CHASED BY STORMS IN COLORADO

WORDS: KATE ALLMAN

Call us armchair meteorologists. Freeskiers, as a rule, are unashamed weather nerds.

We’re fascinated by atmospheric pressure and wind direction. Riveted to forecasting maps despite being entirely self-trained on how to read them.

“We’re all a little obsessed with weather, aren’t we?” admits Loryn Duke, Communications Director (official) and 14-year local weather nerd (unofficial) at Steamboat Ski Resort. It’s February, and the mountain has already recorded more snow in the 2022-23 season than it received the entire previous year.

After three years of pandemic-induced hiatus from skiing Rocky Mountain pow, I’ve returned in 2023 to one of North America’s snowiest years. Alta in Utah clocks more than 800 inches by April. Mammoth Mountain celebrates its snowiest season in record-keeping history. And in Colorado, every stop on my February mission produces the goods.

“It’s you – you’re the snow charm! The snow follows wherever you go!” Loryn messages me three weeks later, after I’ve spent a day navigating the depths of Durango pow. In four weeks of road-tripping through Colorado I can barely go four days without new snow. It’s like a switch has flipped on every travelling skier’s ultimate aspiration. Instead of chasing storms, they’re chasing me.

Champagne powder

Loryn and I are discussing the science of snowstorms over a margarita at Ore House in downtown Steamboat. The former homestead built in 1889 cooks the butteriest, pinkest Elk steak I ever slid a knife into and retains one of the more glorious treasures of pre-pandemic history: a self-serve salad bar(!).

If any American ski town is going to crack the code for ultimate powder conditions, it’s likely Steamboat. The resort is so confident in its famously light and dry powder snow it even trademarked the phrase “champagne powder”.

This isn’t just armchair expertise – Steamboat happens to be a magnificent place to study weather, hosting a prestigious annual weather conference for journalists and meteorologists.

“Steamboat sits right next to the Mojave Desert. It’s why our snow is so light and dry,” Loryn explains. “As storms travel east from the Pacific Ocean, they lose moisture over the desert, then the first thing the clouds hit is the mountains around Steamboat. To get over the mountains, those clouds need to rise and cool, eventually falling as incredibly dry, champagne powder snow.”

So, skiing here should feel something like slicing through spray from a freshly corked bottle of Veuve. A day testing the science with President and Chief Operation Officer (COO) of Steamboat Resort, Rob Perlman, confirms it.

“Hmm, usually there are no friends on a powder day,” Rob tutts, tapping his watch when my husband and I arrive two minutes late to meet him for First Tracks.

First Tracks is one of the place’s many genius quirks; an optional add-on for keen riders who want to skip the crowds and hit the mountain from 7.45-9am (on a powder day, who wouldn’t?). We clamber into the gondola with greying locals carrying skinny skis, who all greet Rob by name and quarrel over how many days they have ridden this season. Anything over 100 days is the goal.

Snow has been falling in fat flakes for two days straight, so at this stage I’ve not even seen the mountain in clear visibility yet. No matter – Rob knows the trail map better than the top sheet of his skis. We head for the trees to shelter from surprisingly minimal wind and begin splaying our edges through pillows that rise to our armpits. It’s all ultra-light and impressively easy to navigate.

Rob’s favourite route is a line of trees separating two runs called “Two o’clock” and “Three o’clock”. “We call that ‘Two-thirty trees’,” he explains, then a wry grin: “I like to call it the dentists’ run.”

A Dad joke seems apt from a man who has held senior positions in Steamboat for 15 years and has become something of a father figure to locals. Rob cheerily waves to a gaggle of ski patrollers, then hoists a rope on a closed run for our final pre-9am mission. We duck under it into a steep, usually groomed black diamond pitch called Rolex. I say groomed – and it was groomed – right before those super-dry clouds swarming up from the Mojave Desert dumped 40cm on us last night. We shriek with glee as we careen down the steep, even canvas. It’s the kind of snow worth trademarking.

Earning turns (and dinner)

Surprise powder days might be the best kind of powder days. In Aspen Snowmass, when a powder day arrives – and they are regular – the hype on social media seems less pronounced than other places.

“I prefer we under-report than over-report,” says Hags, a local for more than 20 years and head of Ski Patrol at Aspen Highlands. No one can tell me his real name, but every local knows Hags is the Boss of the Mountain.

“If you arrive expecting a few inches and find yourself in three feet of powder, that’s only going to make you happier.”

