days 72-82—all praise-ski

This past week became a core memory, a reminder that these moments still happen—even in your 30s.

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Powderhorn

The wine wasn’t a palate puppet—it didn’t make my taste buds dance or sing—but a faint note of peach lingered beneath my tongue. We sat at the bar of The Wine Inn in Palisade, clinking glasses to what had started as a tipsy invitation months ago and had now turned into an ambitious crusade: six ski resorts in ten days.

At the helm of this southern Colorado quest, and behind the ear-to-ear grins of the other pair of glasses, were our friends Kenny and Kelly. We were prepping for our first resort in the morning: Powderhorn.

The wine may not have impressed us, but the snow sure did. Powderhorn, perched high in the Grand Mesa National Forest, delivered soft, sprawling slopes, crisp mountain air, and breathtaking views of the high desert. A tough peak to surpass for our first run.

Situated atop the largest flat-topped mesa in the world, this hidden gem is one of Colorado’s best-kept secrets—far removed from the overrun, commercialized resorts along I-70.

I’ve always been drawn to places unspoiled by the weight of the world—places anchored in what is timeless and true. Powderhorn embodied that spirit. Affordable lift tickets, empty lift lines, and a ski culture with more soul than spectacle.

With the first adrenaline rush behind us, we continued south toward Ouray, aiming to ski Lee’s Ski Hill, with all its 75 feet of vertical glory. Only to find it had closed early for the season due to lack of snow.

So, what do we do when the slopes let us down? Grab a beer and find a view.

The 360-degree vistas from the Ouray Brewery rooftop made up for the disappointment. Mountains in every direction, cold drinks in hand, and that unbeatable feeling of being fully present with people who nurture your soul.

Later, we met up with more friends—Paul, Izzie, Jack, and Monika—at Orvis Hot Springs, where attire is entirely optional. While we all got the swimsuit memo, some of us ended up seeing more of the town’s sights than we’d planned. But that didn’t stop us from savoring the healing waters.

Good timing, too, as our legs would need the recovery for the next two days of carving down Telluride’s dramatic, congested slopes, thanks to Texas spring break.

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Telluride

Skiing alone is therapeutic, but skiing with friends is euphoric. There we were, plunging ~40 mph down the mountain—quite literally, as one of the runs was aptly named Plunge—without a care in the world, the youngest we’d ever be again. We capped the first day with an impromptu parking lot powwow, mingling with locals and evading time as we knew it.

The next day, we said our farewells to Monika, Jack, and Izzie, grateful for the fleeting yet meaningful experience before they returned to Denver. That left the four of us and Pauli to continue exploring Telluride’s slopes, which held more surprises than we’d anticipated.

After a short traverse of Revelation Bowl—my first bowl experience, and a successful one at that—we split up, with Kelly and me opting for gentler runs while the boys pushed their limits, preparing for the once-in-a-lifetime skiing awaiting them in Silverton.

Before we could even make it off the catwalk connecting the bowl to Apex Lift, Kelly and I had a comical collision. As a snowboarder, she needed extra speed to make it up the short incline, and I—being the empathetic skier—followed closely behind.

Neither of us anticipated Kelly sliding backward into my chest, her snowboard splitting my legs into an involuntary split. She toppled beside me, but the distance between my legs only grew as we doubled over, laughter spilling from us in waves that echoed up to the lift line.

And there it was again—the utter delight in being alive, unrestrained laughter filling the air.

We got to our feet, skied onward to Woozley’s Way, our smiles held close like a secret only we knew. After a few runs, we sat outside Bon Vivanto, soaking in the views that left us breathless. Snow-dusted peaks stretched toward the sky, entwined in a torrid love affair with the aspen and pines.

Lying back, we waited for updates from the boys over the radio. In the meantime, we played a game of guessing which tiny specks racing across the mountain could be them.

Just as we were nearly certain we’d spotted them, the radio crackled to life.

“Mayor to Noodle, over.”

“Go for Noodle,” I replied.

