TELLURIDE — Perched atop a run called See Forever, I tried to imagine what skiers would see here on a clear day. Mountains, for sure. On either side of the run, I guessed, because we seemed to be on a ridge. Maybe canyon country to the north? I had no idea. The cloud we were skiing in was so thick that I wasn’t even sure whether I was facing Grand Junction or Durango.
The night before, my friend Mark had talked in such effusive tones about how great the view was from See Forever that he’d failed to describe it. No matter, I’d figured, because I’d See Forever for myself soon enough.
But the day we headed to Telluride to ski (to take a break from ice climbing in Ouray — typical overachieving Coloradans), the San Juans were socked in with a storm that was more cloud than snow. See Forever? Well, I could see the Alpino Vino wine bar when we skied right past it. That was the only glorious view that emerged from the fog that day, though.
Seven or eight years have passed since that day in Telluride. I didn’t make it back again until this March. My only goal was finally to see something on See Forever.
This time, I arrived a few days after a storm hit most of the state. In the San Juans, new snow was measured in feet rather than inches. The weather had cleared, and the blazing sun hitting the big dollops and vast blankets of white was blinding as I drove through Silverton on my round-about route to Telluride. The blue skies held as I wound along the final stretch, rust-hued rock above as I pulled into the box canyon under a bright noon sun, car windows cracked, crossing melting rivulets in the street.
That night, I rode the free gondola during sunset and watched the peaks blush in alpenglow before settling in for dinner at Allred’s, on top of the mountain, where a full moon rose out of the restaurant’s right-side windows. See Forever is above the gondola and Allred’s, but I knew what I was seeing was a taste. I’m rarely giddy about alpine skiing, but that night, I set out my clothes for the next day, snapped my goggles to my helmet and had a hard time falling asleep.
The next morning, I looked out on pure blue as I slid into my boots. I rode one lift with a local, who was dismayed to see so many people on the mountain.
“Be careful up on See Forever,” he said. “It’ll be icy this morning. Watch out for other people.”
My own excitement unquashed, I looked down to the skiers and snowboarders on the slope below us and thought that it didn’t seem crowded compared to anywhere I’d skied on a weekend on the I-70 corridor.
I suggested, with a smirk, that he might be a little bit spoiled, and he conceded he probably was.
Near the top of the final lift, a cooler breeze hit me just as I felt a wave of anticipation. It’s hard to visit our state’s farther-flung corners (a different Telluride resident referred to it as “an island”) and miss out on something, because you know it could be some time before you get the chance again. But here I was, sliding off the lift on a day with unlimited visibility, and I gasped when I looked out onto the far side of the ridge, onto the cliffs rising above Telluride’s Revelation Bowl.
I started skiing, slightly ecstatic (I’m skiing See Forever! And I can really See Forever!) and realized the Telluride resident on the lift had been right to say to be careful. I wanted to gawk, but I didn’t want to hit someone, or accidentally fall off into a double-black glade. So instead, every time I came to a flat, slow-skiing area, I’d pause slackjawed and take in the 360-degree views of the deep red striations in the mountains, the funky summit shapes the shales and sandstones create here, and the mesa tops and canyons to the west, all the while grateful for the second chance.
Jenn Fields: 303-954-1599, jfields@denverpost.com or twitter.com/jennfields
