June 7 to 8. That's right, June
Skiing at Kebler and Ohio pass, near Crested Butte, Colorado
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Other links: Home — My thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail Click any picture to open a large file in a new window
On a whim, a wish and a prayer, I wound up skiing last weekend, June 7 and 8, in the hills above Crested Butte, Colorado. The trip was a comedy of errors sandwiched around some pretty damn good skiing. There was an aggregate of six hours of plane delays and about eight hours of skiing, but it was good skiing in June. So I can't complain. It all started on Wednesday night. I clicked on over to the NWS and saw blue in Colorado. Four to eight inches of snow in the mountains above Crested Butte. My former Macalester ski coach, Jesse, is the coach out at Western State (a.k.a. Wasted State. No, seriously, they call it that.) and had been for some time planning a late season camp out in Colorado. With daily snow-cat grooming. (They are hoping to hold it again next year.) They had an amazing winter this year, and I'd been following along. Gunnison had feet of snow on the ground, Crested Butte tallied nearly 500 inches, and the ghost town of Irwin, up over 10,000 feet, gathered just about 1000. For the Alley Loop, they usually haul in trucks of snow to groom the streets. This year, according to Jesse, they merely didn't plow for 18 hours. And they had a bit of snow. So I knew there'd be skiing. Jesse said the skiing would be great. I'd been considering going for some time, but airfares were out of my range. The cheapest I could get to Denver was about $400, and $500 to Gunnison, with awkward scheduling. But, seeing this snow, I decided to take a stab at some last minute pricing. Sure, flying to Gunnison might be $1400, but then I tried Denver. And what did I find? A good, old-fashioned fare war. Everything leaving Friday and returning Sunday on Northwest, United and Frontier, was $279. Round trip. United had the best timing, leaving 7:10 on Friday and returning at 7:50 on Sunday. Thus, I'd have to take no time off from work, and still get a couple days of skiing in. I found a decent car rental fee and bought my ticket.
Then I went to defray costs. My friend Danny from Boulder couldn't find a car or time off, but Jakob, a Macalester skier just graduated, plunked down his $280 for the trip to Colorado. Early on Thursday morning, nary 36 hours before takeoff. I skipped out of work around 4:30 on Friday, biked home, packed my skis, poles and clothes and walked over to Jakob's girlfriend's house — she was nice enough to give us a ride to the airport. We hopped in the car and hopped on out, lugging the skis, a duffel bag and a messenger bag in to a long, slow line at United. Would we miss our flight? Not a chance — winds and storms in Minneapolis and Chicago had messed up the whole air system, and our flight was now scheduled for 8:30. Now, bad news comes in threes, and this was number one. I knew that Enterprise closed at 10:30 in Denver, and we'd never make it by then. Too bad, they were slightly cheaper than others. I had a reservation with Alamo, too, and wanted to find out their hours. With Jakob taking a place in the stationary line, I ran down, hopped the tram, and found the Alamo desk, where I culled an 800 number, called up and found out that Alamo was open 24/7. Which is good, we'd have a car.
