Tray tables shook, glasses spilled, muscles tensed as the plane violently hit one air pocket after another, prompting some passengers to scream in fear.
A flight attendant sternly instructed our hapless lot to fasten those seat belts tightly. Not that anyone was sauntering down the aisle. The sustained turbulence lashed the aircraft and I resorted to studying the empty landscape below to gauge how much more of this we needed to endure. The sight of the Rio Grande bosque reassured me. During our approach to the airport, the decreased speed subjected the aircraft to greater instability. Crosswinds buffeted the plane sideways: I wondered whether the pilot would manage to line up with the runway.
We landed and taxied past a wind sock that was ferociously parallel to the ground. The pilot told me the winds aloft clocked in at about 160 kph.
Not the most auspicious welcome to New Mexico after an eight-year absence!
I packed my two bags, skis and boots into a rental car with a sunroof and headed to nearby Nob Hill, a lively neighborhood adjacent to Albuquerque’s UNM. The venerable Frontier Restaurant still stands on Central Avenue (of US 66 fame) and caters to students 24 hours a day. I settled on an enchilada with sopaipilla and sprung the extra 50 cents, by necessity, for Christmas.
Ever optimistic with my time, I wanted to go on a short hike up the La Luz Trail in the Sandia Mountains but the wintry weather dissuaded me. Before the momentous events on the plane, I caught a conversation between passengers two rows back discussing their lovely ski jackets. I like mine, too. I like it so much that their conversation made me realize I forgot to pack it. I can’t hike without a jacket, can I?
Albuquerque adapts to a slanted landscape. The Rio Grande flows past downtown at about 1,500 meters elevation. A few kilometers away, the neighborhoods in the foothills of the Sandias stand 350 meters higher and abut the mountain’s sheer face. A tram accesses the top at over 3,000 meters including marginal skiing on the much gentler east face.
Not today.
I drove through Corrales, as bucolic a town as you’ll find in these plain parts and picked up I-25 in Bernalillo for the trip north to Santa Fe. I arrived at Joe M.’s house in a new subdivision just as the sun was arcing beyond the Jemez Mountains. We drove up downtown to meet up with Sylvia, like Joe M. a former colleague from my days at the Santa Fe New Mexican, at Andiamo, a restaurant that holds a special memory.
A waiter once suggested I try the risotto. Because this dish often resembles an unappetizing mush, I resisted the idea. He insisted. After I shared my hesitation, he offered to bring one on the house. His faith in the recommendation surprised me, and I happily sampled it.
Of course, it was exquisite. And on this return visit, I dearly wanted to sink my teeth in it. As I scanned the menu, no mention of it was found. I expressed my surprise to the waitress who indicated it was indeed one of their regular dishes. She looked at my menu and could not find it either. Joe’s and Sylvia’s menus had the risotto, but it was not printed on mine. Odd, ¿que no? I ordered the ravioli special anyways.
Joe M. is the consummate renaissance man, inquisitive of his surroundings, mindful of historical perspective. He amused us with startling anecdotes from a trip to Russia and the Ukraine. I would enjoy traveling with him because I sense that he, too, likes to go where the buses don’t run. Sylvia and I did in fact take a trip together to the Canadian Rockies. We explored the parks between Banff and Jasper, dodging the heavy flakes of an early July snow storm. After reliving memories – I worked at the paper as an account executive for almost five years – I headed for another friend’s house, my home for the five days of my trip.
Cecilia, like Joe M. and Sylvia, worked then and works still at the paper. She lives in Chimayó, 30 minutes north of Santa Fe. It is a small rural settlement, principally made up of longtime Hispanic families who can trace their origins to the 1600s if not before, that stretches informally along a couple of state highways and county roads. The Sanctuario de Chimayó is renown for the purported healing powers of its dirt floors. It is a tradition for the catholic faithful to walk long distances to the small adobe church during Easter week.
