Well Now What
I check my SkiTracks and I finish the last day of the trip with 23,000 hard-earned steep-as-hell Taos vertical feet, bringing my total for the season just a hair over 600,000. That's probably more than I've skied in my entire life. The 580 miles I put under my Volkls could get me all the way back from Taos to Tulsa. If only it were that easy.
As I pull out of Taos Ski Valley things quickly go awry. I trot the ol' gal up to the swangin' doors of Orlando's with a rumbling belly I'm awful sore to find they are closed on Mondays. "What rotten luck," exclaims the feller who just spent the past 2.5 months skiing.
I continue the trot on down the trail to town for a quick saunterin' 'round Taos Plaza. Overlooking the Plaza the Hotel La Fonda continues to welcome guests into the cozy confines of her adobe walls. Ain't that a daisy. But then I 'bout pitch a fit when I discover that Ogelvie's, a New Mexican grill & cantina that provided sustenance on many a ski trip, has shut its doors. I was kinda hankerin' for a margarita from Ogie's, seein' as this is the first time I've been to Taos of age. I reckon this town just ain't fer a city slicker like me.
I git back on the trail and mosey into Santa Fe just before dark. I check into the El Sendero Inn and tie the steed up at a waterin' trough. El Sendero is a run-of-the-mill motor hotel, the type that would come standard in your Post-War Americana starter kit. Seein's as I's is a city slicker, I'm pleased to discover that the rooms appear to have been recently renovated, with little to no wear-and-tear, surprisingly clean carpet, shockingly comfortable beds, and sleek, modern appliances. Google classifies the Sendero as a "1-star hotel," which is outright slander and grounds for a duel.
While preparing for supper I realize that Orlando's and Ogelvie's are just the opening salvos in an onslaught of ski-trip-denouement misfortunes. I open my Dopp kit to discover the contents within perplexingly coated with an oily film. I pull out the items one-by-one until I discover the culprit - my tincture of beard oil has opened in transit and deposited its slippery payload upon all its mates.
After cleansing the greasy residue off my washroom amenities then myself I make the short walk to Hotel La Fonda on the Plaza* for what I hope is a dynamite serving of New Mexican enchiladas. My first night of this trip I enjoyed enchiladas in Las Cruces, New Mexico, it feels poetic to bookend the trip with New Mexican enchiladas.
*La Fonda translates to "the inn" in Spanish, this La Fonda has no relation to the La Fonda in Taos nor the likely myriad La Fondas scattered 'round the Land of Enchantment.
New Mexican enchiladas possess two main qualities that differentiate them from other families of of enchilada. The first is a general proclivity of New Mexican cuisine, which is their use of green chiles. Most places when you order salsa it's red. Because that's the color of salsa right? Not in New Mexico. It's such a point of pride that residents of the great state of New Mexico have the option of brandishing a license plate upon their vehicle with green chiles. My favorite variant on the green chile/red chile dichotomy is "Christmas style" - half green/half red. Because that just seems like more fun.
The second emphasis of New Mexican enchiladas is explicitly related to enchiladas and - based on the strong feelings a disconcertingly large proportion of the population hold about tropical fruits on pizza - likely to be controversial. Instead of rolling the enchiladas in a tortilla sleeping bag, enchiladas in New Mexico are laid flat and stacked like an order of flapjacks with the filling in between the tortilla scaffolding.
About halfway through my libation the enchiladas arrive and I immediately notice something is wrong. I look up to the unsuspecting waitress,
"They're not flat."
"Oh I'm sorry, did you want them flat?"
"I thought that's how y'all did it in New Mexico?"
"Well typically it is, but we get so many tourists that come in here and throw a fit that we started rolling them. Do you want me to have them re-do it?"
"Oh no, this is totally fine, I just had my heart set on some authentic New Mexican enchiladas"
"Are you sure you don't want me to send them back?"
"No these look great. Thank you so much."
So I dig into some lame ass rolled up enchiladas. Hopefully Kramer's Dominicans have the night off.
Thinking back over this interaction I've determined that I need to start working "That won't be necessary" into my lexicon. Have a look:
"They're not flat"
"Oh I'm sorry, did you want them flat?"
Don Draper glare-squint "That won't be necessary."
Way cooler.
After supper I mosey over to the bar for an end-of-trip celebratory nightcap. I plop down at a plush barstool with a thirst for a Rye Old Fashioned to warsh'n the trail dust off me gullet. Over the course of the next 10 minutes the bartender walks past me a half dozen times without so much as acknowledging my presence. Now I'm not one to offhandedly besmirch a keeper of the bar. They are busy people. They have a tough job. I appreciate bartenders with every corpuscle of my being.
