Pizza with a side of French Fry

We loitered around the baggage claim in the Aspen airport, thirsty. You’re not allowed to have a Diet Coke until you drink your water is the rule when at altitude. Unfortunately, there was no bottle filler. The vending machine water was actually priced below market, one of those ways that cheap things sneak up in expensive places because nobody’s thought of it lately. The price of a burger at JG Melon has barely changed in twenty years, for instance. 

But it was bottled water, and not one of the good brands. We had hoped to be able to say hi to my sister on her way out once we landed, but weight limits in the mountains had pushed our skis to the next flight. The pancakes and eggs from the Denver airport that morning were wearing off, and I’d eaten my emergency Cliff Bar. 

My mother called. They wouldn’t let her stop here. She was going to have to circle. The bags aren’t here, I’m not sure what to tell you. The crowd had thinned out, and those who remained waited patiently, aware that sometimes one’s skis are on the same plane, but just as often they come later. 

Later arrived, and we piled into the car. We skipped the supermarket, figuring we might take a stroll into town for lunch. The deli was closed on Sundays though. As this was Aspen, the next several places served only charcuterie, sans bread holders. Next to the other grocery store, we saw a customer receive a sandwich over the counter just as the clock struck 3:00. They were done serving sandwiches for the day. Trying to keep my hanger under control, I settled for a bowl of chili with no spoon. We couldn’t get a sandwich, but they did have pounds and pounds of short rib for us to buy for our ragu. I burned my mouth.

We had come to Aspen to ski, though we knew to expect inconvenience, too. It is by now well understood that too many people want to bring too much stuff for all the bags to get on the right flight. Our luck was good, as my sister had one or two flights canceled, and my dad had a few iterations of travel plans. Other options were a four hour drive from Denver, with I-70 subject to psychosis-inducing traffic and regular wintertime closures, or an hour drive from the Eagle airport, which is marginally more reliable. Colorado Rte 82, the road into town, dead ends there from October to May. 

Then again, it’s also a pain in the ass to get to Nantucket, St. Tropez, or across town during the workday. These people with their fur collars and their stroller-borne dogs make it work. Enough people, in fact, that 82 gets clogged between 3 and 6 PM every day of the week during the high season. There’s a line to get into the grocery store parking lot. The gas station looks like the OPEC crisis. There are designer stores selling three-digit t shirts without so much as a passing relevance to skiing, yet they move enough product to make rent and stay in business. 

The skiing, however, or really the mountains, still sit down at the bottom as the reason for all this. Even those who brought their fur coat, bought a new fur coat, and need to be sure there’s a James Perse and a Sant Ambroeus in town before deigning to arrive are only here because of those mountains, the same wrinkles in the land that trap the clouds that delay the planes, that cause the altitude that limits the payloads, that create the inaccessibility. 

Meanwhile, there exists a hardcore bunch, sneaking around more discretely, doing feats of strength to get some personal space. These people climb and ski Pyramid Peak out of bounds and regularly cycle through the primary in-bounds test piece, hiking the Highland Bowl. Presumably, it was they who put the prayer flags up at the top of the bowl. In a hard to get-to place, these people are going farther out of the way.

So, Wednesday afternoon, my friend Ben and I decided to try our hand at the hike. We managed to catch the last snowcat of the day, which helped shave a third or so of the walk off. At 45 minutes and 700 vertical feet of elevation gained, the hike might not seem unreasonable were it not for the starting elevation of 11,600 feet above sea level, the pain of hiking in ski boots, and the exposure off the right side, past some flimsy “ski area boundary” twine.

On the other side is some of the steepest skiing on some of the best, least-trafficked snow in the resort. The area is totally in bounds, and fully patrolled. We even saw a team of three patrollers help a guy in a sit-ski up the hike to descend. There are no cliffs (euphemistically: mandatory airs), but it’s steep and awfully long. A skier recently fell at the top, lost his helmet, and rolled all the way to the bottom where he died of head trauma. 

This guy’s fall was heavily on my mind during our hike, but I decided against telling Ben about it until we got to the bottom. The cat driver had said enough, anyway, with his quick spiel about the ski down and the area closing time. He had concluded with my least favorite reminder. The bowl is steepest at the top, where you're farthest from the bottom. So, ski conservatively and consider it a no-fall zone.

Skiing is many things: it’s expensive, it’s cold, and it’s a fun way to go fast. Importantly, it’s also the art of not falling. There are times when a fall can be safer, and fighting the inevitable can lead to strained muscles and torn ligaments, but basically everybody was already trying not to fall.

