Schnitzspahn gets the goods. Photo: Isaac Stokes
I used to live in Montana and, man, was I spoiled when it came to powder skiing. If I wanted a lazy morning with coffee and breakfast with my significant other, it was no problem. There was enough pow to farm at Big Sky that a late start was more par for the course than catastrophe. What a rude awakening I had when I moved to the Front Range a decade ago. If I wasn’t racing to pass slow cars on the way up to the hill and jostling for up-front position in the lift line, I might as well have just stayed home.
Ah, but over ten years I have learned to love the skiing on the Front Range. And I have relearned the art of sleeping in. All it took was a willingness to follow the old timers who trusted me and a promise not to write about the most secret of stashes they showed me in the pages of this magazine. You develop a plan of attack, your own personal map of the mountain, a penchant for tight trees and a willingness to bring your avi gear and drop out the gates. Because if you want to farm powder here, you definitely need to develop your own personal network of stash pockets. Or hike. But even the backcountry has become a freshie-seeking derby recently as more and more skiers and snowboarders who were once relegated to riding the lifts are investing in AT bindings and split boards.
I claim Eldora as my local resort, mostly because I can drive there in 45 minutes (which means I can sleep in) and don’t have to worry about sitting for several hours waiting to drive through the Eisenhower Tunnel. On first glance, my local resort could be back in Vermont, except it’s windier here (which has prompted me to actually start putting my skate skis in the rocket box, since I have learned to salvage—maybe even relish—a wind closure with a big cardio burn on the Nordic trails here). But I have developed an enduring love for the place as I get to know it better. There are funky little-known tree runs here like The Burl that can be easy to miss and intermittent when it comes to snowpack—but when you hit them right, it’s pure magic, especially when you pop back out onto the groomers where the uninitiated are getting worked in the bumps or screeching their edges like fingernails on a chalk board down a skied-off Corona Bowl.