Cecilia’s written directions guided me past Tesuque, Cuyamungue, Pojoaque and Nambé – place names that I recognized – but her chosen landmarks did not stand out much in a darkened Chimayó. I turned right when I read left (perpetually challenged) but eventually located the driveway to her home. I am grateful for her hospitality, for I could not have afforded to stay in a Santa Fe hotel, even during the low season. (This works to the advantage of skiers and snowboarders who visit the town in winter and pay far less than what comparable lodging fetches during the busy tourist season. Don’t get me started on ski resort accommodations!)
She helped me unload my gear into her father’s house, about 30 meters away from her own place where she lives with three of her kids. We talked into the night and reminisced. She gave me a pink key for the house, and three more so that I could enter her own place and use the bathroom.
In the morning, clutching a change of clothes, toiletries and a towel, I approached a dog in my underwear. With a slight growl, it did not seem fully willing to let me in. I fumbled with the “blue – wrought iron bottom; yellow – wrought iron top; and green – inside door” instructions and keys and evaded its jaws.
Showered and refreshed, I welcomed my first morning in my former home state of New Mexico. Since I have left, a new park has been fashioned out of the former Baca Ranch in the middle of the Jemez Mountains. The Valles Caldera National Preserve sits in its collapsed volcanic crater.
It was freezing when I cruised to the road checkpoint in Los Alamos. For a second I thought I had mistakenly driven into the nuclear weapons lab. Because of terrorism fears, I suppose, all traffic now passes through a roadblock. I asked for directions. My car was not inspected.
The state highway hems the southern end of the preserve from where the grassy expanse unfolds. Two short trails tease visitors with a glimpse, but access into the backcountry is controlled and comes with a fee. Other activities inside the preserve, from van tours to horse riding to fishing to hunting, carry restrictions.
All wildlife refuges in the U.S. allow hunting, something of a terrible contradiction in terms in my opinion, but which never strikes range managers as odd. The Web site listed several snowshoe trips but my request for information was ignored because there was no snow left. I looked for the Coyote Call and Valles Grande trail heads to stretch my legs, but did not find anything that I could swear to be a trail. I did walk around, but the low temperature (a mere 1 degree!) had me retreat to the car pronto.
Armed with a brand new “America the beautiful” annual pass, I drove to nearby Bandelier National Monument to inaugurate it and claim my first fee-free park. The entrance fee is $12 and I would not have gone without Patricia’s early birthday gift. The pass aims to simplify the maze of federal recreation fees. The national park, forest, bureau of land management, fish and wildlife and bureau of reclamation agencies administer tons of parklands, each with its own fee and access rules. The $80-pass allows me access to most of them, but not all, as exceptions always apply, don’t they? Had they let me in, the Valles Caldera preserve would have been one such exception.
The road descends into Frijoles Canyon, of the many gashes in the Pajarito Plateau. Bandelier protects several pre-Columbian sites, and it was with a lot of pleasure that I revisited the Tyuonyi cliff dwellings and kiva. Maybe the warmer weather played a role in my enjoyment, maybe it was the memories of many prior visits, maybe it was a connection with native Americans, and maybe it allowed me to reconnect with a pleasant six years of my life. Some of the people who played a role in that comfortable state of affairs were about to gather at Tomasita’s in Santa Fe. I had hoped for a table at Tia Sophia’s, but the tiny New Mexican restaurant does not take reservation and we might spend the lunch hour waiting for one.
After a ranger advised the trip to Santa Fe would take 1¼ hour, I did not linger. Her assessment conflicted with my own experience, but my memory ain’t what it used to be. At Otowi Crossing, a faint snow dusted Black Mesa and splattered on the windshield. I loved it! Climbing out of the Española Valley, I noticed the Indian pueblos taking linguistic ownership of their own names. On overpasses, Posuwaegeh and K’uuyemugeh greet motorists where Pojoaque and Tesuque did so in my days.
An hour and fifteen minutes it did not take me! I showed up in the city with time to spare for a coffee at my all-time favorite haunt, the Aztec Café. Not having found a place for breakfast in Los Alamos had me a little hungry, but I did not want to indulge before lunch. The Aztec is a funky coffee house that attracts primarily a bohemian cult following, and, as Sylvia would term it, “people who don’t bathe.” It is where I played protracted and manic games of backgammon, debated public and foreign policy with other marginal types, and enjoyed a robust cappuccino on a daily basis. In a city that cultivates its stylistic aspirations, the untrendy Aztec crowd mitigates the prettified southwestern obsessions.
