Try Colorado's Wolf Creek for Glam-Free Skiing
By Ben Brazil
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, March 2, 2003
When skiing through the trees in nearly a foot of fresh powder, the violent release of one's ski bindings can sound a bit ominous. This was recently pointed out by one of my ski partners, who heard me torpedo head-first into the fluffy white stuff during one of the many days when it absolutely dumps snow at Colorado's Wolf Creek Ski Area.
"I just heard snaps," said Mark Smith, shaking his head. "I thought it might be your femur."
Coming from Mark, an emergency medical technician and a member of a backcountry search-and-rescue unit, this statement didn't exactly instill a desire to test my limits. It did, however, make me thankful that Wolf Creek consistently receives more powder than any other Colorado resort, giving nearly every run a coating of what may well be nature's softest and most forgiving substance.
And it is the allure of all this snow -- and very little else -- that keeps me coming back to this low-key mountain tucked 30 miles over the New Mexico border.
You see, there is no lodging, no shopping and no night life at Wolf Creek itself. Neither are there movie stars, film festivals, fur coats or high-society types sipping cognac and speaking foreign languages.
The mountain is modestly sized, boasts no high-speed lifts and has little in the way of an advertising budget. What Wolf Creek does have, however, is nearly 39 feet of snow per year and 1,600 acres of terrain, more than half of which is essentially ungroomed, wide-open backcountry. And although the ski area's snowfall plummeted last ski season due to drought, Wolf Creek still gets enough early-season snow to periodically host workouts for the U.S. Freestyle Ski Team.
In general, this is a laid-back place, a family-owned ski area where camouflage-clad Texans mix with instructors from visiting ski areas, united only by their contentment with a no-frills ski experience and the relatively cheap $43 lift ticket.
Being after the same thing myself, I was thrilled to step out of the car in mid-February and immediately hear a series of muffled booms, evidence of avalanche blasting somewhere within the swirling cloud of white that obscured the mountain above. After spending roughly no time in ticket or lift lines, I headed uphill for an afternoon on the faces and clear-cut runs of Wolf Creek's older, more traditional half.
It was on my second day, however, that Mark led me and Dave Hale -- a blond, ponytailed art teacher from Arizona -- on a headlong plunge into the experts-only section of the Water Fall Area, part of the 1,000 acres of backcountry-style skiing.
The day had promised to be a good one from the beginning: We'd seen little snow outside our condo in Pagosa Springs, 3,300 feet below the ski area, but knew that the storm was still swirling above. And although the road to Wolf Creek was miraculously clear, snowdrifts were already sluicing off the roof of the warming hut at the mountain base by the time we pulled into the parking lot.
But standing on wobbly legs above a steep, tree-lined clearing, I was suddenly unsure of my ability to navigate through all this snow and all these trees. I watched Mark whoop his way downward, yelling for us to follow, then looked sideways at Dave.
"I don't know that this is such a great idea," I told him.
Dave, a free spirit who sells his own pottery and displays a lovely collection of seashells on his dashboard, thought we might be able to traverse our way to something a bit easier. Instead, we found only a wall of trees and an even narrower chute. Without a word, Dave carved his way down on his snowboard, leaving me alone to consider the wisdom of the ski industry's exhortation to "ski within your limits."
But here is the fundamental truth of such situations: At some point, the only thing to do is turn your skis downhill and trust that your skiing ability responds to the imminent threat of death. And after a deep breath and a mumbled profanity, that is precisely what I opted to do.
If such ill-considered decisions turn out badly, as mine often do, there is a therapeutic option in Pagosa Springs, the best-equipped jumping-off point for Wolf Creek. The town, a half-hour southwest of the ski area, features hot springs that have been routed into 16 mineral baths, the hottest of which hit 112 degrees on the night I visited.
The primary source of the water is a bubbling geothermal caldron that is literally a bottomless pit; its measurers reportedly gave up after searching 1,500 feet downward without finding the bottom. Revered by the Ute Indians for their healing powers, the mineral waters have been said to cure everything from arthritis to kidney ailments.
Mark and I headed there to soak our sore ski muscles, realizing only when we arrived that it was Valentine's Day. As two semi-macho, twenty-something males, we were a bit self-conscious to be traipsing half-naked through drifting tendrils of steam, soaking along with amorous pairs celebrating their couplehood.
People were, you know, looking at us.
Like much of the town's tourist infrastructure, the bath complex is of relatively recent vintage. Since the dawn of the new millennium, Pagosa Springs has added three fast-food chains and expanded from one stoplight to five. Over about the past five years, the main strip has also sprouted bakeries, Birkenstock dealers and restaurants offering espresso and gourmet pizza.
All of this indicates that Pagosa Springs has finally been discovered. For the time being, however, it has not been overrun. Except on major holidays, night life is still very much a locals' scene, involving a country-style dance hall and a few bars full of bikers and rough-neck construction workers.
And since Wal-Mart has not yet colonized the area, Pagosa's main drag is still a legitimate business district with an independent bookshop, old-time drug and department stores, and a single-screen movie theater. In any case, a little development is not necessarily a bad thing. The town now boasts a number of good restaurants in addition to the venerable Pizza Hut and Malt Shoppe.
And growth has also brought other advantages, according to Pam Schoemig, owner of a local B&B. Before, Schoemig said, shopping options were so limited "you would be hard-pressed to find a pair of underwear or just a plain old pair of shoes" in town.
That, it seems, has changed. Luckily, it hasn't yet changed too much.
It is impossible to remember how many femur-snapping noises I made during my runs through the Alberta Lift area. Until this lift opened in January 2000, the spot was sufficiently remote that a Snowcat had to tow skiers back to the more developed part of the mountain. Even with lift access, though, the area retains its backcountry feel, and skiing it involves ducking through glade after glade of pine trees.
On runs here you can ski wherever you want -- across the open powder, through the trees or down a packed path that leads in a gentle circle back to the lift. In general, the trails are structured as half-hearted suggestions, starting points for your own creativity.
Dave, Mark and I explored chute after chute, pausing like frontier explorers to study the terrain ahead and plot our individual routes down.
At no point were we ever exactly sure where we were, but neither did we greatly care. There was something liberating about our innocuous lostness, something freeing about the notion that we were not being railroaded down a pre-approved space. Thanks to the contours of the mountain, we inevitably ended up at the lift, hearts pounding, thighs aching, ready to head up again. I fell hard and frequently, but always the powder was there to catch me coldly and gently, making me pay for my errors only in the excruciating effort it took to dig myself out.
That, however, was a price I was willing to accept, although I didn't have much choice in the matter anyway.
By the time I left Wolf Creek, there were 11 inches of new snow, and it was still falling.
Ben Brazil is an out-of-shape skier and freelance writer in Wichita Falls, Tex.
Details: Wolf Creek Ski Area, Colo.
The mountain's 1,600 acres are serviced by five lifts and one "magic carpet" conveyor belt for children's ski school. Adult gear rentals begin at $13 per day ($32 for three days) and are available at the ski area base, which also has two restaurants with great burgers. Adult lift tickets are $43 per day.
A good hotel choice is Pagosa's
The closest property to the slopes is the
For economical lodging in South Fork, try the