canyon. The more substantial of the Cottonwood Canyons is home to Brighton & Solitude, while the more diminutive of the two boasts Alta and Snowbird. All four are well regarded but Alta/Snowbird have a special place in the hearts of many skiers.
More pink = more snow
These canyons receive legendary dumps of snow but, being canyons, are not ideally suited to accommodate the swarms of alpine athletes who flock to the two-lane canyon roads every winter. The past few decades of demographic trends show a steady population increase in the area, straining resources and worsening pollution in the valley. This inauspiciously dated article (March 6, 2020 the last weekend of the before times) notes that Utah was the fastest growing state in the Union from 2010-2018. This growth was accelerated during Covid, with a 15% increase in net migration rate from June 2020 to June 2021.
So it should come as no surprise that the canyon roads are consistently and maddeningly logjammed. There is certainly no shortage of anecdotal evidence - one skier estimates that his trip to Alta, which used to take 25 minutes, has grown to over 2 hours on a powder day. It's become so much of an issue that plans are in the works to construct a 9 mile gondola to alleviate the traffic problem. Even the most mildly perspicacious among us can deduce that this plan would be controversial. A number of groups have been organized to oppose the gondola espousing myriad reasons to cancel the project - some legitimate, some disingenuous NIMBY-ism. It's a sticky situation that won't be resolved without pissing somebody off. If you ask me I think the solution is pack mules. But that's probably why nobody's asked me.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to ski tomorrow, but it sounds like I'd be sitting in traffic and lift lines longer than actually sliding down a mountain. While mulling it over Katie invites me for some day drinking in Park City, which makes my decision easier than an "independent study" class for an Alabama football player.
Park City
The next morning I wake up for some coffee & breakfast with Bob, LaGayle, and the puppers. After brekky I get a quick workout in at their convenient home gym, showing my upper body some love after all the pounding my legs have taken on the slopes. The rest of the morning I just putz around, actually enjoying some time to relax & recuperate.
Just as I'm about to check the price of an Uber to Park City, Bob & LaGayle ask if I want a ride - they are heading up there anyways so I eagerly accept their magnanimous offer. We load up into Bob's Audi SUV with Pittsburgh Steelers license plates and set off towards PC. A half hour later they drop me off by the town gondola and tell me the garage code for the house in case I arrive at an unreasonable hour. Unreasonable hour? I would never.
Narrator: he would.
I wander around town for a bit before ducking into Collie's Sports Bar & Grill for a bowl of loudmouth while I wait for Katie & crew to finish up at the volleyball. While enjoying my Powder Buoy pilsner I get a text from Branch:
"We are gonna be a bit, left my wallet at the house so we've got to turn around"
Dammit Branch. This is a man who is responsible for the health and wellbeing of an infant. I can't believe you don't even need a permit to raise a child. Thankfully his lovely wife Katie does yeoman's work covering for the tomfoolery of her husband.
While Branch fetches his documents, I trundle over to No Name Saloon, a famous Park City watering hole right in the heart of town. Last year we wasted away an afternoon at No Name, drinking beers, eating wings, discussing the artistry of Tom Hanks. While analyzing the early career exploits of Commander Jim Lovell some light flurries began to dust the town like something out of a postcard. As afternoon turned to evening the snowfall intensified and damn near stranded us in Park City. We made it back to SLC by the skin of our teeth. Or perhaps more accurately the grip of our Goodyears. We passed dozens of vehicles on the side of I-80, some by choice, some.. not by choice.
No Name is a popular spot - last year at its busiest we peeked out the window to see the entry line had distended to 50 people long. To my delight there's no line when I arrive, plus the bouncer is a Bills fan so we spend 5 minutes talking about the inhuman things Josh Allen can do with his right arm. I post up at the bar and order myself a Johnny's American IPA from Moab Brewery to wait for the crew. Before I finish my pint I see Katie, Jesse and a couple other volleyball parents darken the door of the No Name.
Bear hugs are shared all around - it's only been 6 months since we've seen each other but I'll never take for granted an opportunity to kick it with the Easleys. We enjoy a round of suds while I regale them with a few tales from the road. Seeing as I've been on the road for almost two months one round turned to many. So it goes.
Branch eventually makes it to town, this time with his wallet, and we meet him & his lovely family at Flanagan's Irish Pub & Restaurant since wee baby Remy ain't allowed at a rough-n-tumble saloon like No Name. We enjoy a few more rounds of ales and a hearty supper before loading up for the trek back down I-80 to SLC. I bum a ride with Branch and just like clockwork the snow starts to dump as we're leaving town. The weather gods simply won't let me ride from Park City to Salt Lake on clear roads. Branch handles the snow with all the dexterity of a Bostonian and we it back safe & sound.
That was a lot of fun but I came here to ski. Tomorrow it's back to the slopes.