But this bar is not busy. There's me and a group of 3 people at the other corner of the bar. I'm not necessarily in a hurry but it's kinda part of the job to at least toss down a napkin and say "hey boss what'll it be for ya?" I have enough time to pull out my phone and search other bars in the area that would more appropriately quench my thirst. This place is too snooty anyways.
I drop my phone into my pocket, slide my barstool out behind me, and enthusiastically bash my head into a rack of wine glasses overhanging the bar. My thick skull endures the episode unscathed but it leaves a few wine glasses that are worse for wear. Now I gotta say brother, if you want to get a bartender's attention, just bash your head into a rack of wine glasses. Because I HAD his attention.
Which is a double edged sword - I've gotten his attention but I no longer wish to drink at this establishment. A mighty awkward pickle I find myself in. After helping clean up my mess the barkeep throws down a napkin & says "hey boss what'll it be for ya?" Damn you Santa Fe.
"Rye Old Fashioned"
"You got it"
And before I finish checking for glass shards on my barstool he returns with an \$18 Rye Old Fashioned. Wait. There's no possible way you whipped up an Old Fashioned that fast. Do you have these things pre-mixed? And you expect me to pay 18 USD for it? Damn you again Santa Fe.
I take one sip and almost spit it back across the bar. It tastes like someone poured a dram of Jim Beam in a melted snow cone. I can only interpret today's travails as a sign that this ski trip shouldn't come to an end. I choke down the unholy concoction and swiftly make for the El Sendero, I think this town is trying to forcibly disgorge me and I ain't too bold to question her.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The next morning she totally redeems herself with Ohori's Coffee, a truly fabulous coffee shop. The large windows and high ceilings provide the feel of a space that's much larger than a coffee shop should be. The Southwestern vibe is accentuated by Talin Market right next door, specializing in world cuisines and native staples.
I order myself a jet black coffee as large as their legal representation will in good faith allow and hit the road headed East. A journey of 640 miles of Interstate highway all that's separating me from a night in my own bed.
10 hours later I roll into Tulsa at 6:19 PM on the 22nd day of March, exactly 76 days after I departed.
Hair a little longer. Beard a little bushier. Soul a little fuller.
My odometer reads 11,096.1 miles, or just shy of half the circumference of the Earth. Or if you like weird measurements like me, 7.5 million revolutions of my Michelin tyres.
Speaking of Numbers
600,000 vertical ft
11,000 miles of asphalt
560 miles of piste
33 days of send
23 resorts
13 states
12 crossings of the Continental Divide
11 breweries
7 wineries
6 powder days
5 cousins
5 friends
4 shots of Fernet
3 National Parks
3 time zones
2 provinces
2 countries
2 hostels
1 tiny cabin
1 Blockbuster
1 brother
1 yard sale
1 long strange trip
I remember where I was when I hatched this ludicrous plan. I was sitting at the counter of my aunt & uncle's house in Victor, NY. There wasn't anything in particular that spurred it on, I think I just wanted to see how many ski resorts I could hit on my Ikon pass.
Some kids backpack through Europe. Some kids take a gap year. As for me, I played it by the book. I went to school, I worked the 9-to-5, I took my 3 weeks of vacation. I did it because it was what you were supposed to do. I hadn't red Kerouac. I have since. I hadn't read Ginsberg. I plan to.
I wasn't ever struck by some sort of wanderlust. I never held any romantic notions about life on the road. I wasn't escaping anything.
I just kinda wanted to ski.
Covid definitely had something to do with it. It certainly caused me to stop and ponder the corporate rat race I was stuck in and ask myself what the fuck am I doing?
But just as important was the winding journey of personal growth and acceptance I've navigated these past few years. As someone who grew up debilitatingly frightened at the smallest social interaction It's been liberating to become comfortable in my own skin. To methodically accumulate the confidence to venture out into the unknown. To chart my own course. To ask why not. To catch a case of the fuckits.
I know it's cliche. I know that library shelves sag heavy with stories of travel, with stories of self realization, with stories of privileged white dudes. I want to say I didn't take it for granted but I probably did. Why else would you even set off on such a ridiculous trip if you didn't at least take it a little bit for granted?
It's cliche, but it's my cliche. And I'm fine with that. Plus this is my website so lay off!!
But seriously what are you still doing here? Are you not bored by now? Don't you have something more productive to do?
Well... since you've made it this far, I'll let my distant cousin Ralph Waldo Emerson have the last word, since he said it better than I ever could: