HOW TO

My First Skimo Race What I learned from my cardinal ski-dash during the Gothic Mountain Tour in Crested Butte, Colorado

BY MORGAN TILTON

“Uh-oh,” I said out loud, as I came to a dead halt and other ski-racers whizzed past. Something dreadful had occurred: a climbing skin beneath my ski had retracted, spiraling like a curly fry. Its glue-side was concrete, completely coated in snow. In the distance, I could see the table with race volunteers who were tracking bib numbers. I didn’t waste seconds looking at my watch. By now, I had less than five minutes to get there before being slashed from the event. I quickly released my boot, rotated my ski and pulled the floppy skin off. Breathe. Focus. You can still make it, I told myself. I hoped I could transition fast enough.

Nine inches of thick snowflakes had accumulated overnight — which, unlike backcountry laps, isn’t prosperous for a skimo race — but the snowfall had finally ceased. Dense fog hung low around the surrounding valley of Gothic, a historic townsite 4 miles northwest of Mount Crested Butte, Colorado. I was 9 miles into the 14th annual Gothic Mountain Tour, a stout skimo race that starts in Crested Butte, where I live. And to say I was nervous leading up to my first-ever skimo bout is an understatement.

I alpine skied for seven years as a kid but snowboarded for the past 18 years. Nonetheless, I felt strangely drawn to this intense sport due to my love for winter and endurance pursuits — not to mention social influence from my touring partners. So, I started training a couple of months ago. Since our 6 a.m. gunshot start, I’d managed to move fast enough on the climbs and cruise past the top of the Painter Boy ski lift well before the 7:45 a.m. cut-off. But then, I fumbled my way down the choppy, steep slope and forested gulley into Gothic. I hadn’t imagined a need to train in that type of terrain. My quads were paying for the oversight — and so was my race time. Laser-focused, I wiped the base of my ski, applied a fresh skin and clicked in. I skinned fast, reaching the table just as the race heads closed further passage. I sighed with relief — but I still had 15 miles and a mega 2,000-foot climb ahead. The day was far from complete.

The terrain covered during a skimo race varies immensely — from steep uphill climbs to meandering cat tracks through open spaces. photo by Terrance Siemon SKIMO RACING: WHAT IS IT?

Skimo, short for ski mountaineering, is a snow sport that involves ascending and descending slopes using ski and mountaineering skills. Competitors traverse the mountains using detachable skins on the bottoms of toothpick-skinny skis. Sometimes, competitors need to hike, run or boot-pack with equipment in hand. Most U.S. events take place inbounds at ski resorts, though a handful require backcountry travel and equipment or even technical gear like a rope, ice axe and crampons.

In the early 1900s, the European military trained in the Alps on skis, eventually inspiring a contest series called military patrol. Teams formed and competed on 20-mile courses that included vertical gain and shooting, too. The sport debuted at the inaugural 1924 Winter Olympics in Chamonix, France, and later led to the biathlon. Decades

The author makes her way across the wintry landscape near Crested Butte, Colorado, during her first ski mountaineering race. photo by Terrance Siemon

later, the International Council for Ski Mountaineering Competitions was founded in Europe in 1999 to organize tournaments.

The sport’s hold in North America followed. Regional skimo races started popping up nationwide in the 2000s, like at Washington’s Alpental ski area, which hosted their first race for 40 entrants in 2002. The registrants grew fourfold over the following 10 years, according to Backcountry Ski & Snowboard Routes, Washington. And in 2007, the Colorado Ski Mountaineering Cup (COSMIC) Series — the largest skimo organization in North America — was founded by the United States Ski Mountain Association.

Within a decade, all the COSMIC races doubled in size or more. Now, close to 20 annual events exist across several disciplines including sprint, relay and vertical, which nixes the downhill. The most technical, European-esce tournament is the Shedhorn, at Big Sky Resort, which requires crampons and an ice axe, and includes ascenders and no-fall zones. The routes at Taos and Wolf Creek are also risky and punishing. In Telluride, the Peter Inglis Fund Tellurando Race has 12,300 vertical feet of gain and nearly 11,000 feet of descent.

But the races here in Crested Butte have a unique standard of extreme. The Grand Traverse is a 40-mile, 7,000-vertical-foot route that sends two-person squads from Crested Butte to Aspen. The ultra kicks-off at midnight to help mitigate the hazards of traveling through avalanche terrain. Skiers travel entirely at high altitude, between 8,000 and 12,400 feet. A precursor to that spring performance is the Gothic Mountain Tour, which likewise has grown in popularity, reaching its largest capacity yet with nearly 180 participants. The 24-mile route chomps 5,100-feet of vertical and offers minimal support. Ski-runners go from Crested Butte to the ski resort and Gothic, over the Washington Gulch saddle, into the Slate River Valley and back towards town. In 2020, only 76% of the racers finished — and not to my surprise. As I’d trained, friends often reminded me that this competition is considered tougher than the Grand Traverse due to two early cut-offs that force you to sprint out-the-gate.

