Dispatch from 10,000 feet
Last week I was fortunate to indulge my love of alpine skiing. I was in Summit County, Colorado, where 9,000 feet of elevation is the bottom of the mountain, not the top. I attended a camp to give my own skiing an early season tune-up, and to learn and practice the art and science of coaching others. One of the camp coaches is from Minnesota and he asked me where I was from. When I told him Lafayette, Louisiana he remarked that I was the wrong person to expect sympathy from if he complained about the altitude. My house is 17 feet above sea level. You are correct, sir.
Many of the people in the camp traveled long distances. There were two couples from Australia and a fellow from Stockholm. There were skiers from the midwest, the east coast and the west coast, and at least one, me, from the Gulf coast. Why do we travel so far for ski lessons? The main reason is the reputation of the host organization, Harb Ski Systems. The founder, Harald Harb, is a veteran of the Canadian National Ski Team. Harald raced at the highest levels and has devoted his life to ski coaching and teaching. He and his partner, Diana Rogers, and the circle of coaches they have trained and assembled, teach skiing with the highest levels of knowledge, detail, and commitment. Harald and Diana have written books and filmed countless videos. The skiers that attend their camps tend to return over and over. My goal is to become one of their coaches.
The weather was nice. It was cold early in the week, but by the time we rode our first chair up the mountain the sun peeked over the continental divide that loomed above us. Our faces warmed. At the top of the lift we gathered outside the lodge and talked with our coach about a focus for a warm-up run. The answers varied—we all have different strengths and weaknesses. Once we all arrived at an element of our skiing to focus on, we started down the mountain. I wish I could say that our first tracks each day were cut through two or three inches of fresh snow on top of a soft corduroy base, but the truth is that the early season snow cover was thin in Summit County. Snow conditions improved drastically in the days after my departure from Colorado. It snowed a couple of feet. C’est la vie.
At Arapahoe Basin last week there was only one run open. There is always risk associated with a lot of skiers crowded together. Beginners inch their way down, and kamikaze pilots fly along at 40 or 50 miles per hour, barely in control. The only difference between the actual kamikaze pilots of World War II and the reckless bozos that endanger their fellow skiers is that the WWII pilots were trying to hit their targets and only occasionally missed, while the kamikaze skiers try to miss their targets and only occasionally hit them.
The coaches wear bright red and white ski suits. It may be that the stand-out colors affect dim-witted skiers in the same way a matador’s red cape attracts a bull. In any case, one of the coaches was hit by a young male skier whose forward speed far exceeded his ability. The coach was demonstrating for his group of six students on the left-hand side of a steeper pitch. One of his skis hit a rock or a piece of ice and the subsequent bobble in his balance caused him to stop and collect himself. While he was standing there the mad bomber slammed into him at a high rate of speed. The collision launched the coach into the air and both skiers went down in a white cloud of snow. The students stared in disbelief at the mayhem below them. There are two elements to the aftermath, one good, one bad. The good element is that the coach is okay. He took a day off but returned to the mountain after that. The bad element is that nothing happened to the perp. He didn’t lose his pass, even for the day. I’m not sure he was even given a stern talking to by the ski patrol. The coach had some choice words for him, but there were no formal sanctions meted out at the time. A collision at that speed can be deadly. There should be consequences.
One of the pleasures of attending these camps is meeting new people. One of my favorite musical artists is Prince—rest in peace. Last year I met a skier from Minneapolis who worked as a recording engineer on a couple of his albums in the early 90s. His name is Steve Noonan and if you follow the link that is his name it will take you to his website. He is a songwriter and recording artist now and the website contains links to his music. You can also find his music on Spotify, though I must warn you that if you search for Steve Noonan on Spotify you will get two results. The one I met in Colorado last winter has a profile photo that includes tinted eyeglasses. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t meet Steve until late in the ski week—Thursday evening. There were other people at the table and we didn’t get to talk as much as I wanted to. He vowed that if we get a chance to sit down again, he will tell all manner of stories about the years he worked for Prince.
That same winter I met a fellow from Saranac Lake, NY. Saranac Lake is in the Adirondack mountains, and if the village has not already been the setting for a Hallmark Christmas movie, then it should be next on their list. I’ve looked up photos on the web and the place is impossibly beautiful. I love my wife, my children, my career, my friends, every aspect of my life in Lafayette, Louisiana. I love Lafayette itself. This vibrant, small city has given me opportunity, professional satisfaction, and all the elements of a great life. But Saranac Lake, va va voom. The town owns and operates a small ski hill called Mt. Pisgah. Mt. Pisgah is inside the town limits, and Whiteface Mountain, which hosted the alpine skiing events of the 1980 Winter Olympics, is 20 miles away. In the winter my friend and his family are members of an alpine ski racing team, and in the summer, they break out their water-ski boat and compete on the water. And all the rest of the time they bask in the physical beauty and recreational mecca that is their home town. You may get the impression that my interest in my new friend was purely physical geography, but that’s not true. He’s a good skier and I enjoyed getting to know him.
I’m about to mention a third person, someone I met this year, but before I do it’s worth noting that I met two of the three individuals chronicled in this essay at the Harb Ski Systems ski shop. Ski boot fitting and alignment is one of the areas of expertise that Harb Ski Systems is famous for. Boot alignment is the process of setting up the cuffs, and footbeds, and the outer sole of the boot such that individual physiology—knock-knees, bowlegs, etc.—does not hinder the ability to balance, ride a flat ski, or tip the ski to the little toe or big toe edges. This process of alignment and fitting can take a long time—hours—if done properly. The technicians at the Harb shop measure distances and angles, and they color your feet with lipstick so they can see the spots where your foot touches the boot shell. Then they punch, and cut, and stretch, and grind until the boot shells accommodate your feet without pinching or pressing. When the shells and the footbeds and the cuffs are ready you put the boots on—liner, footbed, and shell together—and they make you demonstrate your balance on flat and tilted surfaces. The finishing work involves adding shims to the outer soles—half a degree of tilt here, a whole degree there—to fine-tune the alignment. Ideally, then, they observe you skiing for a couple of days. At the end of that observation, if the alignment is determined to be correct, they mill a custom outersole that incorporates the shim angles.
