Storymania - Blue Run At Telluride by Danny I. Spitler

Blue Run At Telluride
Danny I. Spitler

I began to wonder if the ski lift was ever going to end. I had never been on a lift that went for so long. It seemed to stretch out forever and the upward incline was awfully steep.

There were no lift lines as I boarded lift number nine so I did not have to share my seat with anyone. I was able to enjoy the solitude of the forest, the snow, and the brilliant blue sky. I also had plenty of time to contemplate the fact that this lift was taking me to the top of a 12,000-foot peak, and there was no way down except to ski.

I had arrived in Telluride on Wednesday in the middle of a snowstorm. My friend Pam and I had packed our sweaters, jackets, and ski pants the night before and caught an America West Dash 8 to from Phoenix to Montrose, Colorado. The Dash 8 is a prop plane which holds about 30 passengers. We were two hours late taking off, which seems to be pretty standard procedure for America West. We caught a shuttle bus for the 90-minute trip from Montrose to Telluride. Our driver drove cautiously with the falling snow, and we certainly did not encourage him to go any faster. We checked into the Bear Creek Bed and Breakfast which is right on the main street in downtown Telluride and settled in for our 4-day getaway.

On Thursday we signed up for several hours of ski lessons and rode the gondola from Telluride over one of the lower peaks to Mountain Village. Here we were assigned to different ski instructors. Pam opted for a beginner class since it had been many years since she had skied. I joined an intermediate class. I rode the first ski lift with my instructor, Michael. He asked about my skill level. I tried to explain what I was capable of doing, but he cut to the chase quickly and declared my skill level as "survival." I smiled and agreed wholeheartedly. I challenged him to teach me enough to make it more fun and less work.

For the next several hours Michael worked with Louis, Jenny, Lois, and I trying to bring our skill level up to the point that we could survive the intermediate blue runs with some degree of confidence. On the slopes green runs are designated as the easier runs for beginners or advanced beginners. Blues are more difficult and should be taken by intermediate skiers with higher levels of skill. The Black runs mean only one thing to a skier at my level….."Don't go there."

I had been strictly a green run skier to this point, and the small amount of skiing I had done could be described as "skiing scared." I would start each run by telling myself that skiing was far down on my list of my favorite sports so don't do something stupid that will cause you to miss a golf game. However, with a set of stable shaped skis attached to well fitting boots provided by the Telluride Sports Shop, I was feeling like pushing the envelope just a bit, and I was convinced that a few blue runs might be a worthy challenge.

I had always thought that turning fifty was a time to take life a little more cautiously. Looking back at the past year I had raced a Formula One Indy car, dropped over the side of a boat for an 85-foot deep wall dive in the Cayman Islands, explored business opportunities in Red China and Spain, went scuba diving during a shark feeding frenzy in Tahiti, and dabbled in the stock market. Suddenly skiing blue runs in Telluride didn't seem all that unreasonable. I spent the day on Friday doing green runs with Pam and then tested my new techniques on a couple of short blue runs. Having made it through the day with no spills I declared myself ready to go to the top of the mountain the following day.

I couldn't tell if the temperature was dropping as the ski lift took me higher, or if there was something else sending chills from the base of my spine to the top of my turtleneck. I kept telling myself that someday, somehow this lift would eventually stop going up. Finally I saw, up above, the end of the lift. It looked as if it were like the angel on top of a Christmas tree. I hoped that my legs wouldn't buckle as I exited the chair. I had looked at the map at least three times on the long ride up. Each time I reminded myself that there was only one blue run down from the top of this peak. All the rest of the runs were black. Missing the blue run and winding up on a black run would surely mean several months of traction. I could not screw this up.

The end of the lift was approaching. I scooted my butt to the edge of the chair, put my ski poles in position, lifted my tips of my skis and whispered to myself, "Don't fall. Please don't fall." I slid off the chair and down the small snowy ramp that carried me away from the chair. I wedged my skies to a stop in front of the signs pointing to the various runs. All the runs were black with appropriate names like Bushwhacker, The Plunge, and Hell's Gate. Among the signs was only one with the a blue square next to it……"Upper See Forever."

I wedged my way slowly in the direction of the arrow and stopped at the beginning of the run. The first hundred yards of the run was much narrower than I had hoped, and much steeper too. I decided that there was no hurry to get started. I would enjoy the view, which was spectacular. It was like being on top of the world, because, in every direction I looked, nothing was higher than the place that I was standing. It felt as if I was contemplating stepping off of a tall building onto a very narrow, steep icy slope. Macho-ism almost gave way to sound reason as I contemplated trying to talk the lift operator into letting me ride a chair back down. Macho-ism finally won out and after several deep breaths at this oxygen-starved altitude I started sliding down the first part of the run.

I looked good on my right turns. I don't know if it is a difference in leg strength or because I am right-handed or what, but when I am making right turns I can cut the turn sharply and dig the edges of both skis into the slope with confidence. Left turns are a different story. I need more turning radius. Everything feels weak and slightly out of control. Left turns seem to create tiny anxiety attacks. If I could ski down a whole mountain making only right turns I could look so cool. Why can't they make a ski run like that? I would pay double to ski that run.

With a great deal of caution and a minimum of left turns I negotiated the first hundred yards of the run. Luckily this turned out to be one of the steepest parts of the run. At the first level spot there was a photographer offering to take your picture. It would be the kind of pose that would look great in an 11" x 14" frame sitting on top of your coffin while friends and family paraded past during your funeral.

I waited several minutes congratulating myself on the first 100 yards and trying not to notice a half dozen young kids skiing past me. I reminded myself once again to watch the signs and stay on the blue run. It was still a long way down. I pushed off again and quickly slowed myself with a devilishly good looking right turn followed by a terribly amateurish left turn. And so it went for the next 15 minutes as I fought my way down from the top of the precipice, finally arriving at the midway point. My feet and ankles were aching. I saw a vacant bench and skied up to it. I unlatched my skis, stepped out of them and plopped down on the bench. I pulled out the map and figured out where I was. My blue run, now called "Lower See Forever," continued to my right. The second half promised to be just as challenging as the upper half and I stared at the blue square. I looked to my left and saw a sign with a green square. Wasn't it time to bail out and coast down the rest of the mountain on a green run? It was very tempting.

Once again testosterone levels weighed in against common sense as I locked my boots into the skis and pushed off to my right to challenge the lower half of See Forever. The first thing I noticed was that there was no one else skiing this slope, and not much evidence that very many skiers had been on the slope. After a few minutes I discovered why. This run seemed extremely icy. Three days of relatively warm sunshine during the day and freezing temperatures at night had left many icy spots on this particular run. By the time I figured this out I was in no position to ski uphill. I kept fighting my way down the hill trying to pick out and avoid the icy patches. I hit them on a regular basis causing me to almost lose it several times. Each time I would express my dislike for the slope with expletives which I would scold my kids for uttering. Despite numerous close calls I managed to remain upright despite a terrible aching of the feet and ankle muscles.

The sight of the last part of the run was very welcome. I cut a couple of exhausting right turns and then pointed the skis straight down hill for the final fifty yards. My speed carried me all the way to front of the Mountain Village sidewalk where I snapped out of my skis stumbled to a bench and collapsed.

An hour later, fully recovered and my confidence restored by a couple of green runs, I met Pam for lunch. "How was it?" she asked. "Piece of cake," I replied.