Deer Valley
Today I'm headed right back from whence I came, to Park City and the posh slopes of Deer Valley, a resort famous for its groomers. And rightfully so - every night a crew of 50 spends 17 hours over two shifts manicuring the mountain's groomed runs. I skied it last year with Patrick, Branch, and some other Beantown friends and had a good time - it was the last day of our trip so we just stuck to the cruisers and our legs thanked us for it. But the part of the day that I didn't like was the swarms of rich assholes that polluted the mountain like the Pacific Ocean trash island. If you don't know how to ski then get the hell out of the way.
A quick story that perfectly encapsulates the milieu of Deer Valley: last year amid the cruising, we stopped off at a mountaintop bar for some refreshments. Seeing as it was our last day we decided to treat ourselves and splurged on a \$150 bottle of Veuve Clicquot to split 5 ways. In a surprising, but not altogether disappointing, development they were sold out. Of a hundred and fifty freaking dollar bottle of champagne. By noon! That's the kind of clientele that comes to Deer Valley. That's the kind of clientele that ain't never whooped out loud at the sight of a pulling center. Chumps.
It worked out alright for us because we audibled to a bottle for half the price. Which was so nice we ordered it twice!
Now, most of the time I can just ignore rich assholes. But the thing about rich assholes on a mountain is that you can't avoid them. And they ruin the experience for everyone. They slosh snow around like pontoon boats on the 4th of July, they wipe out getting off the chair, they stop where you're not supposed to stop, they go where you're not supposed to go. They take videos of their snot-nosed kids who they think are the next Jean-Claude Killy. They ruin the vibe. But Deer Valley is the only resort on my pass that's not in the canyons so I won't have to deal with the nightmare that is canyon roads after a fresh snow. Like most things in life it's all about tradeoffs.
There are no \$150 bottles of champagne in my future, however a bowl of turkey chili sure is. LaGayle told me as I left the house this morning that the Deer Valley turkey chili is a must, it's the best meal she's ever had on a ski mountain. And Bob has a fondness for Deer Valley due to its forbiddance of snowboarders. According to Bob, "there's a genetic defect in snowboarders aged 18-25 that just don't give a shit about anybody else." So for that reason alone Deer Valley & Alta would be high on his list, as they are two of the only three ski resorts in the US that prohibit snowboarding. The third is Mad River Glen in Vermont if you were curious.
When I was a younger lad Taos was also on the no-snowboarding list. That is until 2007 when the they succumbed to the pot-smokin' board jockeys, which did not come without its rumblings. One family, who purchased a ski chalet in Taos for \$1 million and sank another cool \$1 million into remodeling, put it up for sale when the snowboard ban was lifted. They must really hate snowboarders.
My first few runs at Deer Valley are spent weaving between sloppy piles of snow sitting atop pistes scraped down to the ice by jackasses who'd think you're talking about a turkey if you asked about carving. And then dodging the jackasses themselves - on my third run while cruising down an easy blue run some imbecile comes from behind me and skis over the back of my planks, causing me to go ass-over-teakettle. The landing was soft and I wasn't traveling too swiftly but I yelled at the prick nonetheless. Rich ski assholes. Can't stand em.
My day improves on the lift ride up when a fella by the name of Jacob offers me a nip of bourbon. He's not one of the rich assholes. Jacob is a real one. I spend the early part of the morning taking some runs off the Sultan Express lift, which has some good runs but they are tracked out pretty bad. I scoot across the mountain to the Lady Morgan area where I finally find some good snow. It's slightly far afield and most of the runs over here are more advanced so it keeps the riff-raff away. Which is fine by me because the Lady Morgan Bowl is easily the best skiing on the mountain.
I take a few spins over here before my lunch date with a bowl of turkey chili. After one bite I realize that LaGayle knows what she's talking about (not that I ever doubted her). I warsh it down with a Pale Ale from UTOG Brewing Co. out of Ogden, UT.
After lunch I cruise around Flagstaff Mountain, the biggest section of the resort I've yet to explore. I bank a few nice, easy runs here before heading back to the Sultan for a couple leg burners and before I know it the day is over. 23,400' of vert, I'll take that.
Katie texts me to meet up with the gang at Carson Kitchen in downtown SLC so I pack up my gear and head down that way. 45 minutes later I meet them circled 'round a table with ample libations. I join in the fun and order myself a P1 Pilsner from Salt Flats Brewing right here in town.
But don't drink it.
Because they are fresh out. Never one to let such trivialities interfere with my après obligations, I pivot to the Sinday Pale Ale from Level Crossing Brewing Co, also out of SLC.
Katie gives me the scoop on the volleyball - Blake's team is kicking ass and has a chance to make the finals tomorrow. The catch: their first game is at 8 AM and her team is notorious for starting slow in the morning. Yikes.
I polish off my beer, smitten with the fruity soup̧on of passion fruit & guava peeking their way through a curtain of mosaic hops that the fine folks at Level Crossing have brewed up.
"I'll do another Sinday Pale Ale"
"Oh I'm sorry, we're just ran out of that"
By jove do they have any beer left back there? Katie tells me that many host cities for these volleyball tourneys are not prepared for the crowds of teenagers & thirsty parents who descend on their polities. She estimates around 15 thousand players & family members are in town for the weekend. Well I'll be damned. I change my play at the line of scrimmage once again and order the Upslope Lager. Solid choice.