Regularly but always accidentally, I come across the couple who owned the café in my days. Try as I might, I cannot remember either of their name. I’ve always had difficulty with names. They live in Tuscany and don’t miss the U.S. and the me-at-all-costs mind-set much. They visit family in Santa Barbara and it’s during those winter trips that I never fail to find them at a coffeehouse terrace. Two months ago or so, we chatted at a street corner for a good half-hour, merging existential observations and philosophical debate with political and social analysis. Very bright and progressive folks.
Sylvia and I would make frequent morning pit stops. On occasion, we would patronize other coffee houses that cater to a more upscale clientele. Once, at Ohori’s, we sat outside to enjoy our beverages. Sylvia faced the flow of traffic on Old Santa Fe Trail and she turned decidedly pale when she witnessed our boss, Joe V., driving by with colleague Gary (who, regrettably, passed away several years ago). Readily assuming the worst employment consequences, she advised a hasty return to work. Which we did. Neither Joe V. nor Gary were anywhere to be found.
When Joe V. arrived, he quizzed: “What happened?”
“Umm, nothing,” I replied.
“Oh, because we saw you and Sylvia at Ohori’s and decided to join you, but when we circled the block and parked you had left.”
Sylvia and I became known as Mr. and Ms. Ohori’s, an affectionate nickname that I had forgotten until Joe V. told the story at lunch. He became my boss a few months after I was hired at the Santa Fe New Mexican. He knew my accounts intimately because he had held my job before I was hired to replace him. When the advertising director introduced him to the staff as the new retail advertising manager, she offered that, aside from his track record, his National Guard military background played a significant role in his hiring. In my head, I translated the endorsement as the arrival of a little Hitler and half expected Monday morning fingernail inspections.
Joe V. never came to inspect anything. With each yearly evaluations, I reflected on how supportive and understanding he was. He once shared that his philosophy was to support and motivate his staff, not to control or micromanage. Immensely refreshing in an environment where the dynamics dictate a certain self exaltation from the person who happens to be one step up on the food chain. He remains the only boss I have had whom I would call a leader. If I were not laboring under the delusion that I can make a living as a writer, I would want to work with him again.
And so it was with great pleasure that I sat down with him around the Tomasita’s table. He joined Joe M., Cecilia, Jan, Sylvia, Jesse and Mary Margaret. All except Jesse were working at the paper when I left in 1999. Jan has been there 17 years. This sort of longevity bears testament to how people are treated.
Joe V., Joe M. and Cecilia
Jan, Sylvia, Jesse and Mary Margaret
The restaurant is located in the Railyard, an ambitious urban redevelopment that will incorporate existing restaurants, galleries, businesses and the Sanbusco shopping center with a permanent farmers market, a cinema, parks and open space, pedestrian and bike trails.
The Santa Fe Southern Railway runs scenic trips to the actual Amtrak station way out in Lamy, 30 km away. You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the view. The working freight train chugs along slowly, taking 1½ hour to reach the Lamy depot. I almost outpaced it once by racing alongside it on the parallel bike path. Contrast this with the new speed record on the Frankfurt-Paris high-speed track: Engineers pushed a TGV (train à grande vitesse) to 574.6 kph.
Eric’s restaurant is on the other side of the Railyard. This is not the Eric of Grand Canyon fame. That one still lives in Moline and plays with tractors. We are about to go on a trip in a few days, which you will be able to read in “dirt II.” They are both French, however. To limit the confusion, Eric from Santa Fe, the party of the second part, shall be known therein and hereupon as Eric II, whereas Eric from Moline, the party of the first part, shall remain simply Eric….
Eric II walked into the paper’s offices days before he was to open his first restaurant. This enterprise might be one of the more prone to failure, but Ristra has carved a lucrative niche in an already saturated market. The restaurant now sports a full bar, with its own menu, a simpler and less onerous food selection than in the dining room. The aromatic black Mediterranean mussels reverberate on my palate.
Eric II took pity on me as I related my ski jacket problem. Joe M. had been kind enough to lend me his, but even though it was a size large, it fit a little snuggly. At his house, Eric II let me try one of his collection, but he would not let me borrow the jacket that read “ski instructor” on its back because he feared his reputation would suffer once people recognized his jacket and assumed I was he. He constantly jabs me about my ski abilities, but I don’t think we have ever skied together.
Whenever you want your ass kicked, let me know…
In the afternoon, we went for a short hike up the Windsor, a trail that starts near his Tesuque home and climbs all the way to the ski area where it meets the road before ascending to the Pecos Wilderness. Several side trails connect to it from the main road to the ski hill. All were explored many a times, traversing the pinyon, juniper, ponderosa, aspen and spruce forests in the process. We drove back into town for dinner with his dog Bisou riding shotgun and showing affection toward me, which Eric II attributed to Bisou recognizing I am French. We lingered over Japanese delicacies into the night with his friends Emily and Guadalupe. The former has a son who just decided to go into journalism; with the latter, I discussed the resurgence of interest in Mexican cinema. With Eric II there, it felt mighty fine.
I excused myself a little early. Not only for drive back to Chimayó, but because I would need to wake early to schlep to Taos the next day.
The fastest way to get to Taos is to follow the low road along the Rio Grande. I passed villages where small-scale farmers supply local markets. The rickety bridge still stands. Notice the absence of guard rails. A few homes stand on the other bank, but I have never seen a car attempting to ford the river on this questionable structure. During periods of heavy snow runoff, it might be under water! Except for Los Alamos and nearby White Rock, which are strangely mostly white, northern New Mexico settlements are either majority Hispanic or Native American. All very low key with a reassuring candor in this simplicity.
It was a fun drive, pregnant with memories of many such previous trips. At Pilar, the highway starts its climb our of the lower gorge, and it is a surprising sight when it reaches the plateau and the chasm appears over the dashboard. A moment of hesitation surfaces as the driver wonders if the road will lead over a cliff. On the subject of no hesitation, I recalled a dinner jaunt to Ranchos de Taos with Joe M. in his sporty Toyota Supra. He offered to let me drive it back to Santa Fe, an irresistible proposition to someone who breathes speed. The 110 kilometers blurred by as car after car pulled over the highway to let us pass. We made it back in under an hour, a journey that normally calls for about 1h30mn.
Under cloudy skies, the spring snow at the Taos Ski Valley did not get to thaw and was rock hard. I put in the obligatory turns down a few groomers, but figured the snow would be lighter where skiers (no snowboarding at Taos …) had not touched it.
Therein lies the essential dilemma of the sport: Where to find powder days after the last storms? Within hours of a snow dump, the mountain has been skied out by the powder hounds. If you stick to groomed runs, questions of snowfall, based depth, and slope exposure have no relevance. A few isolated stashed remain in the glades, shaded from view. Taos is blessed with an abundance of tree skiing, but this late in the season, even those where looking sad. And while I will refrain from whining if I don’t get face shots, I hate skiing over slopes that look like the inside of a freezer.
The antidote to that is to hike. To which most will respond “Hell, no,” quite emphatically. But I find a certain charm in lugging skis over shoulder and pushing ever higher, acquiescing to the exhortation of the excellent and irreverent Mountain Gazette magazine: “When in doubt, go higher.”
Always go higher.
Today, higher stands for Kachina Peak, which sits undetected in stormy clouds at 3,804 meters. Ski patrollers estimate it takes the average (who is average up here?) hiker 50 minutes to climb slightly over 600 meters. I remember doing it in 35, but not in a storm, not with someone else’s jacket.
A couple of women asked if I would not mind taking their picture. Of course I would not! In exchange I asked that they take some of me as well. As I prepared the camera, a message warned it was out of memory. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had picked up the wrong memory card. Quickly deleting a few pictures, I cursed mishap number 2.
I snapped the landscape at the Niños Heroes drop. The avalanche runs below the ridgeline to Wheeler Peak (New Mexico’s highest at 4,012 meters) are on the other side of the valley. The passing weather system drops the visibility to a hundred meters. The snowline merges with the sky.
