Liftie Dreaming
Words and photo by Dave Shuey
The constant hum and rattle of the tired heater above my head keeps my mind in a catatonic state as I gaze out the dual pane window before me. The early morning caffeine high induced by the bold, liquid love within the insulated thermos glued to my hand, only compounds the barely comprehensible thought storm in my brain. Looking left, skiers raise the comfort bar and prepare for a graceful dismount as their chair slows its pace. Look right, sure enough that overconfident, selfie-stick toting snowboarder caught his toe edge and face planted. Should I… nah, he’s fine. Great footage for his intoxicating reel I’m sure. My training keeps my head on a swivel like a tennis match spectator, yet my true thoughts are with the distant, snowy peaks beyond my controls.
As a lift operator for a major Colorado ski resort, my average morning consists of a fairly monotonous routine. Shovel and rake the snow, utilizing Zen-like groove patterns for aesthetic appeal, help gumbies gather their gear after low-speed, yard sale style wipeouts and answer the predictable questions from the visiting flatlanders. Yes, my dear sir, there are in fact blues up here. No, that crocheted beard does not exude the extra level of burliness you had hoped for. Yes, I can still see you regardless of your camouflage onesie. Okay, perhaps those last two I kept to myself. This consistent workday rhythm, paired with a minimum wage salary, causes many lifties to burn out, figuratively and literally, over the course of a five month season. Yet for those backcountry dreamers like myself, the magnificence of this high mountain setting is hardly lost on us.
Snow and rock capped thirteen and fourteen thousand foot peaks provocatively rise up across the valley, with their siren sounds of invitation screaming to those who will listen. Swallowingly deep couloirs of untracked powder dare the brave and courageous to sample their steep lines. Flying buttresses of rock, shadow the sun along certain aspects, displaying the mountain’s contours of relief to its distant observers. An almost out-of-body experience allows my subconscious to place a fearless, more badass version of my alpinist self upon their exposed ridgelines.
More than simply imagining, I can feel the ice ax in my gloved hand gripping its teeth into the ice. I can taste the humid fabric of the neck gaiter across my face as I struggle to breath the thin air. I smell the sweet aroma produced by the sparse, thin pine trees below, with their needles blanketed with a fresh whiteness. I can hear the wind dense with snow flurries, howling as its flow is disturbed by the rocky outcrop to my left. I see before me the path I must take to safely navigate upwards to the now not-so-distant summit.
With the precision of an ice sculptor, the front points of the crampons attached to my touring boots delicately fix themselves to the slight imperfections of the icy rock underfoot. Slowly but steadily, forward progress is made as I overcome the less than ideal conditions and the weight and imbalance of the skis strapped to my pack. As darkening clouds appear over the horizon to my right, and with waning strength making each movement more taxing than the last, I am relieved to discover there is no more mountain left to climb; I have reached the summit at last!
An instinctive wolf-like howl reflects the effort put into this success, and I gaze to the valley and sleepy town far below. After stashing the axes and donning skis, I face the wide snowfield of the peak’s southwest face and prepare for a wild and swift descent. The moment the skis begin to slide, I am awakened by the dinging of a chair mark signal from the control panel and am immediately thrusted back to reality.
Looking left, a full grown lady wearing a pink tutu is approaching on an incoming chair, with one ski missing after a presumably traumatic loading experience just eight-and-a-half minutes prior. She’s waving frantically while motioning to her ski-less boot. I reach up and punch the yellow slow button and she proceeds to lose all control functions while tumbling into a heap at the base of the ramp. Sighing as I stop the lift and open the lift shack door, I reminisce to myself, “It’s good to dream…”