By this point everyone's worked up an appetite. We flag down the waiter who begins at my end of the table.
"I'll do the pesto chicken flatbread, please"
"Oh so sorry, we're out of the flatbreads.... And the wings... And the turkey sandwich... And the short rib... And for dessert we're also out of the brownie and the bread pudding"
Teenage volleyball players are like locusts, they descend on your town in a terrifying swarm, eating everything in sight. I end up ordering the burger, not great, not terrible. The waiter turns to Branch, who looks up confidently,
"Ah yeah I'll do the shoaht rib"
"I'm sorry sir, we're out of the short rib"
"Branch! He just said that they were out of the short rib!"
"Well I wasn't listening.. I'm sahhhhhrrryyyy.... Ok, do you have the NY strip? Yeah? Ok great, I'll do that... medium raaahe"
We continue the revelry for a few more rounds until the food comes out. And Branch's steak is conspicuously absent. The waiter comes over to do that "so how is everything?" thing that waiters always do and the Boston man reveals he's down a New York strip.
"Oh they didn't bring your steak? They said they brought it out... Let me go check"
Our befuddled server retreats to the kitchen and Jesse leans over,
"Watch, they'll be out of it"
No less than a minute later, our waiter sheepishly returns,
"I'm soooooo sorry, but....."
And we all burst out laughing.
Brighton
Another day another mountain. Today my playground will be Brighton, one of two resorts in Big Cottonwood Canyon along with Solitude. It will be my first time to Brighton and I'm excited to see what she has to offer.
The weather is overcast with some light flurries as I pull into the lot. I gear up and head over to the Great Western Express chair. The ridge at the top looks like it would have some pretty good skiing but the snow just ain't there. I hop off & cruise down the crest of the ridge, looking for a place that I might have missed from the lift but it's slim pickins. I end up cruising down Western Trail to Lone Star for a nice warmup run.
The next couple runs I hit the other edge of the ridge, under the lift on the Rockin' R and Aspen Glo runs. I work up a bit of a lather and decide to scoot over to the other side of the hill. I ride up the Snake Creek Express and Crest Express lifts on my way over to the Milly Express. This section of the mountain looks like it actually has some decent snow. On my way up I look at the lines to my left that appear skiable on the trail map but are completely cliffed out due to the light cover. Damn the luck.
I peel off the lift to my right and bomb down Devil's Dip on the best snow I've skied on today. I take another run over here before ducking into the Millie Chalet for a fancy grilled cheese and a Cutthroat Pale Ale from Uinta Brewing in SLC. After the vittles & suds I gear back up for a couple more runs on Milly before heading back to the Great Western, where I finish off the day. My last run I spy a chute off the ridge I missed in the morning and try my hand at True Grit. Unfortunately the name of the run is all too accurate with a disconcerting amount of rocks and, well, grit.
I make it down in one piece and it's back to the car for the short drive home. The plan for the evening is to meet up with Katie again - tonight is their last night in town and they want to make the most of it. Giddy up!
I get cleaned up & hail an Uber to meet Katie & Jesse at Varley, a swanky cocktail lounge in downtown SLC. I order myself a rye old fashioned and find that the volleyball went just as expected - they had a lethargic start to the early morning match, which quashed their hopes of nationals. They played valiantly later in the day but their stumble in the morning cost them. But Katie's not too bent out of shape, the girls gave their all and she's a proud mama.
Now that volleyball is over she's ready to turn one on like we did at Patrick's wedding. We enjoy another cocktail at Varley and chat with the proprietors about the mayhem that the volleyball tournament has brought to downtown dining establishments.
After Varley it's next door for more cocktails and merriment at The Ivy. We hit up a few more spots on our pub crawl before ducking into Lake Effect for a late supper. I order myself a hot & spicy chicken sandwich and a Place Beyond the Pines cocktail. The cocktail is made with High West Double Rye whiskey, distilled right in Park City and Zirbenz Stone Pine Liqueur, which is made from the fruit of Arolla Stone Pines. The spiciness of the rye, coupled with the aromatic richness of the pine liqueur and the smokiness of a Laphroaig rinse to produce an impossibly complex and delicious libation. I probably shouldn't order a second but I do anyway because I'm on holiday.
Midnight is fast approaching so I hail myself an Uber home. Thank god for the garage code. Now just a quiet 20 minute ride home, hell maybe I'll even take a quick nap in the car.
"Hey what's goin' on man, my name's Christoper, you're headed to Holladay?"
"Yes sir"
"Alright, let's go."
I sink into the backseat
Lean into the headrest
Succumb to the weight of my heavy eyelids
"Hey man you look familiar, were you at Alphacon?"
"Excuse me, what?"
"I can spot a fellow alpha when I see one, you must have been at Alphacon."
