Asher on Aspen: Aspen Highland Bowl — a local’s first ascent

It started with the butterflies — restless little nerves fluttering in my gut, stirring up doubt with every flap. I peeled myself from the warm cocoon of bed and shuffled toward my ski gear.

Today was the day. No more excuses. No more ducking behind thin justifications and hangovers.

It was a bluebird morning in Aspen: not a cloud in sight, not a whisper of mercy.

I was hiking Highland Bowl.

After nearly nine years of living here, I’m ashamed to admit I’d never done it. I’d skied beneath it, admired it from afar, but to hike it? That was for the freaks and diehards — the granola-laced lunatics who charge uphill with dead eyes and GoPro’s strapped to their chests. But I had Jett and Leah with me — locals, veterans of the bowl and my trusted hype crew. If I was about to get humbled, at least I had friends to laugh about it with.

We loaded Exhibition and coasted up in silence, the lift swaying gently as we climbed higher into the morning, sun on our faces and nervous silence in the air. At the top, we paused for water, sunscreen, and whatever courage we could summon. Loge Peak was next, and that’s when the scale of the situation hit me.

To our left, there it was: Highland Bowl. Massive. Untouched. A perfect white crescent, with ants crawling up its ridgeline. Those ants were people, I realized. Skiers. And I was about to be one of them.

We stopped by the patrol hut and bought straps — these strange little inventions that let you carry your skis either backpack-style or slung diagonally across your back. A ski patroller, sunburnt and sharp-eyed, showed us how to wrap them. She had that calm, no-nonsense air of someone who’d spent more days on snow than off. I nodded, strapped in, and felt like I was gearing up for something serious.

We found the entrance sign: EXPERTS ONLY, all caps, no mercy. A short schuss and a few deceptive dips and rises brought us to the snowcat — salvation in diesel form. That glorious, mechanical chariot shaved 15 minutes off the hike, and I climbed aboard, grateful for any help I could get.

Then it began: The hike. Sweat came quickly. Then the altitude. My legs burned with each step, but I kept a steady rhythm. The trail snaked along a narrow ridgeline with sharp drop-offs that kept me focused. My breath was loud in my ears, each inhale thinner than the last.

But the views — oh, the views. To the south, the Maroon Bells pierced the sky, jagged and commanding. To the east, Aspen Mountain glittered in the sun, smug and civilized.

The hike took about 45 minutes of slow, steady effort. My quads burned. My lungs worked overtime. I wasn’t suffering, but I was definitely working for it. I started bargaining with God, gravity, and whoever invented ski mountaineering.

When I finally overcame that last ridge and saw the Highland Peak sign with its Tibetan prayer flags fluttering in the wind, I exhaled hard and took a minute to catch my breath — and to take it all in.

It was the kind of view that makes you understand why people believe in higher powers — or at least in the power of good powder. Pyramid Peak glowed in the distance. Red Mountain smirked. The whole Elk Range was laid bare like an X-ray of heaven.

But there was no turning back now. It was time to drop in. You can’t see much from the summit — just a void, a blank wall of white. The kind of terrain that doesn’t invite you — it dares you. It was now or never. I clicked in, took one last breath, and launched.

The top turns were deep and surreal. It was the kind of snow that swallows you whole if you don’t stay on top of it. My legs went numb, then came back screaming. I was alternating between bliss and panic, euphoria and raw terror. But damn, it was beautiful: steep and fast and wild. The kind of line that reboots your brain, that reminds you you’re alive.

We cleared the amphitheater, and I could finally breathe again — legs burning, mind buzzing. Behind us, the bowl sat carved up and conquered, glowing in the late-afternoon sun like a snowy colosseum. And because we’re absolute degenerates, we headed to Bonnie’s Closing Party and skied Aspen Mountain, ending the day with drinks and that wild, weightless feeling you get after doing something that scares you.

Nearly nine years in Aspen, and I finally did it. And damn … I’ll be back.