What does all this have to do with meeting people? Did I not mention this takes hours? I showed up two days before a Harb camp in late 2022. I had a new pair of boots that I needed fitted and aligned. I arrived at the shop at two pm. I left the shop at seven pm. That was the day I got to know my friend from Saranac Lake. A little advice if you embark on a boot-fitting/alignment journey with Harb Ski Systems. Bring a lunch. Maybe a book, or an iPad with a couple of movies on it, or a guitar if you like to pass the time working on chord progressions. And in between whatever diversions you have on hand, visit with the other people in the shop. I, personally, have followed none of my own advice except for the visiting part. My two boot days in the Harb ski shop have gone like this.
I leave my house in Lafayette early in the morning. Getting to Denver from Lafayette requires a connection in Houston or Dallas so I’m usually at the airport before six am. The layover in Texas can be anywhere from 45 minutes to three hours. If it is longer there’s time to get breakfast. If it is less than an hour, there isn’t time for anything but a bathroom break on the way to the next gate. Flights from Texas to Denver take about two hours, so unless there are delays, I’m usually on the ground in Colorado by noon. Denver International is enormous, so it takes a while for checked bags to show up on the carousels. Personal experience, established over years, establishes that the elapsed time from parking at the gate to bags in hand is one hour. It might be less if you don’t have to wait for a ski bag, but not much less. Bags in tow, I maneuver to the pick-up station for whatever car company I have a reservation with. The bus ride to the car rental lots takes about ten minutes. The lines at the rental desks can be long, but I’ve learned to utilize the various “fast pick-up” mechanisms so I usually don’t have to wait. If the airplane pulls up to the gate at noon, I drive away from the airport at one-thirty. The drive to the ski shop takes an hour and 15 minutes.
When I arrive at the shop I have been awake for ten hours, and I’ve eaten one small meal (breakfast or lunch) plus a child size bag of snack mix on the airplane. I’m old enough to remember actual hot meals on airplanes, for everyone. I try to remember to pack healthy, filling snacks that can sustain me for a day of travel, but I rarely succeed. The day is like a staged endurance event. Stage one is getting to the airport, checking bags, getting through security. Stages two and three are the two stints in the air. Stage four is collecting bags and a rental car. Stage five is driving to the shop.
Stage six is the actual boot work. This year it was simple. We did the heavy lifting last winter. All I needed was a little extra room at the widest parts of my feet. Diana did the honors, and she painted the outer edges of my feet with lipstick so she could identify the portions of the boot that were too narrow. With that done she disappeared through the door into the little shop of horrors with its diabolical collection of cuff spreaders, presses, heaters, and angry, buzzing power tools. She emerged an hour later, and I put on my boots. Outside the shop windows the light was failing, and I felt a bit shaky with hunger. It occurred to me that I should just say everything is great so I could get on my way. Instead, I told the truth. “The width is much better, but I could use a little more.” Back she went into the terrifying workshop. Why do they keep the door closed? Did I hear a scream? What really goes on back there?
When she emerged with my boots the second time, there was no way I was saying anything other than “these feel great!” The combination of hunger, fatigue, and fear that I might be asked to accompany her into the workshop had me hurrying to gather my things, stow them in my car, and get down the road. And, also, the boots really did feel great. Stage seven is the final, 45 minute drive to my condominium accommodation in Keystone. Up to the Eisenhower Tunnel, through the Continental Divide, then down into Dillon and left on highway six to Keystone. Relief floods through me when I finally hump my last bit of luggage into my temporary home and close the door. But for a bit of sustenance easily acquired at a pizza place just steps away, the journey is complete.
With me in the shop this year was a fellow from the Bronx. We chatted amiably while waiting for our boots. The next day, Sunday, was a free day for both of us and we ran into each other at the mountain and skied a couple of runs together. The camps run from Monday to Friday, and we visited in the mornings before the start of our lessons, and in the afternoons when our legs were tired, and the skiing day was done. We met for a casual dinner on Tuesday evening, and as the conversation gradually morphed from skiing lessons to weightier subjects like politics and energy, we found we could address those topics without fear of causing offence. This is no small matter these days. In addition to skiing a few post-lesson runs each day, we met for apres-ski refreshments on Thursday and Friday. So, I have a new friend. I’d like to thank him for making a good week better.
Did I achieve my goals? Recall that the first was to give myself an early season tune-up. I’ll put it this way. I skied well at the beginning of the week. Then, as some fatigue crept in, and the onslaught of analysis and prescription accumulated, I broke down a bit. At the end of skiing on Wednesday my mood was dark as I questioned why the struggle to get better can seem impossible. But always, I return to the words of Winston Churchill. Never give in, never give in, never, never, never … On Thursday and Friday I regained my confidence and my abilities, and I finished the week better than I started. My coaches are aware of my desire to join their ranks, and they took time to work with me on coaching as well. Many thanks to them for sharing their knowledge and professionalism so freely.
The trip home was easy. The roads were snowy up to the tunnel and down the east side of the divide, but traffic was light and I had lots of time to drive in a fashion consistent with the road conditions (slowly). My flight out of Denver was on time and I was hugging my wife and petting the dog by early afternoon. This adventure started two days after Thanksgiving. I am thankful for the good health and prosperity that made it possible, and for the love I feel when I arrive home. Happy skiing y’all.