Oh the bluebird-sky days of winter have returned as I sneak away to the slopes on a buddy pass and stolen time. The joy of living in Colorado versus traveling there to ski lies in choosing your mid-week day to escape, coming closer to the trifecta of good snow, light lift lines, and a wide open day with no wind.
Copper Mountain feels like a locals mountain, though I’ve shared chairs up the hill with folks from all over. They look at my non-descript attire–clearly from years back–and then down at my skis–clearly from decades back–and I wonder what they think. Perhaps the truth: I look like I don’t give a damn, but secretly I revel in my clear display of Colorado nativity. I was reborn here, and in my heart it remains.
Once we pass 2:30 on the clock, my knees are ready for après-ski. I find a picnic table, or a red Adirondack chair, order a Colorado Native in a plastic cup, and unbuckle my boots in the ultimate moment of skier relief that is universal. The hops, the barley, the yeast, the water–all native. And so am I.
The skies open up deep blue above the peaks at Arapahoe Basin
The hops, the water, the yeast, the barley…all from Colorado
My skis are almost as old as I am…