Once we got going, I felt ok. I had already put the hike out of my mind, and the snow was that much better, so I figured that maybe it wasn’t such a big deal, there was no way it was as scary as I had made it seem. Plus, look how many people, skilled and unskilled alike, were undeterred by the hike. 

The sun had fallen behind the mountain, but we were hardly the last ones out. They close the place around 2:30 so ski patrol can sweep it and help any stragglers. We were pretty wiped once we reached the slow lift out. It was due to close some 10 or 15 minutes after we got to it, and the only other way out is another hike. 

We didn’t talk much, but, as we got toward the top, we saw a couple skiers drop into a separate, non-hike area under the lift, aptly called Deep Temerity. I saw them make a turn, slip a while, make a second turn, and then end up facing back up the mountain. The uphill skier leaned over two poles in a show of fatigue. I’m no doctor, and there is an ill-marked, hike-free bailout before the actual bottom, but these prospective stragglers were meandering headlong into a dead end. 

On our way down, we had to ski past the bar where they spray one another with champagne, right around closing. This meant over-served college kids and adults alike came streaming out, straightlining down the hill. I looked at one grown man in a white ski suit, thinning hair visible above his earmuffs. A few less-experienced types in faux-vintage neon came out like deer on roller skates, losing their footing and collapsing in a jumble of limbs after skiing off what snow remained.

On Friday morning, Emma and I resolved to make our way up. It felt like time to get away from the yahoos. We had heard that the chain luxury stores were there for the Europeans who came in to ski but wanted also to take advantage of American luxury prices and the VAT refund. They don’t mind connecting flights, it seems. I must say, I always think Europe is where good taste comes from until I see a 50-year-old man in a one-piece ski suit, earmuffs, and no helmet.

We figured the fur-clad wouldn't make the hike, but between Wednesday and Friday it seemed like everybody else had. One guy who had an Aspen patch sewn to his jacket, nestled in among a dozen or so patches from other, less expensive places, conversed with his buddy in Spanish and had a bunch of questions for us in English. A couple behind us spoke Japanese, there was some French floating around, and a few other languages. He made good eye contact, was curious and personable. He asked how long the hike was, how the snow was, how steep it was, how far the snowcat brought you. 

He said he was excited for less-trafficked snow but worried it wasn’t actually hard enough to get to and would be skied off. Though I’d found great two-day old snow still there on Wednesday and could answer his questions, I replied somewhat gruffly. I was nervous for part of the hike where the boot pack winds its way a bit too close to the edge, and I felt jealous that he could enjoy the thinned crowd without being bothered by the crowd-thinning hike.

Initially, there was only one really nerve-racking bit where a fixed line helped us wind our way around some exposed rock. I told Emma we’d made it past the crux.

A few hundred yards later, though, the packed ice steps of the conga line slimmed down to mud and wet rock while still wandering rightward, toward the abyss. The mountain had seen a fair bit of snow over the intervening days, but the traffic had stomped right through it.

Wednesday’s driver hadn’t said a word about the hike, which depends on balance and fine movements in boots engineered to prevent both of those. The right structure to keep control over the two boards, but not the right footwear for a place where, maybe I’m afraid of heights, but a slip without skis looked awfully consequential. 

In actuality, Wednesday’s driver had ignored the hike because it doesn’t deter anybody else. As we dropped in Friday, a bunch of ski school kids made their way over the rise, laughing and jabbing at one another. A certain population in neon pranced right up, rental skis on their shoulders, only to sideslip all the way down. We heard just one less-experienced skier complain to a boyfriend about being dragged in too deep, but the general population seemed content to slip ’n slide, falling-leaf style, toward the gentler aspects.

I, skis on at the top, told Emma I’d follow her. She wanted to ski right down the middle for the longest, steepest line. I took the first two turns tense, in the back seat. I paused. I breathed heavily and looked around. Just two turns below the summit, we’d already shed the crowds. The hike may not have kept people out, but now that we dropped, we had 1400 vertical feet to ski, and pretty much nobody to bother us. 

Two days later, it was time to leave. One of the two x-ray machines at the airport was down. It’s the kind of place where the pre-check line is longer than the standard line. Every flight was fully booked but still delayed due to lack of passengers. People murmured disdainfully about commercial air travel. Once through, every seat, plus most of the floor, was occupied. As I walked to the bathroom, I saw the man with the patches across a row of seats. I looked a beat too long and collided with an angry man in a white ski suit. He told me to watch where I was going, as though it were my fault there were all these people bottled up here, stuck waiting impatiently. I shrugged. I’d just come to get some snow. If it wasn’t such a pain, maybe it would fill way up, and nobody would be able to come at all.