Memory Lane
Do you have a memory that's so strongly held it's become part of your identity? A memory that has become less of a memory and more of a feeling? A childhood experience that defines who you are?
For me that memory is Red River, New Mexico, some time in the mid-90s. My very first ski trip. A long weekend that manifests itself as a series of stale vignettes on a worn-out reel in the projector room of my mind.
The babble of the eponymous river...
The smell of musty ski boots...
The unfathomable starry quilt of the night sky...
The orange and blue clapboard façade of the Terrace Towers Lodge...
The brooding peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Range...
The rustic log cabins on the outskirts of town...
The rustic log cabins on the outskirts of town
The rustic log cabins where it all began. Where you first experienced the peaceful calm of a forest of snow covered pines. Where you first understood why they call New Mexico the Land of Enchantment.
You think you're fit to "rough it. You've watched Davy Crockett grin down a bear. You've read Jack London struggle to build a fire. You think you've got what it takes. You have no idea.
Gathering wood for your old man instills you with an outsized sense of responsibility. Watching him stoke the potbelly stove to heat the cabin leaves an indelible impression on your youthful soul.
You've yet to strap on a pair of skis but you think you might enjoy it.
You're wholly unaware of the addiction you're about to pick up.
Closing Day
On the 20th of March Anno Domini 2022 I roll into Red River, New Mexico as a 33 year-old with 8 year-old recollections. I arrive just as the ski day is wrapping up. Well, just as it should be wrapping up. Because today is no ordinary day. Today is closing day.
Closing day is a full on bacchanal, a celebration looking back on another successful ski season and looking forward to the coming spring. The bacchants are decked out in outrageous outfits and the music is cranked to 11. Everyone's in a downright groovy mood.
I sidle up to the pond for a waters-edge seat for a few skiers - some successful, some not - before sauntering over to the lodge to play a little catch up. While waiting in line for a pint of suds I see a fella festooned in a fabulous head-to-toe shiny leopard print ski suit. Someone in the crowd asks how Red River Liberace is doing to which he replies,
"Honey, if I were any peachier I'd be a cobbler!"
Outstanding.
The second my Happy Camper IPA touches my lips I'm greeted by warm memories of our kickball league in Tulsa, a 6-pack of Happy Camper by my side every game. I grin while weaving through the crowd with my plastic-cupped ale to the deck overlooking the festivities (see picture #4 above). The sun is shining, the senders are sending, and the vibers are vibing. It's a glorious day to be in Red River.
Thankfully my plans don't involve skiing here tomorrow, because that would have been rather unfortunate. Instead I'll be shredding the famous trails of Taos Ski Valley, a resort that sits a couple thousand feet higher in elevation availing it to a longer season. I decided to stay in Red River purely for nostalgia. It's a sleepy little mountain town but it holds a big place in my heart.
A Boy in the Mountains
When our Mercury Villager finally crested the top of the Cimarron Canyon Pass that glorious day in the mid-90s, the adolescent population of the vehicle yelped with palpable glee. A release of tension that had been building over 10 hours and 500 miles of steady climbing. The shrieks of a youthful cabal of highland kings reigning from our 9,700' perch above Eagle Nest Lake.
The cabin was spartan. No frills. A minor step up from camping. The exact experience you want as a youngster on your first mountain adventure. Rustic. Mountains. Adventure. Lumber. All good things.
The cabin did at least have a TV, which I can say with 100% certainty because we watched Nascar on Sunday while gearing up to ski. My dad's not a particularly big Nascar fan but he was that day. Perhaps it was a case of that long ago stone-age habit of watching something "because it's on TV." Kids these days will never know what that's like. The fact that we're watching Nascar means it was at least February, because if it was any earlier we'd be watching football. Another thing these kids will never understand is a Super Bowl in January.
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Reflecting on fond memories formed at a young age is a cathartic yet fragmentary exercise. These childhood trips form an incomplete patchwork of Bob Ross paintings in my mind that can never be stitched together into a cohesive narrative. We like to think of our memory as a book permanently inked and bound, ready to pull off the shelf any time we please. In reality, memory is a peculiar, shapeless entity floating around a squishy meat prune in a constant state of amoebic fluidity. A little more sodium here, a little less potassium there.
The process of cataloging and retrieving memories seems a bit like a game of internal telephone among a cadre of hapless buffoons. Atop the org chart of the memory department of your brain sits the Cerebral Scribe, an indolent boob who refuses to write anything down, which is quite literally in the job description of a scribe. So when you ask him to pull a dusty memory from the stacks deep in the crevasses of your mind he instead just repeats what he thinks you told him. The lazy bastard. The worst part is that you need to repeat the memory back to him again lest he completely disregard the recollection altogether.
What I really like about this analogy, other than the outright preposterousness of it, is the logical conclusion that we have an infinite recursion of cerebral scribes completely incompetent or unwilling to do their job. I hate how much that resembles corporate America.
The reason I've contrived this ludicrous analogy is that my cerebral scribe reports that The Face, the piste fronting Red River Ski Area, is as tall and steep as any peak to be found in the Himalayas. The truth, however, is much less satisfying. The downright diminutiveness of The Face when compared to my adolescent remembrance is incomprehensible and altogether unsettling. How.... how can it be so.... small? It's fascinating that the same hunk of rock can form such a divergent opinion in the mind of an 8 year old boy compared to a 33 year old man (child?). Either I grievously misremember the size of The Faaaaaace or the process of erosion occurs in Red River, New Mexico at a pace some millions of times faster than anywhere else on the planet. I can't say for sure.
One particularly nonsensical reminiscence from a New Mexico ski trip centers around a hairbrush. Someone (I can't remember who, thanks Mr. Scribe) brought a hairbrush made by Conair. Seems inconsequential enough. Well I have to imagine that this trip coincided with the 1997 Nic Cage aviation action thriller Con Air because the adults thought that a hairbrush emblazoned with the words CONAIR was the funniest thing imaginable. And in 1997 it probably was.
I had no earthly clue what was so funny, but I laughed along because I wanted to be cool like the adults. And my cerebral scribe trots this memory out at least once a fiscal quarter as if to say, "see, I AM good at my job, remember that hairbrush!" Thanks pal, you're doing great. Where the hell were you when I was standing in the middle of an airport parking garage at midnight looking for my car? At least you never forget the 21st night of September.
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Back at the party I loiter on the patio until the festivities wind down and my beerinacup morphs into a... cup. By this point I've worked up a heck of an appetite and I know just the place to scratch that itch.
This trip to Red River is all about memories and Texas Red's Steakhouse is the basis for some of my fondest childhood memories. Most of them involve playing arcade games with my brothers while the adults got blasted in the bar. In fact, I think all of them involve that. It was a simpler time where the key to happiness was as simple as bashing little plastic buttons. Never mind the transcendent hunks of beef we devoured. Bashing plastic buttons, that was where it was at. Even when we weren't skiing at Red River we would make the trek around Wheeler Peak to sup at Texas Red's. Unlike some of the other saloons and taverns I've encountered on this trip, this place is the real deal.
During the quarter mile stroll over to Texas Red's my mind is reeling with an unhealthy carnivorous lust for a medium rare T-bone steak. I gleefully bound up the steps to the front door where I'm greeted by a horrifying sight that chills me to my soul.
I'm not old enough to remember the first two Bills Super Bowl losses, but I sure as shit remember the second two against the cotdamn Cowboys. This might hurt worse.
I sit on the stoop for a minute and ponder the logistics of staying in Red River until May. I guess I'll mull it over with a beer.
I slowly trudge with my head hung low back towards the ski resort and duck into the Red River Brewing Company. The place is jammed with people enjoying the final days of skiing and watching March Madness. And I'd say 1 in 5 people are wearing something from Oklahoma, which is pretty neat I reckon.
I put my name in for a table before grabbing a Powder Day Stout and popping a squat outside 'round the firepit. Our old fabulous friend in the full leopard onesie sashays over
"Hey, I haven't seen you around, you must be new to town"
"Yeah I just got here today, just in time to see the pond skiing"
"Oh that's fun! It's our little crazy tradition for the close of the season. I don't ski but I dress the part. Name's Tyler, but everyone calls me Sweet T. Don't ask me how long I've been here... It's been 5 years... By this point I know everybody and everybody knows me. Is this your first time?"
