Travelin' Light - Part VII - THE END

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project. Oh, and sorry for no pictures, they're coming.

About a week ago, or maybe it was longer, Berthoud Pass was buried by Colorado’s biggest avalanche in years, sweeping over fifteen cars off the road. Miraculously no one was hurt, but days later I can still see the carnage inflicted on trees and a telltale path carved out in three different places above the road like a hand smashed down leaving marks of three long fingers.

I’m navigating the pass to meet Teddy, an old friend from soccer who graduated two years earlier, at Winter Park. He’s cleaning tables at the peak restaurant to snowboard a couple times a week and graciously gives me some space on his couch. It’s a gorgeous day before another impending storm; the drive to Winter Park takes longer than Jon and my estimates of forty five minutes to an hour. I don’t mind the extended driving time as I gaze at the moon perched in daylight above a craggy peak.

Teddy and his childhood friend Rick embody my vision of mountain spirit. They’re laid back, they love the outdoors and to me they’re here for all the right reasons. Teddy still marvels over the beauty from the pear of Mary Jane even though he’s been up countless times.

It’s beautiful because there’s nothing unnatural, no lodge, nothing human within sight except for a distant road that looks like a penciled line faintly drawn across a page.

On the lift, we discuss how graduation is going to affect Ashley and me in a couple months. He went through the same thing not too long ago, and for him and his girlfriend the stress was too much. At the same time he’s supportive of my view that the only way to stay sane is to see what happens along the way and make sure that we’re both happy and having fun.

Snow is supposed to start soon and we watch the clouds approach, preceded by a furious wind. That afternoon, catching my breath at Winter Park, I saw someone with some good-looking skis. After complimenting them, he informed me they were Simon Dumont’s pro model.

I could only smile and say Oh, really?

He probably would have thought I was kidding to tell him that’s who I spent the last two nights with – and that he gave his best friend’s sister a face full of hickeys.

Rick and Teddy have been moving since their graduation. They’re working at Winter Park before they go to Whistler in British Columbia for the end of the ski season before moving back down the coast to shack up in California for a summer of surfing.

Teddy seems genuinely happy, which is a beautiful thing given his alternative lifestyle after finishing school. I’ve heard discouraging words over that path because there’s no money or that it’s a dead end road. Those people might have a different opinion if they walked in his shoes, or snowboard boots, for a week.

Teddy reminds me college is different from high school, because there’s no constant of coming back to one place.

He still follows the Eagles religiously, a little slice of his Philadelphia upbringing that stays in his life. I can’t help but notice the books on the shelf: On the Road, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Johnny Cash the Autobiography, a collection of Ayn Rand and Ken Kesey.

We talk about different surfboard sizes and his work at a microbrew over the summer before I’m stuck awkwardly in the middle of someone’s mourning. A neighbor comes bursting in the door bawling her eyes out – her ex-boyfriend died the night before. With the slamming of the door comes cold drifts the smell of chain smoking. Here she is sobbing drunk while I stare emptily at the carpet and fidget with my bruised toenail. It makes me scared to see someone like that and not help.

But as difficult as they are, these are the moments I’ll remember as much as any physical experience from this trip. I’m reminded that while I might be having a blast, people are still living and struggling through the difficulties their life presents. No matter how far I stray from my frame of normality, I’ll always be wandering into someone else’s reality.

After the past several nights I realize I’ll sleep anywhere to stay out in Colorado a couple more days. I feel guilty about spending more money but I want at least one more day at Copper to ride and meet people, to tap into the pulse of the mountain.

I’ve stayed in ten different places at this point and my clothes reek and I’ve met bums on the street in the city of Denver and the superstars of a blossoming sport that I’ve packed my life in a car for. There are unique little features that I associate with each of the mountains I’ve ridden. Like my friends who have their different qualities, Mary Jane has her bumps, A-Basin its gnarly streak and Copper its halfpipe.


The day I leave Teddy’s I realize how much my body is wearing down, because I don’t even feel like skiing. The smell of my car is getting to be distastefully distinct – road salt and cheap breakfast fast food wrappers are seeping into everything. Dirty ski socks and worn too many time t-shirts litter the backseat along with a scattered library and an empty cooler – my bookshelf and refrigerator in the backseat.

But it’s not all bad as I think about how much more satisfying a sprinkle of cold from dusting snow is than rain. I’m listening to Against Me, which has become a sort of personal soundtrack, just fulfilling to listen to over and over again. The sunny side of the valley brims with brown and green while the shady side holds its snow until much later in the spring.

So maybe while I'm not together I can feel like I'm not alone.

And somewhere off in the distance, rapidly advancing, is an onslaught of sorts. And there's a joy, a joy in all I can see.