"I have no idea what you're talking about"
"Alphacon, it's a group of entrepreneurs and alpha dogs who get together to speak and share their stories with fellow alphas. You'd fit right in"
"Nah man I don't know anything about that"
"Ah ok, well you should look into it, I know you're an alpha, I can spot a fellow alpha from a mile away"
"Ohhkay boss"
"Hey what's that on your hat?"
"It's, uh, the Bills"
"Bills?"
"Yeah, the Buffalo Bills"
"Oh like the Buffalo Bill Casino up in Idaho?"
"Nope, it's a football team"
"Oh cool man, yeah cool, football.. I love football."
"So what state are you from?"
"Oklahoma"
"Ohhh Oklahoma.. Do they have Covid masks in Oklahoma?"
"Yeah"
"Oh I thought I was reading something where they didn't have masks in Oklahoma. Isn't there an amendment or.. what do you call it.. uh... freedom of healthcare or something? It says somewhere you can't force people to wear masks, I'm pretty sure it's in there"
At this point I've stopped responding at all and just shoot him a glare that says, in no uncertain terms, will you please just shut the fuck up
"Well maybe I'm wrong about the details but I'm pretty sure it's something like that"
.............
"So like if all these doctors and people on the news knew it was an actual thing they wouldn't be saying different things in different places?"
.............
"It sounds all made up the way they talk about it. I don't know. I don't trust em."
.............
"Do you do any investing? That's what I do, I was networking at Alphacon, met some great guys with some awesome strategies, stuff you don't ever hear about in the, like, the media."
.............
"I think I'm going to go in with one of them, he's in private equity. Like, you know, venture capital. Like the Wolf of Wall Street guy. It's pretty sick."
.............
"Well if you're ever interested in investing let me know, a couple alphas like us could crush the market."
"You got it bud. Ok here's my stop, have a nice night"
And with that I am mercifully released from my one-way conversational prison with Christoper.
5 stars.
Mormon Stuff
Well after that night on the town I wake up with a headache that de-enthuses my affinity for alpine athletics. Over breakfast Bob gives me a rundown of SLC and recommends a tour of the Mormon Temple and State Capitol if I plan to eschew the slopes. Sounds good enough for me.
During our discussion Bob informed me that all streets North, South, East, and West emanate from the Temple, so naturally I drive in a pattern resembling a gradient descent algorithm right to the front door. The detailed Gothic and Romanesque architecture of the Temple is unfortunately enshrouded by scaffolding as part of a project to protect the building against earthquakes. The stone used to build the temple was quarried from Little Cottonwood Canyon, a sturdy quartz monsonite that has the appearance of granite. The innards of the Tempale are off limits to a heathen such as me so I wander the grounds & pop into the Tabernacle.
As soon as I enter I'm cheerfully accosted by a sweet Swiss woman who begins telling me about the tabernacle. Numbers. Facts. Figures.
Construction began in 1864 and was completed in 1867.
It stands 250 feet by 150 feet.
The pipe organ consists of 11,000 pipes.
The choir consists of 350 singers.
The seating capacity is 3,500.
And none of those seats has an obstructed view - the entire roof is supported without a single interior support column. What's more, due to a shortage of nails at the time of construction, the roof's trussed timbers were pinned together with wooden pegs that were then wrapped in rawhide to hold them in place. Pretty remarkable engineering.
But the most famous aspect of the tabernacle is its impeccable acoustics. During Gretel's spiel, her husband, Hansel* strolls to the front of the 'nacle for a demonstration.
* They aren't actually named Hansel & Gretel but let's just pretend they are.
"Von of de most eempressive attributes of ze Tabernacle iz ze acoustics. Innywhere you seet in ze Tabernacle you can hear perfectly. I vill demonstrate.
I vill tap dis hammer on ze podium
*click*
Now I vill tear zis sheet of paper
*rip*...*rip*...*rip*...*rip*
And finally, ze acoustics are so perfect zat you can hear a pin drop."
*tink*
This might be the first time in my life that I've literally heard a pin drop in a room.
Gretel continues her sales pitch and eventually comes around to the realization that this fish just ain't gonna bite. She wishes me a good day and I'm on my way. I continue to wander the grounds of the Latter Day Saints before setting my course North towards the State Capitol.
Now if you thought Joseph Smith was a con man let me tell you about these politicians amirite!
I stroll around the snowy campus of the Capitol building before ducking inside. The cavernous hall of the building is empty except another group of tourists with European sounding accents. The woman working the information desk tells me I'm free to wander around anywhere I please, which feels like I shouldn't be able to do that.
In what probably shouldn't come as a surprise, the stone for the Capitol was quarried in Little Cottonwood Canyon. In contrast to the Mormon Temple, this stone is a granite that brings to mind some of the old buildings built during Tulsa's heyday in the early 20th Century.
I stroll around below the rotunda admiring the artwork on the ceiling and pendentives, displaying significant moments in Utah history. Artworks with titles such as Fremont First Sees Great Salt Lake, General Connor Inaugurates Mining, Peace with the Indians, and of course, Gulls Save the Wheat Fields.
