Saddle Sore: Like a snowflake on a summer day

In a ski town, change is constant. Friendships come and go, and life moves on. Some are brief; others endure, their endings carrying a sense of loss, almost tragic in nature. And if you think I’m talking about people, you’d be wrong.

A beautiful tribute to Lift 1A — facing its own end — was recently posted on social media by Kristin Braga Wright, granddaughter of Úlfar Skaeringsson. Ulfar’s personality, and his family, are woven into the ski history of Aspen. Until recently, there was even a run on Aspen Mountain named after him. 

If you don’t know Kristin, here she is in her own words: “I am a skier — not someone who skis, but someone for whom skiing is intrinsic to their identity.”

The 1A side of the mountain could almost be considered a fifth local area, alongside Aspen Mountain, Highlands, Buttermilk and Snowmass. There were days when some of us skied nothing but 1A — including my favorites: Corkscrew Gully and Super 8.

Lift 1A opened for the 1971–72 season, replacing the original Lift One, which began running in December 1946. That new lift followed much of the original line but only as far as the bottom of Snowbowl — a decision many of us questioned at the time. How, for instance, were supplies going to get to the Sundeck? Changes have consequences.

The last ride on 1A came on Sunday, March 29 — for this season, at least, and perhaps for good, as it is scheduled to be replaced sometime in the future. More on that when we know.

But when we talk about new lifts, it’s hard not to look back at the ones that came before. In this case, that history matters.

Just as Kristin spent much of her race training on the slopes off 1A, I still feel a certain sadness for the loss of the original Lift One — sometimes referred to as Lift #1. It marked the beginning of “modern” skiing in Aspen and stood as the beacon at the entrance to Aspen Mountain.

It was a beauty: a single-seater with a steel gate and footrest, passenger-operated, with an attached canvas, wool-lined upper-body covering — including the head — with a circular opening just large enough to take in the view. 

Just off to the right of the loading area sat one of the old boat tows — a precursor to the modern chairlift. In those early days, lifties had their own way of taking care of skiers. It wasn’t unusual for someone to ride up with a parka for warmth, then send it back down on the chair once they reached the top, freeing themselves up for the ski down.

The lift operators would grab those parkas and pile them onto the boat tow. As the line passed by, skiers would simply reach over and pick up their coat for the ride up.

And the ride up. Priceless. 

As junior and senior high school kids, we could lap Lift #1 and Ruthie’s all day long, breaking only for lunch at the Skier’s Chalet. Moguls and getting air were our thing, and we skied a little differently back then. The big jumps — like launching off the side of Lazy 8 Gully — were taken one at a time, each attempt judged for distance and height by those waiting their turn. And the landing – often in the bumps on lower Corkscrew — would be critiqued as a measure of one’s survival skill. And for thrills, we weren’t averse to schussing (straight lining) Elevator Shaft. 

Friends, and lifts, come and go, often without much fanfare. The installation of Lift #3 was a big moment, even I remember that, while others — like #7, the Couch — disappeared like a snowflake on a summer day. Some may still hold fond memories of #5, which remains, though the mountain, and how we ski it, including the Ridge, has changed over time.

Tuck those memories away, if you have them. 

As Kristin so ably wrote, ski lifts carry a place in our personal histories — markers of time, of friendships and of who we were on the mountain.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.