After grabbing a pair of nearly new Fischer skate skis from the rental shop, I declined the $50, hour-long lesson (despite the fact that I never skate ski), and headed out. Three pushes in, I fell on my face, jumped up and looked around (I’m pretty sure nobody saw me.) But pretty quickly, I got the hang of it, and cruised along the partially flat, partially rolly course for two hours. Despite the high altitude (8,700 feet) that made me feel as though I was breathing Tabasco through a straw, I couldn’t stop—the postcard views of the Rockies’ front range, the horse-drawn sleds circling the property, and the alpenglow made me stay out until the last rays of sun were nearly gone.