The line moved slowly, but we finally made the front. United (and everyone else) now charges $25 for the second bag, but we were resourceful — I checked the duffel and Jakob checked the skis. We got a couple weird looks with skis — it is June, after all — but no real hassles. By now, however, the plane was scheduled to leave at 9:40, delayed two and a half hours. We passed security and went and found our gate mobbed. With weather in Chicago, United was all screwed up. We found a seat at another gate, whipped out the books, and took a read. After a while, I decided that I was restless, and I'd been sedentary so far that day. So I left my bag and book, rolled up my jeans, and took off on a run around the airport. Running around MSP is actually not a bad deal. The main core of the airport is about a mile around, an eight minute run. If you run counter-clockwise, you get a nice climb up the walkway near the transit hub, a pretty big hill for Minnesota. I took two loops, then went all the way down concourse C and A to the end, running back and taking the tunnel to the little-plane terminal B. I ran for about 35 minutes and probably four miles, in dry, 68-degree air with water bubblers every hundred yards. It's really not a bad run. Jakob was still reading when I returned, and I went to the gate to find our plane's status. It was supposed to be leaving in 40 minutes, but had been pushed back to 10:30. The craft was just leaving Chicago bringing our pilots, so we'd continue to sit and wait. There was some talk of cutting our losses, getting a ticket refund and staying in the Twin Cities, but we figured we'd come far enough that we'd go on. The plane was in the air, they said. We waited, and waited and waited. Finally, around 10:45, we filed on to the 737, taking our seats right up front. Earlier, I had taken our tickets to the counter, asking to be seated together, and since we are both long people, preferably in economy plus. We had bulkhead, 4A and 4B, to stretch right out. So it was late, but at least it was comfortable. Once the plane was airborne, it was an easy flight. We landed at the monstrosity that is DEN (or as everyone calls it, DIA), filed off the plane, and got on the one train running. It ran out to Terminal C, then back to B and A and the concourse, and by the time we were there our bag and skis were out. We went out and caught the Alamo bus, driven by either a transvestite or a very manly woman (not the only one we'd meet) for the short ride out to the car. Once there, we waited for a while whilst the lone employee attempted to scan my card several times, finally calling the number in and getting us on our way. It was now after 1:00 Mountain Time, and we were still four hours from skiing. We had a compact reserved, but they tried to give us a Rav 4. No dice, I said, I didn't want to pay to guzzle gas at $4 per gallon. They found us a smaller car, a Pontiac G5. Within minutes of leaving, we were referring to it lovingly as a Pontiac Piece-of-Shit. It had the acceleration of a tricycle, which is quite useful in Colorado where 4000 foot hills abound. The XM radio was a nice touch, as was the readout which told you the cumulative miles per gallon. We wound through Denver, up 285 and on to the high, dark Plains.
I took over driving around Fairplay, and we continued on down to 285. There was no traffic, just a rogue semi ever few minutes, as I wound down through Buena Vista and Salida to climb up Monarch Pass. The car wasn't too happy climbing up to 11,300 feet, although the early twinkle of dawn did illuminate the snow along the road, exciting for June. I crossed the summit as Jakob woke up, his ears popping, and started down the western slope. It's quite a bit easier driving up — to slow down you let off the gas. Going downhill in the POS, with it's mediocre brakes, was a trial. With a semi behind me, I tried to avoid a big rock in the road (a common occurance on Monarch) and continued several miles down. As the road was flattening out, I found the car pulling. Uh oh. I pulled on to the shoulder, got out and cursed. Yup, our night was about to get longer. We had to change a tire with no owners manual, a crappy little lug wrench and jack, and no lights. This last situation was mitigated by the sun which began rising on the other side of the mountains, and we soon had the tire off and doughnut on, and we got in, a bit proud of ourselves, and drove down to Gunnison. Once we hit cell range (at Monarch we were very far from Cell Range) I called Jesse, telling him that we were getting in in a few minutes. He was content, I had called ten minute before his alarm. The car handled okay at 70, and we limped in to town, found his house, and went in. It was 13 hours, door to door, slightly faster than if we'd driven the whole way. It was now light, and we piled in his car, with four proper tires, for the drive up to Kebler Pass. We saw our first snow on the ground near the town of Crested Butte, at 8800 feet, and the mountains above town were stunningly white. We went through town and hit the road up to the pass, which became snowier as we climbed. Soon, we hit the end of plowing, and saw only a nicely groomed trail ahead, right next to the big snow cat which had done the work. The sun was shining, but the temperatures were in the mid-20s. It was fast, which was good, since sluggish snow would have taxed us even more with the thin, 9,900 foot air.