"First time in probably 20 years, we came a lot when we were kids. Everything seems so much... smaller. It's all so different and so the same, it's a very strange feeling"
"Well it's our own little slice of heaven, we're not like those asshole ski towns in Colorado"
"I agree. I like it here"
"Well that's tremendous, I hope you enjoy our little town"
"I sure will Sweet T"
This is it, Don't Get Scared Now
I can't believe it's finally here. The end of the road. The last hurrah. The final countdown. One more day of skiing then it's back to reality. I'm a little sad just thinking about it.
I pack up my gear one last time and head to the slopes. It's about 45 minutes around the base of Wheeler Peak, the loftiest of all peaks in the state, to Taos Ski Valley. A light flurry of snow is falling as I pull into the parking lot & load onto the tractor-pulled open-air cattle car.
As I near the base of the mountain the file clerk inside my brain can't even find the scribe. He's fully clocked out because I don't remember any of this. You'd think I would have retained at least a faint recollection of the six-story Swiss chalet-style hotel and Bavarian village at the base of the hill. I only learn later that most of this was built within the past decade, after the 2013 sale of the resort and the \$330 million master development plan that came along with it. It's at least somewhat relieving to find that I haven't completely lost my marbles.
I click into my skis in the shadow of said six-story Swiss chalet-style hotel ready to shred. I hop on the unimaginatively named Lift 1 up the face of the mountain, straight up Al's Run. One thing I notice as I ride up is that this mountain is steep. I must have rid a steeper glen but I really can't remember when.
Off the lift I loop around to the right and dive down Spencer's. It's steep and covered in moguls that cause me to work up one hell of a lather. There are warm up runs and then there are accidental leg burn runs. This was the latter. I make it down adequately warmed up and jump back on Lift 1.
Up top again I slide over to the jumbo trail map for a quick bout of bearing-setting and gameplanning. As I'm digesting the terrain a gentleman in his mid-40s asks if I want to go for a hike up the ridge. Hell I ain't got a better plan, let's do it. I throw my planks over my shoulder and follow my new friend Dave from Colorado up a spine that divides the West Basin Ridge to our right and the Highline Ridge to our left. Dave opines that he'd prefer the Highline side, which provides runs with comparable pitch to the West Basin Ridge but wider pistes than the gunbarrel chutes of West Basin. We hike for about 10 minutes when we reach a nice looking drop-in point and click back in.
Dave heads down first and after 3 turns that sound like he's scraping the ice off a windshield he looks up with an expression that resembles your dog when you get him the cheap dog food. Gulp. All that hiking for this? I can't leave Dave out there to cinatiT* by himself so I shove myself over the cornice and grind out a few knee chattering turns to meet him. We lament our inadvisable decision to hike the ridge, take a hard swaller, & point our skis down the fall line.
*Avoid icebergs. It's Titanic backwards. Get it? Get it?
We manage to scrape our way down but then reach a point of complete bamboozlement. We stop, take a look at each other, then peer over a 10 foot cliff that cuts across the entire run. The hell's all this about?? Flummoxed, we scoot to the right through the trees in search of safer passage. I wind through the pines to the next run over and slide down to the cat-track traverse run below. I look back to see Dave ungracefully rappelling his way down a wall of rocks and ice about 25 yards behind me. Some people just have no patience.
My new friend and now un-hired mountain guide Dave slides up to me in one piece and we shoot each other glances that essentially say "thank god that's over." We dust ourselves off and shoot down to the bottom of Lift 7.
I feel this is a good time to discuss the nonsensical nomenclature of the chairlifts at Taos Ski Valley. My first chair was called Lift 1. If you veer right from the top of Lift 1 you'll find yourself at Lift 2. Makes sense. Continue on past Lift 2 and you'll find yourself at Lift 8. Peculiar, but surely there are lifts 3-7 elsewhere on the mountain right? Well as I mentioned we're at the bottom of Lift 7. To our left is Lift 4. So we have Lifts 1-2-4-7-8 accounted for.