I continue to aimlessly ramble, past the Senate chamber whose doors are open to view the halls of the legislative process, where the grown-up versions of kids that nobody liked in school display their woeful paucity of neurons and religious zealots prove beyond a reasonable doubt they have yet to read the First Amendment to the Constitution to which they are bound.
I soon grow weary of strolling the vacant hallways, a tedious exercise compared to watching on TV - with all the new technology they have over at CSPAN, you'd be better off just sitting in the comfort of your couch to watch the yellow "average IQ" line hover around room temperature.
After all I have a pit stop to make.
On my way back to the house I stop off at the Wasatch Powder House to inquire about some rental skis. Now why would I fork over good money to rent skis when I have a perfectly fine pair under my ownership you ask? Well the canyon has received a foot and a half of fresh snow the past three days and the forecast for tomorrow calls for more. I need the right tool for the job.
Powder skis are wider than your everyday ski and they are shaped with a strong rocker, i.e. they slope up at the front. In contrast, traditional skis are constructed with what is known as camber, meaning the skis bow up in the middle. This allows for more precise carved turns and better control on non-powder surfaces. In the deep stuff, however, the rocker profile and wider base of powder skis allow them to float on top of fresh snow, giving you the feeling of skiing on a fluffy cloud of pure alpine bliss.
The pioneer of rockered skis was Shane McConkey, a wildass who I wrote about my first time to Lake Tahoe. He realized that the wide, rockered design of water skis would work perfectly on fresh powder. The stuffy ski establishment was sure that this wouldn't work so to prove them wrong Shane mounted a set of bindings to a pair of water skis and ripped down a 2,000 foot, 45 degree spine in Alaska.
In 2009, reflecting upon McConkey's life, which was tragically cut short that year in a skiing/base jumping accident, Jeff Mechura the Global Brand Director at K2 said that Shane's design was "so far out of the box it was absurd. At first glance, there was absolutely no logic to it. But it got everyone thinking about skis on a different wavelength and got our own creative juices flowing again. We started asking What if? more. Shane was the poster boy for the youth movement challenging the conventional wisdom of an old-school ski industry.”
Everyone who straps on a pair of skis today owes a debt to Shane McConkey, a madman, daredevil, visionary, father, who revolutionized skiing more than anyone before or since.
I arrive at the Powder House about a half hour before close and wander down to the rental shop in the basement. Travis helps me pick out a pair of planks that will fit my skiing abilities and forecasted conditions. We land on a pair of Armada Tracer 108s - the width in the middle of the ski under my foot is 108 mm, compared to the 96 mm of my Volkls. These should be just the right medicine for my powder flu.
Little Cottonwood Canyon
The next morning I wake up bright and early for the first of three days of recreation in Little Cottonwood Canyon. The plan is Alta today, Snowbird tomorrow, then back to Alta with Branch on Friday. The forecast calls for snow all day, which consequently calls for gridlocked roads. Considering what an ordeal that sounds like, I decide to hitch a ride on the ski bus. The terminus is just a few miles from Bob & LaGayle's house so I head out bright and early and catch the first ride up the canyon. It's a tight squeeze for the hour-long standing room only ride to the hill. It would have been longer but the bus was allowed to cut in front of a long line of cars waiting to get into the canyon, which was nice.
The roots of modern human development in the canyon trace back to mineral extraction after silver was discovered in the Wasatch range in 1864. The vein was quickly depleted, however, resulting in a boom & bust cycle all too familiar in the history of mining. Following the Great Depression, the 1930 census recorded just six registered voters in Alta, down from the thousands of prospectors hoping to strike it rich a few decades before.
When the mining town went bust for the final time, the owner deeded the land to the US Forest Service in lieu of back taxes. The timing could not have been better, as the Forest Service was awash with New Deal funds. In 1935 the Forest Service commissioned Norwegian ski jumper Alf Engen to study the suitability of the land for a ski resort. Anybody who has skied the fluffy flakes of Alta would not be surprised to discover that Uncle Alf's report was glowingly positive.
The resort opened for business on January 15, 1939, with a rope tow and the Collins chair, a single seater that was built with parts rummaged from a decommissioned aerial tramway that transported silver ore out of the canyon. This makes Alta the second oldest chairlift-operated ski area in the Western US, after Idaho's Sun Valley. The WPA was called upon to improve the road up the canyon and the CCC built a small outpost, including the Snowpine Lodge, which was razed in 2017 but replaced with a modern lodge in the same location. And these weren't the only wintertime recreation projects spearheaded by the New Deal, which catalyzed the nascent ski industry in the US - Oregon's Timberline Lodge was built by the WPA and personally dedicated by FDR, and New England is dotted with ski trails that were cut by the CCC.
I arrive at the Goldminer's Daughter at the base of Alta with a little under an hour till the first chair. I order myself a coffee and muffin and take the load off for a while to rest my feet after that bus ride. People start queuing up for the first chairs of the day and a half hour before the opening bell I gear up and brave the elements for a spot in line to send it on some fresh pow.