I walked past the turnoff to Treskow Ridge, which I hiked one early October day many years ago. There was already snow on top. The day was bright and raw, a partial mirror to my emotions. I trekked to Treskow a few days after the ashes of a close friends were dispersed. Jeff took his life and it devastated me. I had learned of his fate only accidentally during the past week. I had to be there, I had to stand where he stood, where he rested. Jeff had a job in the movie industry. He owned his own house in Albuquerque. A mop of blond hair topped his 1m85-frame, but he'd cut it short enough that it did not obscure his blue eyes. He rocked climbed, mountain biked and skied.
What is wrong with this picture? A rush of sad emotions engulfed me as I made my way down. I cried all the way back to my car. I promised myself many things, and most crucial in all of them, was that I would never hide again.
I miss you, Jeff.
A well-packed trail guides me up the steep pitch. Above me, an encouraging voice punctures the fog egging on a climber with comments like “You’re almost there,” “No many people make it up here,” “Think how it will feel when you stand on top of Kachina.” The laggard hiker is a young guy who struggles, almost losing his balance with each step. The supportive voice belongs to an adult who carries the young man’s skis.
At the gray mountain top two dozen young skiers and two adult guides take turn taking pictures. I am looking for fresh snow in a land of no new snow: I ain’t waiting for them to find it first. I point my skis to the open bowl that is Main Street and nearly wipe! The snow is hard-packed and frozen, and in the blinding glare I can’t avoid it. This sucks! Conditions improve but I have to work hard to make it a decent descent. A few linked untracked powder turns and I grin. I retreat to an almost empty Phoenix Grill. After an extended break to rebuild my spirits and stamina, I spot the Kachina Peak youth filing into the restaurant.
“Hey, there you are,” one of the leaders says. “I’ve been here for 30 minutes. Where have you been?”
The scummy weather does not improve. Neither does my form. After a couple of fast runs down Maxie’s, I flee to the front side, hoping to catch soft snow in the glades, but they are all closed. Sad, I shoot through the bumps of Zagava and hasten a trip back to the base.
Before leaving, I develop a crazy thirst for a Pernod, which I imagine the St. Bernard bar can satisfy. A waitress informs me they are out of Pernod, but that they do stock its booze brother, Ricard. After a few words on how to serve it – enough with the ice already – I settle in front of CNN and learn that a wildfire threatens the Hollywood sign.
Ten minutes later, said waitress returns with the news that there is not a drop of Ricard, or Pernod, in the house. I was hoping that Jean Mayer’s French heritage, and his weight as ski director (and Taos co-founder with Ernie Blake, me think) would guarantee booze availability, but maybe not.
In town, I drop by The Bean coffee house where the barista listens to Arcade Fire, just as I was in the car on the way down the hill. We start talking about Canada. The band hails from Montreal where the lead singer, Win Butler, relocated. (On their second, and latest album, he intones “I don’t want to live in America no more…”)
Find seat W-18 at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles’ Griffith Park on 30 May and come say hi before the concert, will you?
Mike, 27, has seen a lot of the planet, having set foot on all continents except Australia. He has the rebel spirit of the adventurer. I love it.
“I don’t want to play the rich man’s game,” he shares when we part. More power to you, Mike. Fight the good fight.
With a minimal budget, it is imperative that I spend money wisely. Even if I do not shop at Wal-Mart, I was receptive to Eric’s idea of picking up a $20 camera memory card. Their business practices titillate investors, but I resist them. It is easy to decry a company’s record (social, professional, environmental: fill in the blanks). But it is hypocritical to patronize their stores because of the perception of a good deal. Why not balance our unwavering fixation on low prices with the consequences of keeping an army of employees in dead-end, low-paying jobs? If that does not motivate enough, why not buy less and thus spend less? Since we are the most wasteful nation on the planet, that ought to be an easy solution. I do not suggest dogmatic vigilance. We might, however, want to transcend the seduction of selfish benefit, rationalized because “we need it,” and accept that eternal consumerism begets the mess that surrounds us.