We’re slumped at the chic bar of the Limelight Hotel after a totally unanticipated day of shredding thick pillows in the outer regions of Snowmass, the largest of Aspen’s four resort areas. Hags’ assessment is accurate. Each time a cute five centimetres is forecast, the evening snow clouds have more punch to deliver. In signature Aspen form, they dump in the windless dark, then whisk away in time for blinding bluebird mornings.

We are drawn to the high elevation and powder potential of Elk Camp lift. Nothing but eerie silence punctuates tight and dizzyingly deep turns between the trees. A hike out to the Burnt Mountain Glades delivers cold smoke that seems to whisper secrets with each spray. I imagine this is how it feels to be skiing out of bounds in an apocalypse.

The next day, Hags promises Highland Bowl will open under dazzling sunshine and hooks us up with veteran ski patroller Mike Spayde for company. With Mike commentating the oxygen-squeezed hike, we sweat it up the iconic ridgeline to the 12,392-foot (3,777m) peak in search of freshies. Then, we plummet into lines refilled with that endless surprise pow. Aspen’s remote location way up in Colorado’s Roaring Fork River valley has long been a drawcard for celebrities hoping to escape the cameras and blend in with ordinary folk. But the same seclusion is still a massive attraction for ski bums. The four mountains (Aspen, Aspen Highlands, Buttermilk and Snowmass) are just far enough from Denver to deter day-trippers. I get the feeling locals and snow forecasters thus share an unwritten code: don’t blab too much about it.

I do wish Director of Public Relations Jeff Hanle would offer just a little more information about the route we have to take to dinner up on Buttermilk Mountain, though. “It’s a short hike, you can do it in boots, only takes half an hour,” he assures us.

The opportunity comes around once in a full moon, literally. Buttermilk opens its slopes to adventurous riders willing to hike or skin uphill under the big moon’s illuminating beams. The associated with copper, nickel, gold, and silver. I prefer the tale cowboys tell around town. That the name is a mash-up of an old prospectors’ warning: “to hell you ride”. carrot at the end is Cliff House restaurant and its famous Mongolian stir fry. The stick? The restaurant stops serving food at 8pm, so you better get cracking.

It’s a warning that should be heeded as much today when skiing the mountain as steering a vehicle up its sheet-ice roads. There’s only one way in and out of the valley during winter. Those who want to survive the winding pilgrimage need to be thick-skinned. Either that or just thick.

Our journey starts in the colourful Old West town of Crested Butte. There, three days of sunshine present a rare dry stretch during our road trip. Brilliant colours fill my goggles for a weekend of crisp groomers and early afternoon beers. The high saturation hues match the town’s pastel shopfronts on the charming main street of Elk Avenue: cheap tacos, pizza and gyros within.

But it’s a rookie error to be fooled by the Butte’s cheery colours – the mountain has more in-bound black diamond runs and hike-to bowl skiing than any other resort in the state. It also claims America’s steepest run, the 55-degree pitch of Rambo Run. Unfortunately, we miss out on the best this time, as Crested’s bowls and off-piste realms are scratched out under weekend sun.

So, it’s with glee that flakes begin to float our way once more when we hit the road to Telluride.

Of course, we only learn about closing time five minutes before 8pm, after we have hiked in our walking boots for almost two hours on a crunchy, slippery piste. We hoist our stiff ski legs up the front of Buttermilk Mountain, which is far taller than I remember from the zippy chairlift ride in daylight. I’m ravenous and after shovelling down a glorious beef stir fry then undertaking the boot-packed descent, I plan to chew Hanle’s ear off about the realities of his “half hour walk”. Then again, in Aspen, the surprise is half the fun.

To hell we ride

Some say the historic former mining town of Telluride was named after a mineral compound

The white-knuckle drive in is a good warm up for what’s to come. We fly straight into three days of blizzard skiing at subterranean depth. Director of Communications and true Telluride local (he grew up here more than 40 years ago) Tom Watkinson helps reveal the mountain’s treasure. We dart through the trenches of Log Pile and West Drain, then mine the chutes of Gold Hill. Every new prospecting route lands us in deeper pits of foam.

Before lunch, Tom decides we should hit a Hollywood action sequence right beneath Oak Street chairlift to town. With a live audience drifting over us on the two-seater, we are keen to put film-worthy leaps and slashes on display. Of course, if you ain’t sending you’re pretending – and at various stages we also end up on the cutting room floor.