It is almost unreal to ski in June. We scraped our skis, donned our boots and spandex, and tore off up the trail. I'd left my camera in town, but the skiing was splendid. With the icy conditions, the 2.5k up to Ohio Pass was not too taxing, although our 900-foot hearts were jumping with any climb. From there, it was a fun, fast ride down, with a couple big moguls, back to the cars, with another loop down along a meadow. Further down, there was another trail which had been groomed earlier, but with the strong sun, it had melted out in places. At altitude, it's important to do two things to adapt. One is to drink a lot of water, and the other is to get a lot of sleep. Well, one out of two ain't bad. On an hour of sleep, we skied for an hour and a half up and down the pass and loop, as the sun warmed the meadow it slowed down a bit, but the trip down from Ohio was fast as ever. There were about two dozen skiers. A few from Crested Butte, several from Boulder (where the camp was organized) and a bunch from Vail, as well as a few scattered souls from elsewhere. Only about half were teaching or learning at the camp, the rest of us were out to ski. There were some good skiers, too, we had Macalester, St. Olaf, Dartmouth, Western, Colorado, Denver and Williams represented by current skiers or alums. It was a small world, too. The girl from Dartmouth knows my cousin and the sister of a Macalester skier, the one from Williams went to school in Saint Paul with a Macalester skier. Yup, skiing is a small world.
By 9:30, the sun was blazing, eating at the snow and slowng it down. At Ohio Pass, the side of the Anthracite Range was corning up, and we took our turns telemarking (or, in my case, attempting to telemark) down the side. Some of us got some good turns in, and there was nice crust skiing on the floor of the pass. A wilderness boundary runs down the middle of the valley, with some of the best skiing behind it. The boundary signs have summer signs which were barely poking above the snow, and then much higher signs attached to ward off the snowmobilers in the winter. They must have had a lot of snow — there's still a lot left. The sun was out and the snow really softened and we all made our way down the pass to the cars, and then to Crested Butte for an early lunch.
Having skied most of three hours, we made our way back down the valley to Gunnison. I slept in the car (passed out, according to Jesse and Jakob, which I chalk up to one hour of sleep and three of skiing) to Gunnison. Jesse took our tire to see if he could get it patched, but had no luck. Neither tire store was open, and his auto mechanic friend couldn't help us. In the mean time, Jakob and I napped — I'm not sure where he slept because I passed out on the couch in minutes.
We made our way back up to CB and the skiing in the afternoon. The high-in-the-sky sun had baked the snow, and it was slow enough that we decided to classic, kicking with yellow klister. It was another couple hours of skiing, this time in very spring-like conditions. Instead of a screaming ride down from Ohio Pass, it was a slow, lurching ride as the skis sucked and stuck to the snow. The streams were coming up, although with three feet of base or more, we had no issues with thin spots. The next scenery, with the deep blue sky and brilliant white mountains, was fantastic. I carried the camera on my water belt (downing my third and fourth liters of water — if I wasn't going to sleep much I was definitely going to drink enough). The skiing was good enough, and except for the beating sun, it felt much more like April than June. Around 5:00, we packed up and headed back down to Crested Butte. I called Alamo to ask for advice and was told I was responsible for the tire, that it was out of my pocket, and that I had to get it patched, replaced or pay them. (Note: at HOURCAR we pay for tire punctures or car issues. The car rental firms are dinosaurs. Plus, it took 45 minute on hold to talk to someone, and she was unhelpful.) It was only 24 hours since we had gotten to MSP, but it felt like it was already Tuesday. We'd driven through the night, taken several naps, and skied for five hours, whilst covering about 1000 miles by air, road and ski trail. It was sure a long day.