Eric claimed that Wal-Mart sells 512K memory cards for $20. I went to Camera & Darkroom, a local professional photo shop and a former client, and was offered a 256K card for $35. Tempted by a card with twice the memory at half the price I went to Office Depot and Radio Shack. The price? Thirty five bucks! Lesson: Don’t discount (ah ah) local businesses under the impression a large corporate store is always cheaper. Supporting local stores, especially if they are located in a functioning city center, maintains a pleasant and vibrant shopping environment.
At my second Camera & Darkroom visit, I chatted with the clerk about cross country skiing and hiking. A conversation like this is not likely to develop at a corporate store because the sales clerks may not have the inclination. They also may be told to spend only so much time with each customer.
I played tourist and walked around the Plaza, a central quadrangle common to many New Mexico towns. Traditionally, the civil and religious authorities had their headquarters nearby. In Santa Fe, the Palace of Governors occupies its north side since 1610. Native Americans sell jewelry (tax-free, unlike the galleries that line the Plaza) under its portals. The St. Francis Cathedral is one block east.
The snowy Sangre de Cristo ridgeline peeks out from the center of the Plaza. This was going to be my next ski day, but for now I walked the narrow and uneven streets of the historic city center. Like many towns with a heightened sense of self, Santa Fe imposes architectural guidelines that have come define the city’s look. 
The Palace of Governors exemplifies the Pueblo style: squat building often enclosing an inner courtyard, flat roof, protruding vigas, adobe construction. It is modeled after Native American dwellings that today look remarkably as they did when Francisco Vazquez de Coronado traipsed north from Mexico looking for gold in 1540. Contemporary construction on Indian reservations is more of the prefab trailer variety, but that is not the stuff that fills the glossy pages of Architectural Digest. The Santa Fe version of pre-Columbian Pueblo style draws admirers by the busload (maybe more by the SUV load). They fawn over the rustic and traditional charm of the earthly and unadorned adobe. Never mind that most builders opt for stucco (and for good reasons: adobe doest last long), a strenuous shortcut toward authenticity.
What is authentic anyways? Early in the 20th century, the chamber of commerce identified the promotional potential of historical re-enactment by urging the adoption of the Pueblo style in construction. The Palace of Governors shed its Territorial exterior to comply. As the rest of the City Different did.
Next to the gushing (for now: Sylvia once mistook it for a ditch) Santa Fe River, I dropped by the Inn of the Governors, a hotel (no relations to the Palace of Governors) where Elisabeth worked for many years. We were chatting on the phone when I came across one of her former colleague and friend. Carlos recognized me immediately and it was fun to put him on the phone with Elisabeth. Two blocks from the Plaza, I recommend it for its style, comfort and moderate prices that include breakfast and complimentary parking. Moderate in Santa Fe’s historic core means your bed will fetch $239 and up on a summer weekend, still considerably less than other properties. The cheapest digs are along Cerrillos Road, an unattractive and chaotic thoroughfare of strip malls, auto dealers, big box retailers and parking lots. (Should you arrive by car from Albuquerque on I-25, pick the Old Pecos Trail exit instead. It will take you to the Plaza without visual confrontations.)
The few parking spots along Camino de Cruz Blanca behind St. Johns College were occupied and the signs near the gated Wilderness Gate community made it abundantly clear I was not to leave my car there. Within minutes a space opened up and I happily started my trek to the summit of Atalaya Mountain. This is a great hike for it starts within city limits. Panoramic views extend all the way up. 
After eight years, each turn of the trail was still vividly on my mind. Instead of skiing on Christmas Day, I used to hike up this trail, often under a layer of snow. It wasn’t long before I hit a fresh cover, but in the dry high altitude New Mexico air, snow exposed to the sun melts rapidly. My very first snow storm was on Election Day 1992. It snowed steadily from the middle of the night until 10 a.m. By mid-afternoon not a trace remained.