“Yeah, uh, we’re in a bit of a pickle. Trent’s heading down to the base on one ski as we speak,” Kenny’s voice came through, steady but hinting that all was well—aside from the ski, of course. My mind had already leapt to worse scenarios. “Where are you ladies?”

“The top of Polar Queen. Why don’t you meet us here and we’ll reconvene?”

A brief “Copy” crackled in response, followed by Trent’s voice.

“T-Rex to Noodle. Heading to the mid-mountain to check out the Gorrono Ranch,” Trent radioed, his voice slightly winded but determined. We’d talked about checking it out earlier—a potential wedding venue, offering mountain views and rustic charm, ticking off two of our biggest desires.

When Kenny and Pauli caught up, we skied down to Trent, who was lounging on the back patio of the historic Basque sheep herding ranch—now a rustic ski lodge—beer in hand, lost in the panoramic beauty of the Wilson Mountain Range.

I set my helmet and gloves on the table, exhaled, and asked, “So, what happened?” I’d heard the highlights from Pauli and Kenny on the way down, but I wanted the full story from him.

I held my breath as he explained how the binding on his right ski had torn out just as he approached the bottom of Revelation Lift, sending his ski under the ropes and into avalanche territory. Frustrated but not reckless enough to risk his life, he had resigned himself to the situation—but Pauli wouldn’t have it.

If you know Pauli, you know that skiing and those he loves are two of his greatest passions—oh, and trains, but that’s a story for another day.

What happened next was a masterclass in backcountry coordination: a timely blind eye from empathetic lifties, and a triumphant recovery. They strapped on their beacons, tested their radios, and formed a lookout line before Pauli stepped over the flimsy orange rope marking the resort’s boundaries. He cautiously descended 200 feet, where Trent’s ski lay, mocking them from just beyond reach.

With painstaking care, Pauli recovered the ski—thankfully, before realizing how close he’d come to the edge of a cliff. It wasn’t until he was back safely over the ropes that they celebrated.

If Kelly and I had been with them, I can assure you Trent would have been in the market for a new pair of skis, but the bond of brotherhood prevailed.

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Silverton & Kendall

Although Trent’s ski repairs weren’t ready in time for their heli-skiing adventure the next day, Pauli’s generosity revealed itself once again—this time in the form of an extra set of skis for Trent to borrow.

The night before was thick with anticipation as Kelly and I tried to quell the boys’ nerves by wandering through the charming town of Silverton, accessible only via the winding Million Dollar Highway. The off-season had left most places closed, save for a few restaurants and a solitary souvenir shop, but we stumbled upon a brewery that offered passable pizza.

To avoid tempting fate with the dangerous venture ahead, we filled the silence by recounting the drive from Ouray—hairpin turns and sheer drops leaving us marveling at those who’d come before us.

We called it an early night and checked into The Avon, where we’d be staying for the next few days. Originally built as a store and boarding house for miners, stepping inside was like entering a charming, if slightly unhinged, time capsule. A row of vintage typewriters lined a shelf above the lobby, while our room’s slanted floors left just enough space beneath the door to catch snippets of laughter from other guests, drifting in from a full day of hitting the slopes. The walls, adorned with forgotten treasures, seemed to whisper stories of another era, their secrets still etched into the building’s bones.

Morning’s first light dissolved the remnants of the night’s wandering thoughts, and soon, Trent, Kenny, and Pauli were en route to board a helicopter, chasing the rare thrill of untouched lines down Silverton Mountain.

Meanwhile, Kelly and I stayed behind, anticipation curling in our chests as we awaited their return, eager for the stories they’d bring back.

That evening, with Pauli off on a long drive to Silverthorne, we listened as Kenny and Trent recounted every detail over dinner at The Lacey Rose Saloon. Their faces, alive with exhilaration, were a stunning backdrop to their tales—every turn, every drop, every heart-pounding moment regaled with the kind of animated fervor only a dream realized could bring.

Though their heli-skiing adventure lasted just one day, their season passes granted them access to Silverton’s rugged, unguided terrain the next morning. By afternoon, they met back up with Kelly and me at Kendall Mountain, a quiet outpost on the edge of town.