It was then time for dinner at Teo's. Teo's is a pretty darned good burrito joint in town, and seems to be revered by the locals. Crested Butte is extremely cute. It is a few miles from the ski mountain and not a straight ski town, having been built in the 1800s as a mining town and generally preserved as a national historic district. That's not to say that it's a normal western town, it sure isn't any more. But everyone rides their town bikes and leave them unlocked, the streets bustle even in the offseason, and it seems to serve well the folks who live there. At least those who can afford it. After dinner we hit the road back to Gunnison so we could switch the spare to the rear for the ride back to Denver. I'd ascertained that the nearest tire store open on Sunday was in Denver, and our only option was to drive back on the doughnut. Rental cars, the most durable cars on the road. With three people, two jacks and proper daylight, the wheels took about ten minutes to change. By 8:00 it was time to go to the bar. Jesse, a Wisconsin living at altitude, had no trouble with a couple beers. Jakob and I, on two hours of sleep and at 7,700 feet, were ready to collapse after one. It was an interesting crowd, too, a couple Mexicans without IDs (no drinking for you), a couple guys we found out later were the local drug dealers, and a drunk who was talking about "some Jewish guy from Texas with a Denali" as Jesse and I looked at eachother and rolled our eyes. We rode our bikes home (Jesse made do with a skateboard) after a time in the bar, a smattering of westerners and college types. It's an interesting crowd in Gunnison. The folks across the street were drinking and playing horseshoes, and Jesse went to join them for another beer. One of them inquired as to what type of rental car we were driving, and when we told him he asked if we knew what Pontiac stands for. We told him we did, but he still told us: Poor Old Neophyte Thinks It's A Cadillac. Neophyte — interesting word choice. With a party next door, it was not a quiet sleep, but Jakob and I took the floor and were asleep in seconds.
We awoke a bit before 6:00, looked outside, and Jesse announced that skiing was going to be pretty slow and bad. The sky was cloudy, and Crested Butte's webcams showed snow. With the season, it was likely to be heavy and wet and slow, not fast and fun like the morning before. But we hadn't flown two hours and driven five more and blown out a tire not to ski. We picked up a high school skier in Gunnison and headed up. By the time we got near Crested Butte, we saw the mountains dusted with snow. Up near Kebler, every tree had an inch of snow on it, and the road was covered as well. With a 100 foot drop to the river on one side, I trusted in Jesse's driving, and was not disappointed. We got to the trail, felt the snow, and were elated. It was cold and dry enough that we had an inch of "champagne powder" on top of the hard-packed trail. And with clouds, it wasn't going to get slow soon. Instead of being mediocre, the skiing was fantastic, much more like March than June.
We skied up and down the groomed-up trail anew. Up to the pass, down to the meadow, and then back. After a couple trips, I turned up a different road which, whilst ungroomed, provided decent crust skiing for about 2k to a high meadow and frozen lake. The crust skiing there, with a dusting of powder atop, was fantastic. I went across one meadow and back in to the woods, where the snow clinging to the lichen was stunning. On to another meadow, I was at 10,500 feet, and skied around the pond and followed some ski tracks which I thought might head down and back to the base.
They headed down, all right, but not to the meadow. After a long cruise down, I realized that the snow was getting thin and the view of aspens meant that I was pretty far down. I didn't have a panic attack, I knew pretty much where I was and had tracks to follow. So long as it didn't snow. I figured I was in Splain's Gulch, and if I continued to the bottom I'd have a long road walk back. I stopped, turned around, and began a long climb back up several hundred feet, and it began to snow. It was only light, and pretty soon I reached the meadow up top, with the view across Ohio Pass, to find my way back. As I hit the last meadow, five other skiers came climbing up to the meadow, through the softening powder with Ruby Mountain in the background. I whipped out my camera and tried to capture the scene, although I'm not sure I did it justice. Ruby, behind, with its white-capped ridges and bowls, was exciting the locals, many of whom were planning to ski down it the next week. It sounded like too much fun.
The trip down the trail was fun, with some dips and turns off through the forest (and a video to prove it) back to the meadow, with its long, stunning views. There were still a lot of skiers tooling around, although since it was around 10:00 the sun, which had broken through, was beginning to slow things way down. I had forgotten my sunglasses in Gunnison but lucked out, as the morning had been mainly cloudy with even a snow shower. In June. Snow in June! Jakob and I took a trip back up to Ohio Pass to take pictures with the 10,120 elevation sign post. We turned back, met Jesse at the base and all double poled down the now-wet and slow snow to the cars. It was nearly 11:00, and we'd had more than three hours of skiing in the morning. On fresh snow. In June.