To give myself the best chance, I elected for help from an expert. I enrolled in Skimo School, an annual one-day course offered through the Crested Butte Nordic Center. The class is taught by Gunnison Valley local Cam Smith, a two-time Grand Traverse Triple Crown winner. He competed in all three Grand Traverse events — skimo, ultrarunning and mountain biking — and won the overall title. He’s achieved first place at the Grand Traverse ski multiple times. Not to mention, he’s a seven-time skimo national champion. I was sure I could learn from him how to craft a training plan and boost my confidence.

SKIMO SCHOOL

On a January morning with a high of 10 degrees Fahrenheit, I gathered with what was Smith’s largest class to date. The majority of our eight students had road tripped from around Colorado, and several of us were snowboarders. It was my first time using this ultralight equipment, which I’d picked up from the rental fleet at The Alpineer, a local shop that leases lightweight alpine-tour setups for skimo. I effortlessly pulled on my Scarpa Alien RS Alpine Touring Boot — the lightest boots I’d ever worn — grabbed my Dynafit DNA Alpine Touring Ski and stepped outside

Author Morgan Tilton completes her first skimo race. photo by Terrance Siemon

the nordic center. Brushed by the cold air, the inside of my nostrils immediately froze. In front of me, an opaque cloud hung for several seconds following each exhale. But my chest and arms radiated warmth. I felt giddy to be picking up a new winter sport.

“We’ll cover gear management, how to kick and glide, refine our kick turns, work on our transitions and practice skinning,” Smith said.

Smith is a lean guy with a huge smile and glistening eyes. Coils of firered hair stuck out from beneath his beanie. His cheeks glowed bright pink from the brisk temps.

“Skinning really well is how to save hours on the Grand Traverse,” he said, which the majority of students here were aiming to complete. We lined up in rows and practiced our glide technique with various drills.

“Fully commit to one ski with all of your weight and glide on that foot. You don’t want to lunge,” Smith instructed.

I took off, overthinking my form and aiming to relax and be fluid. After a 20-minute practice, we gathered in a circle. As Smith demonstrated a speedy transition, I realized that my boots had been locked out the entire time — at least I made that novice mistake before my race.

After repeatedly ripping and reapplying our skins, it was time for a long gliding session. I caught up to Smith to seek his advice. I was considering switching my race distance from the competitive distance to the recreational option, which would eliminate one of the cut-offs, drop the mileage and significantly slice the elevation gain.

“You should go for the competitive distance! What do you have to lose — you’ll learn no matter what happens,” he said.

Smith was right. I was getting too deep in my head considering what I would feel like if I got disqualified. I needed to focus on training, believe that I could accomplish this undertaking and try. As an overachiever, I had to remind myself that I didn’t need to be an exceptional ski-runner for this experience to be incredible. Regardless of the outcome, this pursuit would help me build toward future goals athletically and personally. Plus, my journey of training with friends and spending time outside would fill me up.

In the coming weeks, I’d need to practice skate skiing both fast, flat mileage and slow, long days for endurance. I’d need to ski across all temperatures and snow conditions.

“Do a lot of variable terrain training, so that you’re comfortable out there during the Grand Traverse,” Smith said. As an experienced ultrarunner, I could see the parallels. “You want to dictate the terrain — don’t let the terrain dictate you. The best skiers maintain the same energy while changing their pace, speed and cadence.”

I used that simple formula to gauge my output and pace each day until the race.

TOP OF THE WORLD

A harsh wind pierced my sun-warmed cheeks and the backs of my hands, cupped around my skis. I pulled on mittens, grinning ear-to-ear at the top of Anthracite Mesa, a 11,200-foot high point and the drop-in for the final descent of the Gothic Mountain Tour. I’d spent the last couple of hours slogging uphill, slipping backwards on a steep skin track, and grappling with several more near-catastrophic skin failures.

Now, a blanket of sea-blue had replaced the morning’s white-out and a ring of peaks was in clear view. I looked out at Augusta and Cascade Mountains. I’d realized the deficits in my training, faced a fair number of obstacles and felt tired. Yet, I was elated: Each of those challenges was a huge lesson that I couldn’t have grown without. I thought back to Smith’s coaching and the essence of what he’d shared, that we have nothing to lose by attempting big goals. I couldn’t wait to celebrate with friends at the Magic Meadows Yurt after closing these final miles. I dropped into the steep powder run. My legs felt like Gumby, and I got bucked into the backseat. I laughed at myself and kept on.

For tips and recommendations on picking out the perfect skimo essentials to get you started, head to www.adventurepro.us/skimo-gear.

MORGAN TILTON is an award-winning travel writer specializing in outdoor industry and adventure coverage worldwide. When she’s not writing, you can find her splitboarding, uphilling, snowboarding, nordic or alpine skiing in the Elk Mountains. Follow her journey at @motilton and www.morgantilton.com.

Racers line up in the dark hours of morning for the start of the Gothic Mountain Tour. photo by Terrance Siemon