Alta has a mystique in the skiing community. It's consistently ranked near the top of best ski resorts in the US, with a reputation for challenging terrain and massive dumps of light, powdery snow. It almost has a cult following among expert skiers who appreciate the terrain and its no-nonsense approach to skiing - there are a few basic cafeteria-style dining options and virtually no nightlife. It's all about the skiing here.
9 AM comes and goes. The avalanche teams are still clearing terrain and won't open the lifts until they deem the mountain safe. After standing in the cold, wind, and snow for over an hour they finally start letting patrons board the ropeway at 9:40. I'm about 20 groups back and by the time it starts loading the line has grown about 10 times that behind me. The people are ready.
The Collins chair whisks me up the mountain, over run after run of untouched powdery goodness. At the top I dive into a run called Spruces, a steep chute with powder up to my waist in places. The vibe on the hill is pure ecstasy, you can just feel the energy from everyone living their best life. The entire ride down is like heaven, my skis floating through the fresh snow like a dream. The only drag is the length of the lift lines, which take 20-30 minutes each time. But I'm in no place to complain right now.
I take a couple more spins on Collins, ripping down the runs of the West Rustler ridge. At this point I don't really have a choice of lift since Collins is the only one that's been opened by avalanche control. Once they open the Wildcat double I ride it up and take a soft, fluffy tumble on my way down when I get lazy and catch a ski in the powder. Even falling on a powder day is fun.
Lunchtime sneaks up on me and I duck into the Watson Shelter mid-mountain to warm up my frozen toes and scarf down a backpack PB&J. It's a quick pit stop and I'm back out there, this time over the other side of the ridge to the Sugarloaf lift. I find some great patches of snow off the Cecret Saddle & Devil's Elbow runs before I meander over to the Supreme lift. This is where I find the most challenging skiing of the day in the Supreme Bowl.
Challenging, yes. Fun, also yes. Exhausting, very much yes.
There's a saying in the skiing community, "there are no friends on a powder day," i.e. everybody is on their own to find the bestest, freshest, fluffiest snow on the mountain. It worked out great for me since I didn't even have to pretend I had any friends, just me, my powder skis, and a 2,200 acre alpine playground.
This is the kind of day that makes all the shit snow this season worth it. This is the type of day that will make you shell out hard earned cash for a second pair of skis. This is the kind of day that will keep you coming back.
When last call rolls around I gather my gear and make for the bus stop. Luckily the cattle car is much less crowded this go-round and I actually get a seat. It's only about 30 minutes down compared to the hour-plus logjam on the way up. I load up my gear into the car and head back to the homestead for some well deserved homemade supper from LaGayle.
Snowbird
The next day I'm headed right back to Little Cottonwood Canyon, right next door to Alta at a spot called Snowbird. This will be another first and I'm itching to tear it up.
The roads have been cleared off so I decide to scamper up the canyon atop my own steed. The road is backed up but the traffic moves at a decent clip. I arrive to Snowbird at what I thought was bright & early but apparently bright & early has a different meaning when there's fresh snow on the hill. I have a hell of a time finding a hitchin' post for the ol' gal but finally find a lot after looping around the base area a few times.
I unpack my gear and head up to the tram, where I wait about 15 minutes until it opens then another 15 for the athletes who queued ahead of me to be ferried to the top of Hidden Peak 11,000' into the crisp Utah air. On the way up I spotted some lines on the Peruvian Cirque that looked awful tasty.
After soaking in the stunning two-mile-high panoramic vistas I slide over to the Cirque Traverse on the ridge above the wide bowl of the cirque. The top of the bowl is guarded by 10' cliff drop-ins, which I eschew for the more modest entry of the Middle Cirque. The run is somewhat tracked out but there are still sections of dynamite snow to be had.
The line for the tram is still extensive when I reach the bottom so I decide to take a few spins on the Peruvian chair before another couple runs off the Gadzoom chair. The snow is solid, not incredible but certainly better than a lot of stops I've made on my trip.
Around midday I unload at the top of the Little Cloud chair to find hundreds of skiers lined up shoulder-to-shoulder at the top of Mineral Basin. This is the back bowl area of the mountain that has yet to be cleared by avalanche control. Translation: 500 acres of wide-open untouched powder. I stand up there for about 5 minutes, hoping to get lucky with the rope drop but decide that I'm here to ski not stand around like I'm waiting to board a Southwest flight.
I venture back down the front side of the mountain where I take a couple runs before heading back to Little Cloud, whose line has ballooned with skiers hoping to get some of that fresh pow in Mineral Basin. When I reach the top of the lift I see the rope has been dropped & mosey over to take a peek.
Now I've seen some sights on this trip, but the view that unfurls in front of me as I slide up to the lip of the basin is something to behold. Littering the wide expanse below me are hundreds of blotches weaving in & out of each other, dozens of stagnant blotches stomping through waist deep snow looking for skis they've been dispossessed of. I can only speculate but I doubt many of them are going to find their equipment. That should pose quite the adventure traversing to the bottom of the mountain on a single plank.
