The Upside of Downhill in Aspen
By Francesca Stanfill
Those early family trips — to Stowe and Sugarbush, then Mad River Glen and Killington — took a turn to the West when I was twelve and my family moved from New York to Los Angeles. On the way that February, we stopped for a week's holiday in Aspen. A revelation awaited: mountains with wide-open bowls, blue skies and sun so bright one risked being burned. Thus began a love affair with the Rockies, and especially with Aspen, that endures to this day. I have skied all over Europe — Zurs, St. Moritz, Cortina, Courchevel, L'Alpe d'Huez, Zermatt — but nothing, to me at least, compares to the American West, whether at Christmastime, when trees sparkle with snow, or in the spring, when the warm, mellow wind and radiant sunlight continue into late afternoon.
As I look back on those years, I try to understand what skiing meant to me — why, quite simply, I loved it so much. Freedom, first, and a sense of adventure: armed with an enticing trail map, one could explore an entire mountain. Then there was the sensory intensity of skiing: the quiet of the runs, the requisite focus, the satisfying exhaustion at the end of the day. Added to this were the beauty of the landscape and the way a run, however familiar, changed depending on the conditions and the light. One was utterly alone, yet there was also the camaraderie of skiing with friends and the chance for quiet talks during chairlift rides.
For as long as I can remember, I especially loved to ski bumps and was drawn to the discipline, strength and precise timing it requires. I adore the moment when, poised above a field of moguls, I plan where to plant my poles. I am happy to ski fast down smooth, groomed runs, particularly at the end of the day, when my legs and arms are sore, but it never seems quite as gratifying as bump skiing, where the focus is total, with little margin for error.
Which brings me to a crucial part of the sport: danger. Risk heightens the excitement and helps to forge the memories that become part of a skier's lore. I still feel a frisson of fear when I remember, as a teenager, jumping into the Cornice at Mammoth Mountain, the single most terrifying turn I've ever taken. The morning in March when I fell nearly the whole length of a steep run at Aspen — aptly named Niagara — while the ski instructor watched aghast. The moments when, after getting off the tram at the top of Rendezvous Bowl, in Jackson Hole, I wondered how I would survive the blowing snow and visibility - erasing gusts of wind. The heartbeat-quickening moments remain and indeed are almost savored; the panic and the physical pain are, like those of childbirth, quickly forgotten.
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