My Life in the High Country
By Kent Gunnufson
"Snowdunes"
from Porfolio One, Copyright
1977 by kent Gunnufson
The
photographer wades through layers of crystallized water. A
sea of frozen waves and crests of foam, are stopped in
time; still and motionless. His mind creates his own
reality and he finds a fascination with the forms
surrounding him. Shapes and shadows emerge from the land,
women's bodies with their voluptuous curves molded from
snow ...all in white. Without really understanding the
vision he seeks, the photographer continues through the
deep snow. The frozen world has no definite roads,
although there are routes, with some being easier than
others.
Those
following a packed trail may find greater security, but
their paths are likely to be more boring and have less
excitement. Others enjoy the difficulties of
"breaking trail." Some judge a route by the
beauty of the land it travels through, or by the challenge
of the terrain or possibly by the path's final
destination. The explorer gains satisfaction from charting
a course where others haven't gone and enjoys the thrill
of the unknown.
This
photographer prefers the security of path, but for the
sake of art, braves exploration for the satisfaction of finding
images no one else has discovered or recorded. Suddenly,
without reason, he stops. Trusting his gut instincts has
paid off once again. This is the perspective he's been
looking for, and the image he sought would have been
missed if he'd gone in the other direction. While he's
been on the top of the Great Divide many times, he sees a
different view each time. Never before have the peaks and
shadows fit together so magnificently. This was a special. As he sets up his equipment, he remembers another
time when a spur-of-the-moment decision, based on
intuition rather than logic, had resulted in another
unforgettable experience -- his favorite ski safari in
college.
College
Ski Days
During
my freshman year, two friends from my dormitory, Jack Barr
and Bruce Cole, took me under their wings. Jack showed me
how to be part of the ski scene. "Jeans are cool and
that's what the good skiers wear. If ya don't fall, ya
don't need stretch pants." His argument convinced me
and, after all, when in Colorado do as the Coloradians do.
He advised me to get a Gerry parka, nothing else would do.
Fortunately, he took me to the factory outlet store where
the slightly defective parkas sold for half the regular
price. And I never used the fancy after-ski boots I'd
brought from home. Army mukluks were the only thing to
wear and, of course, were in short supply. Since I
couldn't find any, Jack gave me his. Neither Jack nor
Bruce cut any corners in making sure I was properly
outfitted and coached in what was really important in the
life of a ski bum -- even a part-time ski bum.
Jack
also had a knack for finding rides and low-cost places to
stay at the ski areas. He opened my eyes to all the jobs
available to earn ski tickets and food. I washed dishes,
cooked pizza, tended bar, waited tables, packed snow and
watched slalom race gates (gate keeping). As a result of
his teaching, I learned how to ski for very little money.
Bruce
contributed to my ski bum apprenticeship by teaching me
how to live on pennies a day, thus leaving more money for
skiing, as well as for our growing interest in
photography. We saved money during the week by eating
Bruce's famous meatless spaghetti or, on special
occasions, McDonald's eighteen-cent hamburgers. Powdered
milk, instant mashed potatoes, rice, French toast, and
ground chuck were our economic mainstays. We took our
extra food allowance and bought season passes at a nearby
ski area, Lake Eldora, for twenty dollars each. The money
we saved by packing lunches and buying used ski equipment
was spent on cameras and film. We skied at Eldora after
classes, but on weekends traveled around the state to the
other major ski areas.
Author
working Spring break at Araphahoe Ski Basin, 1967
For
spring break, most students went south to any place warm,
but I still hadn't got enough skiing.
On
that first Saturday of spring vacation, Dan Wunsch, an
upperclassman, came over to see what Bruce, Jack and I
were up to.
Bruce
could hardly hold back his enthusiasm when he answered,
"We're waiting for Henry, a friend of mine who's
driving in from Maine. He should be here anytime. We're
going skiing."
Dan
asked, "Where are you going?"
Bruce
answered, "Aspen."
I
jokingly added, "Alta."
Not
to be out done, Bruce came back with
"Steamboat."
At
this point I had no idea where Bruce was headed and
decided to throw a couple more big names out.
"Jackson Hole, Sun Valley".
Dan
didn't know we're putting him on and asked with a somewhat
puzzled expression, "You don't mean...all of
them?"
Bruce
and I were grinning and couldn't possibly answer without
cracking up, so I just gave Dan a nod.
"All
right! Count me in!" declared Dan.
I
decided to let Bruce be the first to burst Dan's bubble,
but Bruce let it slide for awhile.
Henry
Hudson arrived shortly after that, exhausted from a long
night's drive and in dire need of rest. After the
introductions and greetings, Henry asked, "Where are
we going skiing?"
This
time Dan proudly listed the classics of western skiing. We
anxiously awaited Henry's response, expecting him to be
skeptical that such an ambitious trip was possible in one
week. Instead, his obviously low-energy, but interested
response was, "How's the night life?"
Realizing
that Henry needed a little inspiration, Dan started with,
"Haven't you ever heard of Aspen? ...It's
famous."
I
continued, "There're more women in Aspen than men.