Someone caught the mayhem at rope drop on their phone. Have a look.
Instead of following the lemmings straight down the bowl of tracked out snow I follow a handful of shrewd skiers sensibly traversing to the right (i.e. the same line as the people going away from the camera in the video above). We scoot around an outcropping and in front of me sprawls an enormous bowl of untouched snow ready for shredding. I spot myself a line and let 'er rip. And boy does she rip.
Without a doubt this is the best patch of snow I've encountered on my trip. It feels like skiing on a cloud, my powder skis working as advertized, floating above the fluff like I'm being pulled by an Evinrude. The forces of gravity and drag from the knee deep powder perfectly balance in a beautiful equilibrium, not too fast, not too slow. Each turn is effortless, linking them together to carve elegant arcs through the pristine duvet of snow.
Unfortunately every blissful dream has to end, and the end of this fantasy coincides with another end. The end of a gargantuan lift line. I should have seen this comin'. All them powder seekers and only one way out. The hour-long wait for the chair is a drag but I'd do it again 10 times out of 10 just to experience that run again. By the time I reach the top the entirety of Mineral Basin is tracked out and that hour long wait ain't gonna be worth it this time.
I head back over to the front side and find some decent snow to skier's left of the Cirque Traverse. I decide to take a quick video of the pillowy powder and while I'm able to get some turns on tape, I fail miserably at my original goal of taking a good video of the pillowy powder. As you can see the video is proper shit, shot with my phone in an un-gloved hand and the other hand holding both poles. All while diverting the lion's share of my attention to gripping my frigid fingers around my phone, lest I drop it in the snow never to see it again.
The lift lines all over the hill and that hour long wait at Mineral Basin has really decreased my skiing efficiency and the shadows are starting to get long. I only get in another run or two before last call. All told I only muster 10 runs for a meager 15,584' of vertical. But that's the way it goes on a powder day.
As I wind back down the canyon road I remember a conversation with Bob & LaGayle from a few nights ago. They mentioned that at the mouth of the canyon lies a great watering hole called the Porcupine Pub & Grille that has wings so hot they'll burn your face off. If you know me you likely know that I happen to have a careless disregard for the wellbeing of my tastebuds so I naturally set my course for the Porc' and those fiery flappers.
I plop down at a barstool and order a Porcupine Pilsner from Moab Brewery and a half dozen wings doused in hellfire sauce. The wings arrive about a half pint into my pils & I prepare for pain. I take the first bite & it's not that bad. I wait a bit, waiting for a delayed heat. But it never comes. That's all the bite these babies got. They are hot, sure, but I don't think they are deserving of a name like hellfire. I mention as much to the bartender & she agrees. Apparently sometime in the past few years they turned down the heat due to the numerous complaints they received. For christ's sake if you order wings that brandish a title such as hellfire you should know what you're in for and accept personal responsibility for your questionable life choices. People these days are so soft.
I polish off the beer & wings and make the short drive back to Bob & LaGayle's. They are just as disappointed as I to learn about the wussification of the Porcupine's hellfire wings. They don't get too reckless with their capsaicin consumption so they are not personally aggrieved by the development, but there's something comforting about knowing that the hellfire wings at the Porcupine are waiting for the next culinary daredevil to tackle.
Take Me Back to Alta
The next morning our story returns to our old friend Branch. He planned to pick me up at Bob & LaGayle's but something came up and he'll be delayed. No matter, I just head to the bus station and ride the cattle car up to the hill. We haven't been blessed with fresh precipitation so the bus is much less crowded than the other day. I gear up and hop on the Collins lift for another day on the slopes at Alta.
Last night Bob pulled up the trail map of Alta and showed me his favorite runs. The one run he says I can't miss is called Alf's High Rustler. It stands menacingly above the loading area for Collins, a test of the best skier's mettle. Getting there is a bit of a trek, which give credence to Alta's nickname: Another Long Traverse Ahead. Off the Collins lift you take the high traverse all the way along the ridge until you think you can't go any more... and keep going.
So I do just that, I ride the ridge towards High Rustler.. and ride.. and ride.. and ride. I eventually reach a point where I'm completely stymied by trees in all directions. The only direction I can find my way out of this arboreal prison cell is up. I side shuffle uphill about 20 yards, where I find an opening over the other side of the ridge.
I've actually found myself a nice little honey hole over here, a wide open bowl without another soul on it. The snow is pretty skied out but there's still some decent pockets of good powder. As I drop in I get a text from Branch that he just pulled in and I can meet him at the base of Collins. Seeing as I went up & over the ridge if I want to make it to Collins I'm going to need to swing all the way back around the face of the mountain towards High Rustler where I was hoping to be in the first place.
I bear left & find a notch where I can get around to the face of the hill. I quickly realize I've blundered when I find myself locked in quagmire of trees. Oh this ol' thing again. I should have just taken my medicine and accepted the fact that I'll need to take the rope tow back to Collins. As it stands all I can do is to continue traversing across the hill, dodging trees, sidestepping rocks, avoiding cliffs. It's really not a fun spot to be in.
