It’s been many years (maybe in Park City, Utah or Lake Tahoe) when I last skied in such fluffy conditions as I have this week at Copper Mountain, which is about 50 miles west of Denver.
It’s so easy here. And I’m probably skiing the best I ever have in my life. Such ease and control. My old skis are still not very fast, but I’m now confident in much tricker spots and through the forests off the main runs that my daughter loves to take me into. The two of us took a wrong turn the other day down a steep, rocky, bumpy path. We eventually made it out, even agreeing it had been a fun if slightly foolhardy challenge. Years ago or maybe even just a year or two ago, that would have been a much trickier predicament.
Each night, as we sit in the hot tub soaking our sore thigh muscles after a full day of skiing, there has been snowflakes falling into our hair. A light dusting of 2 to 5 inches of fresh snowfall each night has made the mountain our paradise.
If the people I’ve seen attempting to learn how to ski back East at some of our local-ish Pennsylvania places like Whitetail and Liberty were learning in this powder, they would not be dropping like flies and falling on their faces into the unforgiving snowcone mush and slush that is very difficult to navigate.
I’m really glad the enthusiasm for skiing from my family has worn off on me. Even if it’s at Whitetail and Liberty. But when possible, the West is the best.
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