Snowmass: Last Morning

Week in Snowmass

There are no jet ways at the Aspen airport. You just exit the plane down a long, metal, retractable (meaning on rollers) staircase and walk across the runway. You pray the weather isn’t too cold when you land. Stepping off the plane into a near zero degree wind can be a shock you do not soon forget. But lately, my prayer has changed. In the last few years there seems to have been a steady warming that is at best unnerving and at worse a harbinger of truly drastic weather changes. My prayer now is, let it be cold--really, really cold.

Unfortunately, when I exited the plane the weather was pleasant. That is not a good sign. And as the day wore on, it got even better, which is worse. When it was all said and done, yesterday set record highs in Aspen--48 degrees. On the mall in Snowmass, there were teenagers in shorts. I kid you not. It was almost offensive, like they were flaunting the fact that the environment is off kelter or they are truly oblivious to the implications. I’m not sure which is worse. Of course they could have just been enjoying the weather, which, while understandable, is a little like warming yourself at a funeral pyre.

And these heat waves are not just in Aspen. I read a few days ago that Australia has had record heat for the last few days. And it is so dry in Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico, that there are massive grass fires that have burned hundreds of thousands of acres and, in one instance, an entire town. When you add that to the increased intensity and frequency of hurricanes in the Atlantic and Gulf, with the melting of the polar ice caps and glaciers around the world, there is no longer any debate. Global warming is real, it is serious, and we have to try and do something about it. I only hope Bush’s foot-dragging on Kyoto and his administration-wide assault on environmental regulation hasn’t made it impossible to change course.

We've been staying in Snowmass (thirty minutes outside of Aspen) the last week for my continuing legal education. Skiing in Snowmass is great. The mountain is huge and has something for everyone. Clint and I are similar skiers. We both handle blues easily and many blacks. Moguls give us headaches, but we're learning. He get’s better every time we go, so that now he is at least as good as me and, since he is more fearless, he often beats me to the bottom.

Have I mentioned how beautiful the guys are here? The workers on the slopes are hot. Almost any one of them could be a model, it seems. Now grant it, much of their beauty is presumed on my part because their faces, at least portions of their faces, are covered by sunglasses, ski masks, etc., and the ski clothes they wear are, of necessity, baggy.




But, that being said, and even covered by loose fitting clothing, you can tell their bodies are svelte, and their chins are chiseled, their faces tanned, and they all have brilliantly white teeth. What's up with that? So it’s no stretch to fill in the gaps with compatible information and come up with a real beauty.

Snowmass Village is tiny. You can walk the entire the village (side to side, up hill and down) in about 30 minutes. It makes skiing and getting around town very easy, but your entertainment options are limited. Luckily, Aspen is only a 40 minute shuttle ride (less than $5 dollars) or 20 minute taxi (around $40) away and it has everything, even a gay bar (or at least it did last year).

When I have a camera, I notice things I otherwise would not. And when I see interesting shots, I take them, or at least I’m starting to take, starting to fight the fear I have of taking them. I saw an old man at an adjacent table, with his stark grey hair and deep wrinkles. He was wearing an Aspen ski instructor’s jacket which fascinated me. He had to be 70. But what was more interesting was how many people knew him and came up to him to chat. At one point a 65 year old man came up and leaned over the table toward him and, with his arm around his shoulder, started talking to him. The scene fascinated me for some reason. These two grizzled old men, chatting and catching up. I took the picture. Clint went ballistic.

It seems he gets embarrassed when I photograph strangers. He thinks it’s intrusive. But I like capturing people at their most natural and unguarded moments. Then, they are real, and by implication, I become part of something real, even if for the briefest moment, millisecond it takes for the shutter to wink.

We went to Aspen twice this trip. The first visit was Wednesday for afternoon skiing and dinner.

Ajax mountain is nothing like Snowmass. It seems the entire ski slope is on the edge of one ridge or the other. The slopes are almost all blue or black. In fact, mostly black.

We skied until 3:30, or about 3 and a half hours. By then, we were exhausted and headed to the base of the mountain. Off and on all afternoon it snowed on the mountain top. And by the time we retrieved our gear from the lockers at the base, the snow was coming down in thick sheets there, as well.

It was a mini white-out that lasted all of about 20 minutes--quick but beautiful and surprisingly intense.

After skiing we went to Starbucks and sat there sipping our hot chocolate and wondering how we would pass the time until our 9 PM dinner appointment.

“You know what I’d really like?” I asked Clint.