Back at Copper, while I warm up in the lodge, I smile watching a child toy with his glove. His hand is lost deep inside, flapping it around with a grin on his face. His father is in the lodge talking business on a cell phone and both parents have matching undershirts to keep them warm during the day.

I hear dad stop chatting for a second before he reaches down and tugs the gloves off. Those gloves are too big on you son!

Sometimes I feel that same satisfaction in not quite fitting, and being the one that’s still trapped innocently and maybe a little naively in youth. I want to tell the little boy its fine because it doesn’t matter as long as we’re having fun and the times keep a smile on his young face. If he were old enough to understand I’d tell him to keep getting lost in things that seem too big.

Not too many people are out on the halfpipe. Most of the knowledgeable riders have gone home since the wind picked up and snow blows across making the visibility really low. The lifts are still pretty packed with those out early from work for the weekend or those on vacation but it looks like most people have their energy zapped, sometimes the whole mountain can gather up a certain vibe.

I’ve never taken longer to get ready for skiing. Every article seems like heavy labor. I secretly hope they’ll close the lifts so I could have an excuse for not going out all day and that I will get a call for a place to stay – otherwise I’m going to head east. Just like any other activity, it’s hard to pull myself out there lacking any enthusiasm or emotion.

I’m restless and need some company and worst of all I’m too tired to ski; I’m afraid I’ll hurt myself. Maybe I’m spoiled already. I decide to try and occupy myself with talking.

Copper has an area for its employees called the Edge, located a little ways from the main lodge. No matter the time, the computers are always packed. It’s become the best way for people to stay connected when letter writing feels too slow and you have to be quick if you want to sneak in on one. I get a thumb up for the Juventus soccer jersey I’m wearing. Many of the employees are from Peru, Argentina and Brazil but don’t speak much English. For them soccer is something bridging any language barrier.

When he tried to signal me I was stuck on the phone with Zach, whose house we stayed at in Boulder. He took a job in the mountains for the rest of his winter break. While he doesn’t seem too willing to make any promises on a place to crash, I’m going to Vail when I flip off the phone.

By the time I make my way up the pass it’s getting dark, and the weather is not good at all. I forgot to wipe the grime off my headlights, which slows me down to a crawl and cars – mostly enormous trucks – are flying by me with what I’m sure are dirty looks painted on their faces. Whenever they go by I try to follow as closely as seems safe, using their taillights as guides since mine are almost useless. My teeth hurt from being clenched together most of the thirty minutes to Vail and my snow pants are a darker green around my waste from stressful sweating.

Once I’m there, I don’t quite have a destination. Zach arranges for me to meet him at the base where there is a Vans Snowboarding event, but it doesn’t start for another hour. I drive around Vail aimlessly, looking for somewhere to eat for less than a million dollars. After stuffing down two pieces of pizza, I eventually find a place to park a good distance from the event and follow the crowds to the snowboarding competition.

Zach is almost too relaxed while snowboarders launch in the background. The stray glances of his blue eyes under wavy white blond hair give me the impression that he doesn’t even like the mountains that much. He’s only out in the area because his friend hooked him up with a job for break; he only skis occasionally. He’s accepting money from rich people for mindless jobs to round out his break, getting tips for moving ping pong tables and chairs.

Zach’s friends are pretty much assholes: the one a drunk and the other a good old fashioned grumpy fucking asshole. The second in particular doesn’t come kindly towards visitors – at a young age he’s driving snowplows around at four in the morning, clearing the roads for yuppies in fur coats and he’s taking on the role of the disgruntled local.

This guy, whose name I didn’t get, is avoiding the subject of me spending the night with them even though they sleep in a warehouse. I can’t imagine what the big deal would be if I took up a little more space on the concrete floor.

The snowboarding session was entertaining, though I expected a better crowd; most people weren’t even paying attention to the riders cruising in to a quarterpipe littered with various rails and features. But from some of our reactions you can appreciate the creativity, both in the course’s construction and how the riders approach the features.

Similarly, I think that’s how young people approach traveling. While I might be generalizing, the young are still discovering what they like. When we try something new it’s usually slow and probing the first time. Then we go forward with more and more gusto and abandon until our comfort in moving allows for the perfect experience. I think it’s the younger group here in the audience that’s enraptured by something truly innovative and then erupting in applause for the artist.

On our way out, after everything shuts down, I finally get a veto on sleeping at the warehouse. I’m shocked at what is really my first negative response. After I get a short goodbye from Zach and not even that much from his friends, I wander in a sort of uncertain stupor through the village. I guess there just wasn’t enough room on the floor.