From the 2,780-meter summit, I feasted on 360-degree views. Santa Fe laid at my feet, the highest elevation capital city in the U.S. at 2,100 meters (sorry, Denver). The Jemez Mountains framed the western horizon, and the Sandias loomed over Albuquerque, 100 kms away. The Santa Fe ski area, crowning the Sangre de Cristos, the southernmost Rockies subrange, seemed within reach. I met a fellow hiker who I noticed had climbed Atalaya from a different direction. A lifelong resident in his thirties, JJ accepted to show me his route. It followed north-facing slopes and had considerably more snow. I managed to catch the leg of my jeans in some barbed wire and have three holes in my jeans to prove it. I was quite elated to discover a new trail. 
After I celebrated the late afternoon with a few beers in the company of Scott, another former New Mexican colleague, I rushed up the road to the ski area.
The sunset was slowly setting and I wanted to have time to check out the snow cover on Aspen Vista Road, the typical egress point for skiers and riders who venture out of bounds into the Big Tesuque Bowl. My first taste of backcountry skiing awoke one spring morning when a ski patroller asked if I still wanted to check out the Big T, as it is known. Within minutes I rounded up ten friends or so. We rode a chair lift to the top of the Santa Fe Ski Area where we veered left and cut the rope.
The rite of ducking under a boundary rope establishes the mental landscape. Before and after. Before is where many trails are groomed and where ski patrol comes to bail you out. After is where all is left in a natural state and where rescue may or may not show. You pick your own line. No directional signs point to the correct slope. You study the terrain and make educated but unrestrained choices.
You are free.
Better yet, you go with a buddy who knows the way. Or you tag along when ski patrollers act as public relation guides when their employer, wanting to expand into a tempting adjacent basin, begs for community goodwill.
Skiing the backcountry is a paradigm shift equal to hiking the wilderness instead of a county park. The attraction is equal part powder hound and freedom to roam.
The Big T is immensely attractive because it requires no effort to access its pristine slopes. Just ride the chairlift and go. The slopes start first as wide open bowls that narrow to glades before funneling into a tight aspen grove. Aspen Vista Road interrupts the fun after a drop of 550 meters. It is possible to follow a fork of the Tesuque Creek another 160 meters down to a campground alongside the road to the ski area. Then you do your best to look pretty and hitch a ride back to the base.
I drove up that road, and passed trailheads filled with memories. Nun’s Corner, Chamisa, and Borrego Wallow connect with the Windsor Trail and can be combined as long loops. The campground had no snow cover whatsoever. A little higher, I went to investigate Aspen Vista Road. The snow was patchy and packed ice. Sadly, it made skiing the Big T an unlikely proposition and I resigned myself.
I called Nan, yet another friend from my days in Santa Fe who now lives in Pennsylvania. She could not meet me on this trip. We talked as the skies became dark and a coyote crossed the road.
Our lives intersected when we both worked for the ski area. After our initial orientation, I had plenty of time to study a car with Pennsylvania plates as I followed its timid journey down a snow-packed road to the city. The next week, she complained of a tailgater. It was then I realized who the driver was.
Nan’s first impression of New Mexico is one that will strike most first visitors: dirt. Little rainfall means few grasslands. Grazing on those few grasslands means a chewed-up cover. And dirt. Lots of dirt. That job, and later Elisabeth’s, scored me a season pass. It made all the difference in becoming a more accomplished skier.
The next day, Scott and I headed up for a day skiing inbound at the Santa Fe Ski Area. The runs spreads over a modest 267 hectares, a size that often implies mediocre skiing. It is half as large as Taos, less than one-fifth the size of Mammoth and a puny eight percent of Whistler Blackcomb (one thousand days to the Olympics – yeah!). Its 3,155-meter base is the second highest in the country. Squaw Valley’s top elevation is 400 meters below.
Besides oxygen deprivation, this lofty perch guarantees a dry, fluffy snow, the type that makes powder skiing so ecstatic.
What is perfect snow if the runs are not challenging?
Scott and I hit trail after trail without benefit of a map. Returning to a ski area where I have skied possibly over a hundred times awakens a satisfying familiarity. We hit all the black diamond runs on the upper mountain, the stimulating gems that kick skiing into high gear. Tequila Sunrise’s glades seemed less steep than I remembered, but slaloming through its trees is a joy. Roadrunner, against the fall line and immediately below spectators riding the Triple Chair, packed mogul after mogul. The Burn Area was wind-blown and sucked, but we escaped to south-facing Cornice and even ducked under the rope for a tiny taste of the Big T. I let my short Salomon Equipe 3S bump skis run on Gayway, getting slapped in the face by the wind and trying to ignore the expansive views while the mountain filed by at high speed.
