Copper Mountain knows that there are skiers and riders out there who have never experienced the thrill of waking up and hearing that school was cancelled on the radio. There are people who have never spent a whole day in the snow doing anything their heart desired. That’s where we come in. We’re here to provide you with the best snow day you can imagine – whatever that may be.
In the wide-open spaces of Montana, a busy day is a chance to catch your breath and the local gossip.
The blinking blue light atop the Baxter Hotel, Bozeman’s highest building, means one glorious thing to the residents of this southwest Montana town: powder day. Another lumbering highline storm has arrived to deposit that famous cold smoke on Bridger Bowl. As a listless college student in Bozeman, I’d watch it pulse through the darkness on my frigid walks home from one of Main Street’s fine drinking establishments. It would fill me with hope for a deep and lucid tomorrow, as my buddies and I struggled for clarity through all the bottom-shelf whiskey we’d just shot.
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.