What seem like herds of beautiful girls wade through Vail, maybe drawn by the shopping or just the sheer glamour of the mountains’ Rodeo Drive. I ride the Vail bus back to the parking garage, listening to a girl with dyed haired red head chatting up with a vacationer from Atlanta. Most people on the bus are drunk and I don’t know how she deals with such a crowd everyday.

Carefully I get back to Copper, which seemed at least like a good base of operations. I get settled in a corner of the lobby at the Mountain Plaza condo complex with the same clothes I’ve had on for two straight days and my coat draped over my legs. I’m uncomfortable and I frequently swivel my head around the nearest corner to check for security personnel. I try reading for a while in hopes that my uneasy eyes will drift to sleep.

A group of high schoolers pass by. Their flight or bus must have been delayed since they arrive after midnight. Eventually it strikes me that the fourth floor might be more secluded and less likely for any disturbance with the rest of the resort sleeping. I move my camp upstairs and lie to a passerby that I’m sleeping on the couch because I got in a fight with my girlfriend. Just down the hallway, Natrisha’s condo is occupied with new visitors.

My phone alarm rings at 4:45 so I can get up and move my car before the attendants arrive for their morning shift. It doesn’t seem cold at first but after driving to Safeway in Frisco I feel like the temperature drops steeply. With my life’s possessions in the car, I recline, hoping no one kills me in my sleep.

The stars are my first sight when my eyes open intermittently and it keeps getting colder. Finally I give up and eat an apple Danish for breakfast that I saved from the night before. I drive slowly back to Copper, not more than three hours since I was curled up in the hallway of Mountain Plaza. I’m one of the first twenty people in the parking lot including employees. My trial was not in vain – it’s a powder day.

All morning I make laps on the Sierra chair. It’s my favorite spot on the mountain for fresh snow and I don’t see anyone for the first four or five runs; a perfect way to spend my last day of skiing.

There’s not too much talk on the lifts, it’s too windy. I get at least a little reaction out of a man from St. Louis, who is visiting a friend in Leadville for three weeks.

While unloading yells over his shoulder, I’m going to get me some Union Bowl!

When the lifts do start to get a little crowded I head down to the base to bid Copper goodbye for the last time.

The door of the trip was closing after a couple of creaky days. The drive down to Jeff’s house in Denver felt good. It felt right. I flip through the local mountain radio stations one more time. The independent radio was a nice change, pushing Phish and Widespread Panic to Keller Williams and the Dead that don’t get any play elsewhere. As I come down from the mountains into the foothills, the moon sits suspended over nearby peaks, a disco ball over Denver.

Travelin' Light, and you can catch the wind.

Travelin' light, better let your mind pretend.

Get on down to paradise, maybe once, now maybe twice.

Travelin' light, is the only way to fly

I think about the guys I stayed with in Breckenridge, and I realize it wasn’t just jealousy over them being allowed to ski a hundred and fifty days a year. It was their passion and opportunity to go out and attempt perfection at something unique every day. Their willingness to risk bruised heals and fall after fall for one moment of clarity when they land the trick they’ve been working on for weeks. And it doesn’t matter if its in front of a thousand screaming people or their three friends who click their poles together in celebration.

And that’s what writing has become for me – my opportunity for a sublime moment where practice and repetition intersect with something new. For me that independent factor is travel, and whether I can share what I find with the world or with just a couple curious readers makes no difference because the page is always there for me, just like the mountain.


Early Monday morning, the second week of January, I’m ushered out the door by Jeff who has to get to work. It’s hard to watch the mountains disappear in the rearview and not whip the car back around and slap myself for being silly. Drunken talk, about just dropping out of school and skiing, from two nights ago still lingers in my head. A solitary mountain looms over the flat landscape that is Eastern Colorado.

I’m not feeling well as I drift across the map in my head. After so long by yourself the road starts to come alive. I sympathize with poor Hunter S. Thompson because even while I’m sober, I’m getting delusional on the road. Shadows form bridges that I’m never going to pass under. Little birds on the side of the road come at my window then vanish. I focus on everything except what I’m leaving, trying to discover a musical track that is brilliant to distract me in the confines of the car.

Feel the volume of the sky, mark your place in time with another question, why? Just sway, when all you want is to find home.

I keep looking at my phone like someone is supposed to call. When I think through these past couple weeks, I’m surprised my leaving was so emotionless. I’m glad there was hardly even tug. Power lines and train tracks decorate the plains parallel to I-70 East; I’m chasing the storm that just dropped over a foot of snow on Denver, back across the country. I sparingly take pictures of the flat landscape while I drive.

I pop in the appropriately titled album Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder and it lets me know the time was right. The road back allows plenty of time for remembering everyone I should thank for making this trip happen and letting me know that Colorado isn’t home yet. I’ll see Virginia soon enough.