A sharp right turn on the connector to Parachute slammed me against gravity’s pull. Skis edged and sliced a powerful carved turn while my knees absorbed the chatter.
Parachute is the site of my most memorable accident, a full-blown yard sale that eventually resulted in my abandoning my general practitioner for a gynecologist. A long story.
A ski bag at home hides a pair of Atomic downhill racing skis, a technical jewel mounted with plates. They do not bend until the skier hits 80 kph and propel you into what ski patrollers on this side of the Atlantic call excessive speed. Since the trouble, I have not been able to face this kind of velocity, mentally unprepared to let my skis run. While I may never hit my 117-kph record again, I still get an enormous charge out of a fast run.
Our knowledge of the area means we might start on one trail and cut through the trees to another. Wizard turns into Big Rocks into Pope Snows II. Scott maneuvered his long skis (not wussy shaped skis for he or I) in tight spots and we bounced, exalted, across the face of the mountain.
After a quick lunch break at the base cafeteria (where I said hello to Guy, still the food-and-beverage director), we returned for more. The afternoon carried an urgency because this was to be Scott’s and my last day of skiing for the season. I found much energy and attacked each run with glee. The drop from Sunset into Columbine used to be a gnarly vertical proposition. Now that the trail sits under the new Millennium Chair, it has been widened and graded. I plunged and kick-turned my way into the forested glades, picking whatever line presented itself, relishing the steepest pitch.
Scott took a few pictures of me skiing and I love the way I, uh, look coming down the bumps of Double Eagle V. As usual, the perspective kills the angle of the slope. It is a serious expert run. We skied past two women who had taken six week’s worth of intensive mogul lessons – I am hoping it was only over the weekends and not the full 42 days – and one of them struggled so much that Scott went to help her out. I just loved coming down this run!
For our final run – sniff, sniff – we rode the jumps and rail slides on Broadway. I stopped at the top of Slalom for one last hurrah down the moguls. I could do this every day! Picking Slalom was not accidental: It leads directly to mid-mountain bar Totemoff’s where Scott and I imbibed and flirted with young girls.
Even as I headed down to a beautiful Japanese bath house, it was sad to say goodbye to Scott after an enourmously fun day.
Ten Thousand Waves is on the ski area road, about 5 kms above Santa Fe. After a few minutes relaxing on a tatami mat in the quiet room, I headed for One Wave and enjoyed a naked hour in an out of the tub. The pinyon-juniper woodland shelters two communal and seven private tubs, all outdoors. Most guests do not wear bathing suits in the communal tubs. It is only after 8:15 p.m. that they are required.
Are we still in America??
Lit by lanterns, the winding paths that snake around the wooden buildings of Ten Thousand Waves exude a simple serenity. The sinking sun casts magical shadows against the warm glow of the shoji screens. In winter, a snowfall muffles all distractions and time ceases. It is an unlikely experience, divorced from the southwest trade of the city.
A ryokan supplements the baths, treatments and spa services. It would be a treat to stay overnight.
A massage later and it was time to head to Ristra to return Eric II’s jacket and to indulge in the famous mussels. Unfortunately – major bummer – they were sold out! I guess knowing the owner is not enough, uh?
Before leaving town, I stopped by the temporary digs of the New Mexican to chat with the news and arts & entertainment editors. It would be ideal to score a staff job and move back to Santa Fe. Journalism cannot be described as a growth industry, and there are no openings. Both editors said my background and writing style qualify me to work for the paper.
That felt good.
Pam, the receptionist, hugged me warmly. I said hello and goodbye to Cecilia, Jan, both Joes. In the hallways I was introduced to new staff and met former colleagues.
“You look exactly the same. You haven’t gained one pound and you have no gray hair,” joked Ginny, the advertising director.
With this reassurance, I returned to the Albuquerque airport. Two flights later, I landed in Orange County, ready for more dirt…
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