He shook his head, no.

“A massage. How can we find one?”

“How about the American Express concierge?” he suggested. And with that, he pulled out his cell phone and, using his platinum card, asked the concierge for help. Within minutes, the concierge had us massage reservations for 7:00 PM at the Aspen Club. Clint then Googled the Aspen Club on his phone which told him we were .8 miles away and gave us the address. We decided to walk.

I forgot how long .8 miles can be at that altitude and on snow-packed, slippery paths.

Our course took us directly past a small city park with a tranquil snow-lined pond. When I saw the park sign I did a double take then let out a laugh. Clint glanced at me with a furrowed brow and asked, “What?”

I pointed at the sign which read, “Glory Hole Park.” I kid you not. “This has to be some sick joke played on the unsuspecting towns folk by a local Queen,” I offered.

As we approached the pond, a flock of ducks splashed noisily as they lifted themselves up off the water.

We went to Aspen again Friday night after the conference. Our dinner reservation was at Rustique for 8:00 PM. We arrived in Aspen at about 7:00 PM and, at the cabbie's suggestion, went to Jimmy’s, a bar on the top floor of a three story strip center. The bar was packed, but we found a table and had a drink before dinner. Clint has intended to do a business plan for Celeratec for some time. We took the time at Jimmy’s to write out the beginnings of one.

At 8 we made our way to Rustique, a French Bistro I read about in several magazines. It was just around the corner from Jimmy’s. The décor was reminiscent of Santa Fe with thick, smooth adobe walls and exposed, rough wooden rafters. Our waiter was a cute, late-20’s, thin boy with short cropped brown hair and brown eyes. From the moment I saw him I thought he was gay. After we ordered, he brought us a bowl of charred tomato bisques explaining that it was “left over.”

Clint leaned over the table toward me and asked, “Did we just get a gay boy freebie?”

“Maybe,” I replied. "Do you think he’s gay?”

Clint looked incredulous. “Duh!” was all he said.

But at the end of the meal, when the waiter brought the check, Clint motioned for him to lean in and Clint asked, “So where is a good place to go tonight? Where would you go?”

The waiter leaned back a bit as he searched his mind then said, “It depends on what you want. A quiet glass of wine or a loud bar or …?”

“I want a family friendly place,” Clint said without hesitation. “My kind of family, not theirs,” he said waiving his hand over the crowd. "Where do you suggest?

The waiter leaned back even further and said, “I don’t have any idea.” Then he walked quickly away.

Clint looked stunned. “I think I just scared him to death.”

I just shook my head.

For our last day of skiing, we stayed in Snowmass. The sky was mostly sunny and bright, but the wind picked up about mid-day and by 1:00 PM it was blowing fiercely at the top of the mountain.

As we were waiting in the Big Burn lift line, we could see the wispy clouds of blowing snow spilling over the mountain top, but we had no idea just how hard the wind was blowing until we neared the top. The lift stopped several times on the ascent when the gusts grew especially fierce and dangerous. From the lift chair, we could see what looked like ribbons of snow being pushed along in finger-like currents upon the surface of the slope. And every now and then the snow would rise in swirling funnels that hovered over the slope before rising and dispersing into the air.

As we neared the top, the blasts of icy air grew even more frequent and intense and the chair stopped every few feet. About 20 yards from the drop-off, the chair stopped once again and, as we looked up at the mountain’s crest, we saw a thick cloud of billowing snow rise ominously above the summit then boil over the mountain top racing directly at us. When the gust hit the trees ahead of us, they shook violently and bent toward us as they were engulfed by a shroud of blowing snow. Then the blast hit us, slamming against our chair, pivoting it back at a 30 degree angle as the wind roared past us.

At first we gripped the safety rail in front of us but, as the cloud engulfed us, the ice crystals scrapped into our skin like a sand blaster, stinging like a swarm of wasps. For a second, my heart seemed to stop and my already vice-like grip on the rail tightened. But as the stinging grew even more painful, I released the rail, buried my head in my hands and closed my eyes. Within seconds, the onslaught subsided and the lift began moving again.

As soon as we exited the lift, another gust came roiling down at us from the mountain top. I took out the camera as Clint tried skiing away from it. Instead, he got caught in a particularly wicked gust that nearly blew him over and obscured him from view. After that, we hurriedly made our way further down the mountain and out of the vicious blasts at the summit. In all my years of skiing I have never felt gusts like those. And I will perfectly content if i never experience anything like them again.