Amanda Rae Was Here...

SKI SEASON IS OVER. BRB.

[Base Camp, Snowmass, Colorado, April 16, 2012]

Calling it quits for the day. Happy Friday!

[Aspen, Colorado, March 5, 2012]

Oh, and I ride “The Skittles” to work…

[Snowmass, Colorado, March 5, 2012]

It was so face-crispingly windy today—55 mph gusts!—atop Aspen Mountain (Ajax) today that the Silver Queen Gondola shut down.

The scene on the mountain—accessible via double chairs lacking safety bars!—was similar to that of a violent Saharan sandstorm (above)…but with powdery snow and temps of 19 degrees. At one point, my ski buddy from Miami and I turned our tips downhill, and we stopped dead in our tracks. It was that fierce.

By 2 p.m., the sun had slipped beneath dull clouds that cast dark shadows over the solid, slick terrain. And at that point we agreed: we didn’t come all the way out to Colorado for Ice Coast conditions! Time for hot cocoa.

Join the party for Presidents Day Weekend! (Burgers, sushi, beer, DJ: stellar après.)

[110 Carriage Way (facing Elk Gondola), Base Village, Snowmass, Colorado]

Two totally enthusiastic thumbs up for waking up in Santa Monica and shredding the slopes just two hours later.

At daybreak my brother and I donned our snow pants and piled into his car; a scant 90 minutes after passing downtown Los Angeles, we arrived at Mountain High for our first outings of the season.

Albeit on 100 percent man-made snow….

…but beneath a blazing California sun that soon bumped temps to the 40s, softening the East Coast-ish hardpack and shutting down the snow guns: 

How bizarre it was to see desert beyond, stretching for miles:

The place felt like our cozy old stomping grounds—Bousquet Ski Area, credited as the birthplace of the “rope tow gripper”—but with a high speed lift and less ‘tude. (Interestingly, skiers like Jason were outnumbered, like, 40 to 1. Not exaggerating.)

I didn’t have much of my own gear, so I was silently envious of his getup. For me, a white windbreaker sufficed in the warm weather; as did hiking socks and a gifted hat. Most importantly, I had pants, salvaged from my post-apocalyptic apartment nightmare in May:

They still smell like nasty black smoke and industrial-strength laundry detergent, which conjured up vivid memories of the worst laundry week of my life the worst week of my life, period—for the better part of the drive up there.

I’m over it.

Instead, I feel so incredibly lucky to have those pants in my favorite color, a Christmas gift from “Boarding Claus,” a symbol of strength with their double-taped seams, shrink-proof polyester, and sturdy snaps. Survivors.

Miraculously, I had stowed my snowboard and boots (not pictured) and these shiny Oakleys in my parents’ basement for the summer just three weeks before the crisis. So on July 1, I stashed the goggles and the pants in a duffel bag at the very back of my trunk, where there they’ve sat ever since in anticipation of today.

After 16 seasons on a snowboard and another 10 before that on skis, I am a self-admitted gear snob was a bit wary of the POS rental when the clerk handed it to me with loose screws on the bindings, but uh, I got what I paid for, and it served its purpose. The shady setup got me on the mountain, where we took the same three runs and met a handful of cool young kids for the better part of five hours.

Just like old days! Let it snow.

THINK SNOW!

[East Wenatchee, Washington, October 3, 2011]