We drove down to Gunnison, packed, removed from our skis the yellow klister, and packed the car for the trip. We lunched at the Firebrand, a sandwich shop in town, before leaving town for Denver. Gunnison sort of reminds me of Farmington, Maine. It's about 7,000 people with a small state university, a nice sandwich shop and a major road running through. Like Farmington, it used to be a narrow gauge rail hub, and is the gateway to a major ski area. The mountains in Gunnison are a little bigger, and the snow stays a lot longer. Driving with traffic on two-lane roads is harder than overnight with no one. We gut stuck behind a pickup hauling hay for a bit, finally passing him and heading up the pass. The doughnut did okay up over Monarch and down the other side, and was fine up to Buena Vista. With the sun out, the views along the Highway of the 14ers were splendid. They are just like the 4000 footers in New England, except, oh, 10,000 feet higher. Some are easy climbs, some are technical, and some just have 6,000 feet of elevation differential. But they sure are pretty.
We turned right in Buena Vista and headed along a curvy section of road when we got in to a chain of 15 cars going 35 miles per hour. Why? Some moron from New Mexico was driving an old minivan and didn't seem to have enough juice to go faster. Did he pull over to let us all pass him? Nope, he made us jockey for position and try to pass on the short sections when there was no opposing traffic. He seemed completely oblivious to causing about half a dozen head-on collisions. We finally got up behind him, pulled out on a straight stretch, and floored it. The Pontiac POS, spare tire and all, eked its way up to 75 and made it past, just as a semi was cresting the hill ahead. Once safely back in my lane, the window went down and the middle finger up. Twerp. The rest of the drive was uneventful. We crested the next two little passes and made our way across the high plateau at 10,000 feet. The rivers were clear and blue, and the front ranges shimmered in the distance. We wound down 285 and in to the hilly suburbs of Denver, and once I found cell coverage, I called a Tires Plus to see if they could fit us in before closing. "Sure, partner, I can help you out." I think getting partnered out west is like getting y'alled down south. We stopped for our first gas fillup just short of the tire place, then sat at a long light, waiting to turn on to the road to the shop. The woman ahead of us was texting, finally woke up and went through the light just as it turned yellow. A microcosm of the weekend, we get everywhere we need to be, but it is never quite as planned. We got to the tire shop and found the person at the desk, another very manly woman, helping another customer, who spent half the time yelling at his girlfriend on the phone. He finally cleared out and Jakob rolled in the tire.
I explained that the tire was from a rental, and that we wanted the cheapest replacement or patch. "Can you patch it, or does it need to be replaced?" The nice woman looked at me and said "This is a rental? I'm not going to sell you a new tire. Look at this tread! The tread bar is showing. It's all out of alignment. You should call up the rental place and get them to bring you another car. They ought to be ashamed of themselves." In all of our tire changes, we never noticed that we were on a bald tire. "I like selling tires," she continued, "but I'm honest. I won't sell you one if you don't need it. You should call them and have them bring you another car." We liked her immediately. "Actually, we're headed off to DIA right now," I said. "Well go on. Here's my card, and if they have a problem, they can call me." And she was not the kind of lady you'd want to mess with. We hopped in the car and hobbled off to the airport. With the little tire having made 250 miles, what's another 30? It said "for temporary use only," but didn't explicitly state how far they meant by "temporary" or what terrain should or should not be traversed. The little Pontiac POS made it there in one piece. We arrived in Western Kansas (or wherever the airport is) and I was rehearsing the "you gave us a deathtrap" spiel.