Some really sophisticated ladies, if you know what I
mean."
Henry
started to come alive and Bruce made the inference crystal
clear with, "It's been said that no one has ever left
Aspen a virgin."
That
was the spark that Henry needed to get motivated.
"What are we waiting for? ...Let's get going!"
With
new life, Henry led the way out the door. Bruce and I
glanced at each other with a look of disbelief. I packed
my gear into Dan's Chevy II and got into the cramped front
seat. The make-believe trip was now a reality. It was hard
for me fathom not having any plans for spring vacation one
minute, being on my way to four major ski areas the next.
Bruce and Henry headed out in their VW and we were right
behind them. With two cars, each of us had his own seat to
sleep on.
Somebody
yelled, "Last one to Aspen is a sleaze bag!" and
the race began. Dan and I were leading through Boulder
until Bruce and Henry ran a red light to take the lead. I
tried to get Dan to follow through, but no dice. We passed
them on the grade up Clear Creek, but they regained their
former position when we stopped for gas in Idaho Springs.
Dan
began to take the race seriously and became upset over the
competition's road tactics: "Those SOB's won't let us
by!"
The
little VW shifted lanes on the two-lane highway each time
we attempted to pass. Racing down the steep windy west
side of Loveland Pass felt more like a runaway roller
coaster. After a short time, their VW vanished around the
curves ahead.
Vail
Pass 1967
"They're
getting too far ahead." I had gotten just as involved
in the race as Dan, and had been urging him to pick up the
pace a little.
"We
haven't lost yet. Watch this," smirked Dan as he
pushed down on the gas pedal, speeding up dramatically.
But the instant our Chevy flew past Henry, Dan stopped
smiling. "Oh no, a cop!" Dan cried as if waking
up from a bad dream. Unfortunately the trooper spotted us
coming from the opposite direction. Soon a flashing red
light confirmed our greatest fears.
After
being pulled over for thirty minutes, the officer
continued to lecture. "You're lucky I didn't clock
you guys. You're getting off easy -- all I'm going to do
is give you a ticket for crossing a double yellow line.
We
drove in silence for some time after that and soon were on
the last stretch to Aspen along the Roaring Fork River.
"There they are!" I announced excitedly, and,
after many attempts to pass, we finally took the lead. It
was time to take our revenge and their tailgating made it
easy. I poured lemonade out the window, spraying the VW's
windshield with a sticky mist that attracted dirt like a
magnet. Since their windshield wipers couldn't clean it,
Bruce and Henry were at our mercy. When they attempted to
pass, we blocked their lane and waved the lemonade carton
out the window. They retreated immediately, and we led the
way into Aspen in triumph.
The
town impressed all of us. We parked the cars and took off
on foot to explore the main streets. Towards evening, the
aromas from Aspen's famous cuisine restaurants filling the
air began distracting us.
"I'm
hungry!" Dan stated firmly, testing the group's mood
and pressing for a quick consensus.
"You're
always hungry," I responded, just to disagree.
"Who
can eat at a time like this? We need to find some
women," Henry declared, somewhat disturbed over the
change in goals. Bruce stepped in and negotiated an
agreement. We would eat first and then later set out to
enjoy Aspen's night life.
After
shopping at the local grocery store, I prepared one of my
favorite dishes, peanut butter mixed with honey in a
graham cracker sandwich. This sweet, sticky substance was
neutralized with a bottle of carbonated grapefruit drink.
The others had their favorite peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches. We'd gotten enough to last the rest of the
trip, but after a few days of eating the same thing for
every meal, we dreamed of the variety of 'dormitory
dinners.' However, the reality was, as Bruce so often
reminded us, "You can't beat the price." We
learned early in our ski bum apprenticeship that the best
priced meals at ski area were always from the grocery
store.
Once
dinner ended, we focused on the night life that Henry was
anticipating so eagerly. Colorado law strictly forbids
anyone under twenty-one to enter any establishment serving
alcoholic beverages and we were all about nineteen. But,
being under the legal drinking age wasn't going to dampen
our plans for this evening. After cruising by the Red
Onion a couple of times we decided to "go for the
gusto." We put on that serious look which makes one
look a couple of years older and strolled right on in. We
immediately saw an arm swing across a distant opening into
someone on the other side. The fist rammed a large beer
mug full of beer into the face of its victim. The glass
exploded on impact.
Author
skiing Spillway, Loveland 1969
"It's
time for us to leave!" Dan said. We turned quickly
and headed back out the door. Sirens screamed as the
police arrived. We got out just in time. The cold air
outside persuaded us that a warm place to stay took
precedence over the night life.
Bruce
suggested "Lets go over to Pinocchio's. I've heard
its a cool place." Here, we made two cokes last for
ninety minutes while we decided what to do next.
Henry
was very definite, "It's been a long time since I've
gotten a good night's sleep and I'm not staying in that
car."
