M
y thighs burn hotter than red coals, muscle fibers straining, screaming. I have to release. I fall. Facefirst like a tripped kid on the playground. Rather than asphalt, though, it’s three feet of pillowy snow that catches my chin, then cheek, then forehead, as my left ski goes flying and my right shoulder drives straight into the slope. I pause as ice crystals turn to water against my bare skin. Like an exhale, my thighs release their ropy grip. My third try at powder skiing feels just as hard as my first. These skinny, slippery sticks stuck to my feet... How to keep them from sliding underneath the snow? How to turn when there’s nothing firm to push against? How to glide and bounce, fly and float like everyone else? From the top of the run — the most mellow at Colorado’s newest ski resort, Bluebird Backcountry, the country’s first chairlift-less, humanpowered ski resort — the only answer I could muster was my thighs. So, I leaned back, kept my ski tips up, squatted low for balance, and dropped into the 17 inches of fresh snow. Within a minute my thighs were on fire, and that’s when I ate it. I sit up, shaking the snow from my ear, my rogue ski a few feet below me. I slide down to grab it, clumps of snow tumbling in my wake. Though I’m a novice skier, I’m a backcountry skier. Three years ago I bought my first pair of skis and went straight for a touring set up (skis with adjustable bindings that allow both uphill and downhill movement). Around the same time, Jeff Woodward and Erik Lambert, two backcountry fiends from Denver and Golden respectively, were starting to brainstorm concepts for Bluebird Backcountry. They envisioned a ski area with no chairlifts and hundreds of acres of avalanche-evaluated powder, where someone could safely learn the innards of backcountry touring while still enjoying traditional resort amenities like ski patrol, a lodge, rentals and guides. If only Bluebird had been up and running when I started: I’m the perfect example of someone who would’ve benefited from its existence. All things considered, I’m lucky I’m still alive. • • • • Whiteley Peak and its craggy, castle-like summit reaches over 10,000 feet, forming the centerpiece of Bluebird’s terrain. Hills coated with fondant-like snow roll east toward Grand County’s ranchlands.
Stayin’ alive
The nation’s first human-powered ski resort opens
story and photos by Emma Athena
BOULDER COUNTY’S INDEPENDENT VOICE
Northward, Highway 40 runs up and over Rabbit Ears Pass to Steamboat Springs. About 20 miles south is Kremmling, a 1,500-person town that’s been growing its adventure-industry offerings (hunting, fishing, snowmobiling, ATVing) for years. Bluebird is the latest addition. When I moved to Colorado, in February 2017, I knew I wanted to ski, and I wanted to ski big mountains like I’d seen in ski movies. Too broke to afford new skis or resort passes, my partner and I scoured Craigslist. We bought used cross-country skis for $35 and drove up to Nederland’s Hessie Trailhead (not understanding the difference between cross-country and backcountry touring gear). All we knew was we wanted to be in the mountains, far from I-70, lift-line crowds and empty bank accounts — we didn’t know anything about avalanches, the deadliest natural hazard in Colorado. A few months later, I started working at REI and there I learned what backcountry skiing is really about. With my employee discounts, I bought my touring set up; as winter rolled around again, I ponied up for Eldora’s season pass. I watched YouTube videos and taught myself to ski on the bunny slope, following toddlers leashed to parents. I loved facing gravity head-on, gently pressuring the inner arches of my feet — pizza then french fries. The next year, my partner got a splitboard (thanks to a media discount I scored after leaving REI). We attended one of Neptune Mountaineering’s Avalanche I
FEBRUARY 27, 2020
Awareness sessions hosted by Friends of Berthoud Pass. We couldn’t afford beacons, shovels or probes, which we knew we needed, but figured we could just stay in terrain too-gentle for avalanches, with trees and other skiers who knew more than us. That spring we summited 14,231-foot Mt. Shavano and skied down its Angel of Shavano couloir. I pizza-ed the entire way. Last Christmas my partner booked me a $559 spot in an AIARE I (American Institute for Avalanche Research and Education) course. Instead of him joining me, we decided to pay $427.14 for one beacon, shovel and probe. Maybe next year we’ll be able to afford all of that again for him — but maybe not. Long story short: skiing, even backcountry, is expensive as hell. I never bought another resort pass. I love the meditation of uphill skiing, the feeling of working toward something momentous, the childlike glee of downhill motion. It all comes with an edge, though — now knowing its hazards, hearing about backcountry fatalities in the news, reading about buried friends of friends. Last year 25 people died in U.S. avalanches; so far this year, 16 people have perished, four in Colorado. I DIY-ed most of my backcountry skiing not to reject safety, but due to financial constraints and the fact that I had no one to teach me. My mountain-love mixed with my autonomous personality, lead me to countless slopes I truly had no business on. Driving through Kremmling the day I visited Bluebird, a radio journalist was reporting two Coloradans buried and killed in an avalanche near Vail. This is exactly the situation Woodward and Lambert hope to resolve. • • • • Inside the Bluebird Backcountry ski patrol hut (1.5-mile into the resort, at the base of Whiteley Peak), Woodward hands a volunteer a pack of bacon. “Here,” he says, “I brought a resupply.” On the cookstove, the pan is already hot, sizzling with fatty strips. The next burner over has a giant bubbling pot of hot chocolate — free for all Bluebird guests to indulge. Two skiers come in, taking off their goggles, sniffing the air, “Mm, bacon!” The idea for Bluebird surfaced after Woodward took his brother backcountry touring a few years ago. The two had a blast, but when they returned, his brother, a novice, was at a loss for what to do next, see BLUEBIRD Page 18
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