After grinding it out through a dense thicket of hazards I finally find a clearing. I stop to catch my breath, relieved to finally find myself faced with what would actually be considered a ski run. I know I need to keep traversing to get to Collins but at this point I'm not passing up any skiable terrain. The run actually turns out to be a dandy - a steep and narrow leg burner. As I spill out from the bottom of the run I find myself at the midway point of the rope tow.
All that work and I barely improved my situation. Shame.
I later look at the circuitous route I took on SkiTracks & it appears I hit the shoulder of the Greeley Bowl to Greeley Hill around the ridge across High Nowhere (the start of the "where I went" line above) and skied down North Rustler by the grace of god. So while I didn't make it to High Rustler I at least skied North Rustler. So there's that.
I sheepishly grab the rope that pulls me towards Collins at an embarrassingly slow clip. Fortunately Branch had a bit of a hike from his parking spot and hasn't been waiting too long. We hop on Collins for the ride right back up from whence I came. This time we head over the ridge straightaway to Devil's Way followed by Amen, which is a beautifully poetic sequence of ski runs if you ask me.
We hop on the Sugarloaf lift, the top of which we peel hard left and keep heading that way as far as we can because why not? The thing about Alta, and why I think skiers hold it in such high esteem, is that you really have to know your way around the mountain to experience the best she has to offer. When we skied it last year it was snowing so hard you could hardly see 10 feet in front of you and none of us had any idea where the hell we were. We frequently found ourselves slogging through flat spots, traversing to who knows where, and cursing its near complete lack of cell reception.
Today is no different. I keep following Branch because I assume he knows what he's doing, y'know seeing as he lives here and everything, but I eventually find after an outrageously long traverse that he's just as lost as I. Along the way we found a group who fell off the track and found themselves stuck in waist deep powder, another group in front of us who keep stopping on the traverse, causing us to nearly crash into the back of their asses, and not a single person who seems to know where the hell they are. When you are at a local mountain and don't see a single local you're in the wrong spot. Or at the very least you're not in the right spot.
As we're wandering the vast unknown parts of Alta I hear a Boston accented shout from behind me
"Hey Matis!"
"I fell into a bowl uh powdah chowdah"
Or maybe you're in the exact spot you're supposed to be.
I keel over laughing like a hyena on the Serengeti. I plop my bum in the snow and snap an amateur photo of my amateur skiing companion.
After scooping himself out of the chowdah we continue down the fall line and eventually find ourselves at the bottom of the Supreme chair. This actually works out great because we have a chance to head to Catherine's.
During my Alta film study with Bob he made sure to mention Catherine's. This isn't a run but an area. Named after Catherine Brighton, a Scottish immigrant who settled these parts alongside her husband William Stuart Brighton, Catherine's is a secluded section of the mountain that's available only to the most dedicated skiers. Mostly because a solid hike is required to reach all her alpine glory.
We unload at Supreme & huck our skis over our shoulder headed for the bootpack to Catherine's. It's really not that bad of a hike per se - the difficulty lies in the inflexibility of ski boots, slippery footing of snow, awkward toting of skis, and high altitude. During the summer a decently fit individual could bound up this trail in a matter of minutes. In our disadvantaged situation it takes us north of 15 minutes to reach the entrance to Miss Kate's.
I'm here to report that the slog was worth it, as the snow over yonder is in pristine shape. The hike has kept out all the yahoos and left the runs with oodles of fresh pow. We're too excited to catch our breath after the hike and bomb down the ridge as soon as we reach the precipice. Halfway down the first pitch we succumb to our spiking lactic acid levels and pull off for a breather.
We catch our breath & keep charging down the piste, all the way to the base area where we duck into Goldminer's Daughter for some sustenance. I order up a buffalo chicken wrap and pair it with a Dallas Alice Blonde from Level Crossing, mostly due to the Little Feat reference. After lunch we head back out there for a few more rides up Collins and a spin or two on Sugarloaf. Before we know it the day is done and we head back to Branch's car.
After trundling down the canyon we stop off at The Hog Wallow Pub, a place described by Google Maps as an "energetic watering hole with live music". Unfortunately we're a bit early for the music but everything else is spot on. We decide on an order of wings and pair it with a pile of nachos, a beautiful après ski combination. It's really somethin' that I went the first 57 days of this trip without having wings and have had them thrice in the past week. I warsh down the vittles with a Uinta Cutthroat Pale Ale. Branch isn't a man who is content with a single bowl of loudmouth soup so we have them ladle us another for good measure.
As we finish slurping down the suds the aforementioned live music begins setting up. We shoot each other a knowing looks that we should skedaddle now or we're liable to shut the place down if a band gets going. We tab out and Branch shuttles me to the bus station, where he makes sure to use the facilities before the drive back home.
It feels like I only got here yesterday but somehow it's time again to hit the ol' dusty trail. I'm Colorado bound in the morning, back for another hit of that Rocky Mountain High.