Bruce
and Henry found a reasonably priced place, the Aspen Out,
which rented single beds in a dorm. Dan and I had heard
stories of people sleeping in the laundromat so we decided
to give it a try. However, it was late and we couldn't get
in. We parked in front of the dorm and settled into our
sleeping bags. Dan took the back seat and I the front. But
the bags weren't much protection against the bitter winter
night, and it wasn't long before Dan said, "The hell
with saving $l.75, I'm going in with Bruce and
Henry." I was right behind him.
The
next morning, we discovered that nature had been busy
while we slept. "Wake up Bruce, two feet of powder
fell last night." Henry desperately tried to get
everyone up and over to the ski area. We hurried to Aspen
Highlands and signed up to pack the slopes. For packing
til noon we could ski free for the rest of that day and
were promised a ticket for the next day.
The
ski patrolman responsible for the packing crew was
substantially overdue. Finally he showed up. "Sorry
I'm late, but I just got out of jail. Go ahead and get on
the lift."
There
were twenty to thirty packers and it took forty five
minutes to reach the top of Cloud Nine. While packing deep
powder we heard the lead patrolman talking. We got closer
to overhear the story, "Then I unload on this
guy..."
"Wait
a minute. What happened?" Dan interrupted.
"Oh
I was just telling why I was late. A friend bailed me out
of jail this morning. Boy, did I tie one on last
light."
"They
put you in jail for drinking?"
"I
got in a fight at the `Onion' last night...you should have
seen me `cool' this guy with one punch."
The
four of us looked at each other and began laughing.
"So
you're the one we saw last night!"
Author
skiing lower Busy Gully, Loveland 1969
We
skied the rest of that day and the next in incredible
powder. Bruce especially cherished these moments since his
doctors had told him nine months earlier he wouldn't ski
again. Just before trying out for the CU racing team a car
hit him while he was riding a motorcycle. His leg broke
and the protruding sharp bone drove through the car's
radiator. Bruce always kidded about the driver getting out
and saying, "Look what you've done to my car!"
Later that year he talked the doctors into getting him out
of his cast early. Soon he was snaking his way down the
Colorado mogul fields. Steep runs and high moguls were his
playground. Combining his abilities as an excellent racer
and jumper, Bruce spent most of the time sailing off into
the air. Watching the expressions of others and hearing
their cheers added to Bruce's incentive to get a little
more height or distance on each successive jump.
A
labyrinth of moguls turned the slopes into a playground.
They were high and round...the way I like them. The turns
felt natural and fit my rhythm. Run after run skied better
than the previous one. I was aware only of the swish of
the snow beneath my skis and the rhythmic motion of my
body. The problems I faced at school and the fear of
running out of money far from home faded away, temporarily
far less important than the chance to ski my heart out.
While
riding back up chair two with Bruce, I saw a skier coming
straight down from the very top of Cloud Nine without
turning or slowing. He "pre-jumped" the cat-walk
in order to stay on the snow, and kept coming. Soon the
silver haired man sped below the chairlift. I turned and
watched him continue on down. He'd skied nearly 1,000
vertical feet without checking his speed. "I don't
believe the way that guy skis!" I gasped, but nothing
could adequately describe his skill and lack of fear.
Bruce
chuckled and said, "How do you know he can ski...did
you see him turn?" We both laughed. Later someone
told us the silver haired skier was Andreas Molterer, a
renowned world-class racer.
The
next day belonged to us. We boarded the lift at 9 a.m. On
the way up, I learned that the steep cliff beneath the
chairlift doubles as a ski run when the snow didn't slide
off. The ski area named this perpendicular precipice in
honor of one of their previous well-known ski school
directors, Stein Erickson. It took three chairlifts and
one hour to go all the way to the top, nearly 3,300
vertical feet above the valley. The last lift, at Loge's
Peak, was famous.
When
boarding the Loge's Peak lift a prominent sign read,
"Experts only-Those with acrophobic tendencies do not
ride this lift!" Whoever pays attention to signs,
anyway? Just after passing six grouped towers the lift
started down. The mountain curved away to the left as the
chair crossed over a drop off. All that could be seen to
the right was the valley floor 3,300 feet below. I've
never hung onto a chairlift so tightly in my life!
However, I've heard that the shock reduces somewhat after
a few rides!
Lodges
Peak offered some really unique terrain. A ski run, only
one track wide, began on top of a narrow, perilous, knife
edged ridge. Avalanche signs warned of the potential
danger on both sides. The only way down required all
skiers to schuss the knife edge, since the far end was
uphill. If someone fell in front of another skier, there
would be no way to stop or go around. Luckily, we all made
it.
That
night, on the way to Alta, Utah, Dan and I reconstructed
the great powder runs and good times we had at Aspen. We
dined on the road with the usual peanut butter and jelly,
then topped the meal off with chocolate chip cookies. The
night grew long and I fell asleep somewhere en route to
Utah.
By
the time the week was over, we'd skied Alta, Sun Valley
and Steamboat Springs, before heading back to Boulder,
exhausted and very tired of peanut butter!
It
was one of the most memorable trips of my life, and proved
conclusively that skiing doesn't have to be expensive. My
share of the whole trip was only about $30!
Bruce
doing a flip.
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