Every week I limped my freshly ripped muscle fibers off the Eskimo Ski Club bus, then sometimes went straight to bed without dinner.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ballerina. I’d stay late in the studio and watch the older girls in pointe class, with their impassive faces and impossible jetés. Then, shortly after I got my own pointe shoes, I quit. Not because I stopped wanting to be a ballerina, but because every Sunday my legs were so saturated with lactic acid from nonstop Derailers, Railbenders, Drunken Frenchmen, and Golden Spikes at Mary Jane, Colo., the day before that I could not developpé them off the floor. Saturdays were for skiing, for trying to keep up with my older brother—at all costs.
It was one of those unpredictable memory-making experiences that consistently happen when you’re a ski family.
When youth-group lessons release on Saturday afternoons at Eldora Mountain, Colo., there are probably 300 families hitting Boulder Canyon Drive, a twisty, narrow two-laner that shadows Middle Boulder Creek down the canyon. A few years ago, as my wife and two kids, with me at the wheel, were crawling in a line of traffic heading home, some weird inversion happened and the wet asphalt instantly became covered in black ice just as the road started to curve. Looking a few vehicles ahead, I saw one car spin off to the right, stopping with its nose over the streambed.
These Colorado resorts turned millions of acres of diseased pines into something uniquely beautiful.
Who knew a quarter-inch-long beetle could cause so much destruction? The nefarious mountain pine beetle, responsible for infesting roughly 3.4 million acres of lodgepole pines in the Colorado Rockies, has left behind diseased mountainsides nationwide that would collectively cover the state of Connecticut.