Lifts 3-5-6 are AWOL. And nobody seems to care. Are we not concerned about the wellbeing of lifts 3-5-6?? Did we just go from Lift 2 to Lift 4? Did Lifts 3-5-6 all get demolished at some point? Why don't we just come up with more creative names for the lifts? I'm sure there are completely reasonable answers to all these questions but I don't want to look it up because I prefer being ingenuously incensed. It's fun. I do know that the most recent lift was installed in 2015 because I've had my eyes on it. It's the one. It's the silver tuna.
The name of that lift? Kachina Peak Lift. C'mon Taos what are we doing here??
I ride a few runs with Dave off Lift 7 then we split up when he takes Lift 7A(!!) back to the main lodge to meet up with some friends. I meander over to Lift 4, which will drop me right at the loading area for KP.
Kachina Peak is the muse of Taos. She's one of the most pure expressions of inbounds aggressive alpine skiing in the lower 48. She's the reason Taos maintains an exalted status in the minds of skiers the world over. Standing just under 12,500', she towers over the other pistes like a 1950s Catholic school nun teaching cursive.
Perhaps the biggest reason for the romanticism surrounding Kachina Peak has been taken away with the construction of the Kachina Peak Lift. Before the lift, KP only availed herself to the most dedicated of rippers, those willing to sacrifice 45 minutes of hard exertion for their prize. To reach the holy powder cache required a hike from Lift 2 (where Dave and I set out) to the top of the Taos valley basin, across Highline Ridge, and finally a 700' climb up to the peak herself. From a quick check of google maps with a piece of twine I'd say it's around a mile & a quarter of make-you-work-for-it alpine hiking.
With the 2013 sale of the resort came a plan to put a lift to the top of Kachina. As you can imagine that energized droves of athletes eager to ski her without the arduous trek. Others not so much. I can appreciate the heroic pageantry that comes with testing your mettle, braving the elements, and hiking your ass up the peak. It likely makes the way down all the more enjoyable. Plus no lift means fewer skiers & fresher lines for longer. However, today I am thankful for the lift because I just don't feel like hiking for a mile.
When I disembark Lift 4 I am chagrined to gaze left upon the Kachina Peak Lift sitting idly like Pablo Escobar on a swingset. Well... that's just the way she goes sometimes. Guess that means I gotta come back ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.
Seeing as Kachina is off the menu I might as well see what's on the menu at the big Bavarian lodge at the bottom of Lift 4. I slalom my way back down with a hankerin' for a bratwurst & liter of Warsteiner. I shuffle into the lodge and quickly discover that I'm not the only one who has decided to break for lunch. I take a quick peek at the menu and an \$18 brat seems a bit less than ideal, but it's my last day, let's splurge a little.
I stand by the Please Wait to be Seated sign waiting to join one of the myriad German-style wooden beer hall tables. And stand. And stand. I wait for probably 10 minutes without even seeing an employee acknowledge the small crowd that has gathered here. I reason that if it's taking this long just to sit down I'm going to be here a while if I wait for food and a stein of beer. I decide to cut my losses and get back out there.
I work my way back over to the front side and stop off at the mid-mountain Whistlestop Cafe for a quick bowl of chili and a Freestyle Pilsner from the fine folks at Santa Fe Brewing. Hunger abated, I decide it's just about time to tackle Al's Run, the steep stretch of terrain underneath Lift 1 I ogled at the start of the day. I scoot down to the bottom of Lift 1 and get one more look at Al's before I let 'er rip.
I'll say I'm glad I'm doing this with 30 days of skiing under my belt because this run is no joke. Of the hundreds of runs I've taken this trip I'm confident in saying that this is in the top-5 toughest. The entire 1,600' length of the steep pitch is blanketed by colossal hillocks of hard, crusty snow. Each a miniature mountain. Each a grueling challenge. One first-timer to Taos, upon seeing Al's Run hovering ominously over the base area, claimed it looked like "a gigantic egg carton that someone has stood on edge." Travel and Leisure magazine once listed it among the "World's Scariest Ski Runs."