In contrast to the towering peaks that loomed beyond, Kendall was modest, its slopes humble but rich with the spirit of a town that thrived on adventure. It was the kind of place where kids carved their first tracks and locals skied beneath the glow of string-lit night runs. It didn’t boast grandeur, but it held something better—a quiet, unassuming charm. And, lucky for us, a fresh coat of untouched powder.

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Purgatory

Just a short drive over the breathtaking Molas and Coal Bank Passes, where the road winds through snow-laden pines and offers glimpses of peaks that seem to stretch endlessly into the sky, we made our way toward Purgatory, hoping the lift gods would show us mercy.

Fatigue clung to our legs from the past several days of relentless skiing, but the sight of fresh snowfall and Purgatory’s diverse terrain stirred something in us—a second wind we didn’t know we had. Long, rolling groomers begged for high-speed carves, dense tree runs promised playful twists and turns, and the steep mogul fields stood like a final challenge, daring us to push through our exhaustion.

The mountain felt alive, its trails weaving between thick forests and cloud-covered ridge lines, and despite our weary muscles, we couldn’t resist the call of one more run… then another… and another.

By day’s end, we’d unexpectedly logged over 12,000 vertical feet—roughly 16 miles of skiing—our legs screaming in protest with every turn. Craving relief, we set our sights on Durango Hot Springs, only to be met with a sea of people and the first whispers of an approaching winter storm. Defeated but undeterred, we turned back toward Silverton, our hot spring dreams merely postponed, not abandoned.

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Wolf Creek

By the following morning, stairs were our enemy, but an oasis awaited us in Pagosa Springs.

Across the street from the acclaimed springs, we found a less crowded and a far better deal in my opinion (it’s the same water, as Kelly pointed out).

Perched high above the San Juan River, Overlook Springs felt like a hidden oasis—quirky, yes, but in the most enchanting way. The pools, tiered across multiple levels, framed front-row views of jagged peaks stretching to the horizon, where the sky seemed to go on forever. Each mineral-infused pool offered a different kind of escape, its warm waters melting away the tension of our bodies while quieting the chatter in our minds. We found ourselves hopping between the cold plunge and the hot pools, chasing that elusive sensation of a microwaved Hot Pocket—warm on the surface but with a cool core that lingered, balancing the extremes of our senses in the most satisfying way.

After a few hours of relaxation, we stumbled upon a quirky slice of nostalgia on the main street, where neon lights flickered and hummed with stories to tell—The Neon Mallard. Inside, the atmosphere was eclectic and offbeat, with vintage memorabilia lining the walls, and mismatched chairs scattered around small tables.

The next morning, we set our sights on Wolf Creek, and in years to come, I’d equate it to the Disney World of slopes. At least, that’s how it felt on St. Patrick’s Day, no doubt coinciding with another school’s spring break.

Arriving just before 9:00, the parking lots were already buzzing with life, families filling every row of cars, their eyes wide with excitement for their annual snow-filled pilgrimage.

The scene felt promising, as it should for a place that touts the slogan “The Most Snow in Colorado.” After weaving through the crowds of snow bunnies and nervously optimistic beginners (we could only hope they signed enough waivers), we stumbled upon a small slice of sanctuary, tucked away amidst the trees.

Though the runs weren’t quite what we had envisioned, the people-watching turned into priceless entertainment. It quickly dawned on us how spoiled we’d become—having known the blissful solitude of once being the only skiers on the mountain.

As the day unfolded, with goodbyes on the horizon, a deep sense of gratitude settled in for the memories we’d gathered over the past week. From the serene slopes of Powderhorn to the exhilarating rush of Silverton and the restorative warmth of natural hot springs, each stop offered something unforgettable.

Yet, more than the skiing, it was the time spent with friends—the laughter that came without warning, the stories shared in the quiet moments, and the feeling of timelessness—that made it so special. We may forget some of the runs, but the joy of being fully present will stay with us, etched into the memories we’ll continue to chase, just like the next patch of fresh powder.