Lo-Fidelity: Doin’ the daylight-saving time-warp again

Call me crazy (most doctors do), but as a skier, I look forward to daylight saving time and the energetic shifts that defines spring, like crocuses and the noticeable uptick of birdsong. I feel genetically programmed to the time changes just like I am to the off-seasons. Spring skiing is about small doses, stolen moments and vibes up on the mountain. For me, this is where memories are made. 

Daylight saving also presents more opportunities for “Two-Sport Days” where you ski then do another sport afterwards — or before, like ski then bike, or ski then fish, or ski then golf or visa versa. For me, a “Two-sport day” is work then ski or ski then rake my lawn. Or, if I’m really lucky, do that one thing with my wife, then ski together. That’s my definition of a two “sport” day. 

Riding a chairlift solo is a welcome exercise of introspection. The “first chair” affords one a moment of serenity like no other. When the sun rises over Smuggler and bakes Ajax, the fresh corduroy beckons. Lets’ face it: Everything in Aspen is a competition. If you’re the first skier down Strawpile, you win. Another good rule of thumb is: The person still wearing their ski pants in town at 10 p.m. takes the day’s cake. 

I’ve seen my future: I’m riding the Campground lift over at Snowmass, alone. I call Campground the “1A of Snowmass” — a slow, fixed-grip, two-seater technology left behind that runs largely abandoned. Now that the dog kennels are kaput, Campground’s finally free of the crazy-making canine cacophony. Once the ballyhooed bastion of 1A has been redeveloped and I retire, that’s where I’ll be, staunchly lapping Campground. “Hit it, then quit it.” That’s my skiing motto.

Skiing spring corduroy, aka “corn-uroy,” is one of life’s simple pleasures. It could just be the coffee talking, but my heart beats like a kick drum in anticipation of skiing corn. Unless you’re me, there’s generally no “powder panic,” no pressure, no race to get there first. Once you find the groove, a skier can perform bouncy, short radius turns, unweighting in between each arc. One of my favorite things to do is to figure eight my own tracks in spring corduroy on Summer Road or Magic Carpet — leaving my mark on the mountain like Zorro, the gay blade. 

You commonly hear folks, even ironically some locals, complain about spring snow being too sticky or sloppy for them. What are you, new? Get your skis tuned. You’ll see the conditions in a whole new daylight-saving light. I have a slab of yellow wax and a cork out of a SWIX tune kit I use for these very situations. Catch me in the parking lot at Aspen Highlands after 12:30 p.m. for my free, spring-wax “pop-up” tune clinic.

I was riding up Thunderbowl lift the other day, when I heard a girl muse, “I used to date bartenders until I stopped drinking … .” She paused, closed her eyes, lifted her chin and turned her face into the sun: “Now I only date ski tuners.”

It sounds like some locals have a lil’ case of the grumpies now. They’re “over” skiing. My advice? Keep pretending you’re a skier. The conditions right now are some of the best of the season. Your loss. It goes to show, you can lead a skier to corn, but you can’t make them ski it.  

Granted, the window of perfect corn ski conditions opens and shuts quickly this time of year. There’s an art to it that becomes intuitive after years of practice and bad decisions. Patience, grasshopper. You have to read the mountain like a book: very carefully, sometimes even between the lines. But be warned: Spring skiing can be risky. Go too early when the mountain is a frozen ocean and you’ll need hockey pads, a mouth guard and earplugs; too late and it’s downright dangerous. You have to emulate Kenny Rogers in the song “The Gambler,” by knowing when to walk away, and when to run. 

One of my favorite things to do is the counterculture “Last Bucket” on Aspen Mountain. That’s the closest I’ll ever get to being in a “ski gang.” There’s something inherently contrarian I like about walking toward the mountain as everyone else is leaving. Hop on the gondy at 3:59 p.m., soak in the view from the top and then milk that last run down Ajax like a cow. It’s my own little Honeycomb Hideout. I love stopping at the top of Nell, looking and listening to the dull roar of our little town below. 

Keep in mind this weekend is likely the last time you’ll be able to hear the desperate cries of “Single?!” and ride the Bell chair. I wonder what the fate of the old lift is? Are some of the chairs going up for sale to the public? If so, I want the one with the sections of green garden hose on the footrest. And I want an old 1A chair for my backyard ski museum, and I want the sign, too. “You’ll get nothing, and like it!” 

Thanks to SkiCo for adjusting the operating hours to accommodate daylight saving time. You’re affording us skiers some of the best, late-afternoon meditations available for the price of admission. Coming off the mighty, vaunted Ajax at 5 p.m. and walking uninjured into a bustling core with skis on your shoulder is a feeling of accomplishment like none other. When they keep the lifts running until 6 p.m., like Ajax this Saturday (hint-hint)? Well, that’d be the skier’s lifetime achievement award. 

Contact Lorenzo via email at suityourself@sopris.net.