It doesn't take long after dropping in to feel the burn. My legs, rhythmically bobbing up and down like Singer Turtleback sewing machine, scream in mild agony with each mogul vanquished. The middle section flattens out a touch, allowing me to catch my breath for a minute or two before diving into the homestretch. Halfway down the final third my legs are threatening armed rebellion. I'm able to quell the troops long enough to fend off the relentless pull of gravity and when I reach the bottom I'm panting like an Arkansas bird dog in July. Dadgum!
What a run. I plop down in the snow and crane my neck back up the hill. Looks even steeper from down here. I remain plopped for a few minutes to catch my breath & pull out my cellular encyclopedia to see if we can find any information on this Al feller. According to the Taos Ski Valley website, Al's Run is named for Al Rosen, a famous Taos surgeon who was instrumental in getting the ski resort off the ground. But that's not what makes Al memorable in the people who skied with him - for 20 years until his death in 1982 he skied with an oxygen mask and tank. I can't find any information on whether this was a medical requirement, an altitude consideration, or merely an eccentricity. Whatever the case I'm grateful for Al helping to bring this magical alpine wonderland to fruition for my enjoyment and all the others who have squeezed joy from the granite of Taos Ski Valley.
After catching my breath I put my phone away, making sure to zip up my pocket, and head over to Lift 2 for a couple runs on the flank of the West Basin. First down Blitz then down Castor, the latter of which I chose mostly because it's the cognomen of a twin in my birth sign, the constellation Gemini. These runs are nearly as challenging as Al's but mercifully only about half the length. Plus they offer a nice view of the extreme terrain off the West Basin Ridge that I'm not adventurous enough to explore.
By this time my legs are starting to peter out. Taos will do that to you, but I can honestly say I left it all out there. Trusted the process. Did my 1/11th. It's getting late in the day anyways and I've got a rumblin' in my belly for some fish tacos from Orlando's New Mexican Cafe, a little cantina down in town recommended resoundingly by my best good buddy Phil, a noted gastronome.
I take some wide, sweeping turns down the hill on my ultimate run, soaking up every last bit of skiing to be had. I swoop down White Feather, so called because young English lasses would present white feathers to their male compatriots who declined to fight in service of the queen during the Great War. Shaming was definitely still a thing in the 20th Century. And apparently still a thing at Taos Ski Valley.
As I reach the lower stretches of White Feather, I take a shortcut towards the parking lot on the lower runout of Edelweiss. Leontopodium nivale, commonly known as edelweiss, is a mountain flower indigenous to the Alps that symbolizes the sprit of mountaineering due to it's high alpine habitat. You can't just go down to the meadow to grab an Edelweiss, you need trundle your ass up to 6,000' feet to nab one. As such, it's traditionally been given to a loved ones as a symbol of dedication.
On this short stretch of piste Taos gives me her Edelweiss. Within eyesight of my car I get lazy with a pole plant, catch a ski, and absolutely yard sale. I mean I really eat it. Skis go flying, poles twirl in the air like batons during a Calvin Murphy halftime show. As for me, I slide down the hill headfirst sunny-side up. Thankfully my trusty helmet saved me from a good bonk of my noggin on the snow. Wear your helmets, kids.
I should note that on this grand adventure of mine I have yet to royally wipe out. I've skidded out a few times and taken some powder plops but this is the first time I've been completely ejected from my skis. On the last 100 yards of the last run of the last day of the trip I am humbled at last. The ski gods are patient. The ski gods are cruel. The ski gods demand your respect.
I skid down the hill staring up at the sky for what seems like a week. About 50 yards downhill from my point of ski binding egress I come to a stop, nothing injured but my pride. A woman up above hollers,
"Hey! Are you ok?"
"Yeeeeaah I'm good."
"Ok I'll grab your skis for you."
"'preciate it."
Then another fella across the run shouts,
"Damn! That was a helluva wipeout!! Nice work dude!!"
It sure was handsome stranger, it sure was. I dust myself off, gather my belongings from the Good Samaritan, and try to collect what's left of my shattered ego.
I gaze up at the mountain.
She gazes back.
She shrugs and shoots me an impish grin.
I smile and shake my head as I click back in.
Before pointing my skis downhill for the final time I give her one last glance. She winks while fastening an Edelweiss to the lapel of my jacket and coyly whispers in my ear, "see you next time."
See you next time, Taos. It's been real.