We parked the car and I went in to check out, and the woman was rather unapologetic when I told her she gave us a deathtrap with blowing, bald tires. She offered half a day off the base rental. $9 was not going to cut it. Then she offered a full day off. That wasn't going to cut it, either. I got to bargaining. "I want the $25 per driver under-25 fees refunded, too. And the extra driver fee." Done. We saved $80, which is not bad. I checked the HOURCAR outside our office on Monday, however, and its tires were properly treaded. We'd never send someone off with bald, unbalanced tires. I plan to call Alamo and ask for the rest of the money back, pulling the "I run a car rental firm and we'd never send someone off in a bald-tired death trap." If we'd sent someone out in a car with bad tires and they'd blown out, we'd be falling all over ourselves to comp their reservation. It was a hassle, but this might be a pretty cheap trip, after all. Jakob and I hopped the shuttle to the airport, got in a long but fast line and checked out bags. Our flight was only scheduled to leave 50 mintues late, but with a basketball game on, I didn't complain. We walked the sky bridge over the runway and then rode the train around to the terminal and found our gate. I found a picture of fall snow with golden aspens and exclaimed "I want to go there." The caption: Near Kebler Pass. Oh, well, been there, done that. Our gate was signed for Austin. As were three other gates. It must be an exciting place. We found a sports bar and plopped down for a mediocre burger and good basketball game. We watched the first half, with me cheering on the Celtics and some typical, uninterested Lakers fans at the next table wondering why I was so excited. At halftime, we made our way down to the plane. It seemed that 8:40 was optimistic. We got on the packed-full plane at about 8:30, and I called my dad to have him play the radio in to the phone. I listened to an exhilirating third quarter as we waited for the pilots, pounding the airplane whenever the C's ran up the score. The pilots showed around the start of the fourth, and I had my dad on call to phone in the final so I'd have a message waiting when we landed. I thought of hanging up the phone once we pushed back, but with the Celtics building a 24 point lead and Max quacking up a storm, I held the phone against my head. The guy next to me, originally from Nashua, thought it was hilarious, referencing a mythbusters which debunked the cell phone-interference bogosity. The guy across the aisle gave me the evil eye. I held the game through about 5,000 feet, and then was in the dark, with the Celtics lead down to 13 points with five minutes to go. I took a nap most of the rest of the way and once we landed, my seatmate prodded me to get the score. I got the message from my dad, who said that the C's had won, and then launched in to a tirade against the three pointer. A 2-0 lead heading in to LA is not too shabby. We deplaned, found our bags (United does bags at MSP very well) and headed home. It was 70 and muggy in the Twin Cities, a far cry from fresh powder of the morning (and a far cry from the 100-degree heatwave on the East Coast). Utterly wasted from about as much skiing as sleep over two days, and 1000 miles of travelling, I got home and collapsed. Was it the longest weekend of my life? I'd have to say so. Both flights were delayed and arrived after midnight. It seemed like Thursday by the time I got to bed Monday morning. Was it worth it for skiing in June? Absolutely. And an update. When I got back to Saint Paul after delays galore, I went and checked out one of the HOURCARs and its tires had deep tread and were not unbalanced. I realized that we'd never give out a car with bald tires. So I sent an email to Alamo. And got no response, despite the fact that a confirmation email said I'd be contacted within 48 hours. So on Friday, I called up their 800 customer relations number. Now, they may have recorded the call for quality assurance and training, but I didn't, so what follows is my recollection of the call: Ari: I was given a car with a bald tire. The tire punctured, I had to change it myself, and was told by Alamo that I'd be responsible for replacing it. The tire was completely bald, and a tire shop would not replace it. Alamo Lady: Yes, I see, the complaint has been lodged, we've adjusted your rate down to $121. Ari: I see, but here's the thing: I was given a car which was not in good working order. It was unsafe for me to be driving and I am lucky that the tire slowly deflated and did not blow out. I don't think I should have to pay a red cent for this trip. I work for a short-term car rental organization and if we had given someone a car in this kind of disrepair and they'd had a flat we'd be falling all over ourselves to refund their money. Alamo Lady: So...you don't think you should have to pay at all for this reservation? Really? Ari: Yes. Alamo Lady: Why? Ari: Well, because when I rent a car from an agency, I expect the car to be in good working order. If it is not, it is tantamount to a breach of contract — I don't think I should have to pay to have driven a deathtrap. Alamo Lady: Can I put you on hold? Alamo Lady: Okay, we have adjusted off the rest of your bill. Ari: Okay, I just want to reiterate that you really shouldn't be giving out cars in shoddy condition. Alamo Lady: Okay, right. Whatever. That might be the first and last time I rent from Alamo. I also talked to United (after they didn't respond to my email). Jakob had received a $100 voucher for his troubles. I called up and spoke to a very nice man in India who wasn't even trying to cover his accent, and he gave me $125. So the cost of the trip, gas included, was about $200. Not too bad. Other links: Home — My thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail |
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