The base of Oak Street lift delivers us to the best pub in town, the Oak, which tends to be the finish line for adventurers hiking out of Revelation Bowl and skiing the steep out-ofbounds terrain on Telluride’s backside. Skins and split boards are draped around the pub on sunny days as their owners regale the bar with stories of the thrilling turns they took to get down the valley.

Steamboat calls it champagne powder for good reason. Opposite: Telluride’s terrain and fresh snow combine to make something special.

No one here seems to know Tom’s last name. All anyone calls him is “Telluride Tom”. When he recommends fish tacos at the Oak – a meal not listed on any menu or blackboard – I heed his local knowledge.

Ten minutes later, grilled fish fillets arrive blanketed in zesty salsas, salad, and softshell wrappings, with a depth of flavour that almost knocks me off my high stool.

Telluride Tom is not partial to physical menus or maps. Instead, he offers a physical illustration of where we ripped into the mountain. He straightens his posture and holds his arms out in a low circle across the bar.

“The front of Telluride is this circle in front of me like a big bowl – you ski off my arms and shoulders down into the bowl, which is the mountain village,” he says, motioning to the circle. “I like to tell people: Telluride is like skiing into a big hug.”

After dropping into those pits and chancing the craggy backside, you’re probably going to need one.

Going West

After Telluride, we set our sights on loftier, more remote destinations. The Old West frontier towns of Silverton and Durango have captured my imagination for decades.

My grandparents, who were keen skiers right up until their 80s, first piqued my interest. They would disappear there for weeks in the pre-internet era, returning to Australia with colourful tales of navigating Colorado’s western highways lugging heavy metal skis in the boot of rental cars. Grandma adored the signature bluebird powder days.

Grandpa loved reliving Clint Eastwood films, and snapping photos of neon road signs on Kodak film.

While Google maps makes directions easier today, these are still places that offer snippets of frontier life. Sandwiched between critical mountain passes that open and shut every few days for avalanche mitigation. Our journey to Silverton from Telluride takes us on the Million Dollar Highway, a teetering road without safety barriers that earns its name for two reasons: for the million-dollar views it harbours at each turn, as well as the insane cost that came with drilling each mile into the side of a mountain more than 12,000 feet (3,600m) above sea level.

As for the ski “resorts”. Well, they’re as raw and full of thrills as you can imagine. Silverton Mountain is the highest and steepest ski area in North America, with a peak at 13,487 feet (4110m), and an average annual snowfall of 10plus metres.

There’s one chairlift, no grooming, no infrastructure. An old bus with the seats taken out, full of skis and boards, calls itself a demo shop. A big yurt tent sagging under the monstrous snowfall is the ticket office. Who needs buildings when you have 1,819 acres of chairlift-accessed descents, plus an extra 22,000 of heli-accessible terrain?

Infrastructure is an afterthought at Durango’s Purgatory Mountain. The chairs are slow, and long traverses around the peak become tiresome for my snowboarding husband. But who’s to complain when there are no crowds, lines, or traffic? Especially when we are pummelled with a barrage of fresh snow swarming directly at us from Colorado’s southern border.

A day skiing Durango’s 35,000 acres of backcountry with Purgatory Snowcat Adventures coincides with snowfall so heavy it earns a name on the news: Winter Storm Olive. Sandwiches are laid outside the cat and covered within two minutes by the clouds’ incessant puking. Our photographers can barely keep their lenses clear to record the historic day.

At Silverton, a single heli drop for just US$189 is tempting. But it’s wholly unnecessary, as we discover when we opt for a day of guided skiing

(the only way to ski the chairlift through winter months). There are rarely more than 80 skiers on the hill, and the pow stays fresh for weeks after a storm. It’s as good as heli-skiing but with sharper teeth: the cliff-riddled backcountry and tight trees keep us on our toes.

I’m thrown into a “fast” group with four mountain biking, charging, fitspirational American women. Each run begins with a trek along Silverton’s oxygen-squeezed 12,300-foot ridgeline and ends with a scramble over rivers and through forests, back to a road where an old bus (former school transport? Jail bus? No one really knows) collects us and drops us back to the chairlift. We hoot and slash through gullies of treelined powder, then careen into open bowl faces all day.

“Is it always this good?” I ask the Americans breathlessly, after splashing through yet another hanging white canvas at speed.

“No,” they admit. “This is pretty all-time.”

All thrills, no frills, and even the locals agree: this 2022-23 season in Colorado has been one for the history books.

Charming towns, bet ter powder days, brighter sunshine, more unique après, pret tier landsc apes, bigger adventures.